It was a grey and drizzly summer's morn as the Lycra dads pulled up outside the dark side of Manchester (the red circus of horrors AKA Man United's ground).

The 8 dads had devoured their carbo-brekkies and were itching to get on the path towards the glorious sight of Blackpool's rusty pylon. 

We ambled casually for the first mile or two with the exception of James Wiggins whom I remember talking to one minute, then, within the blink of an eye, the next thing I saw was a blaze of fire and smoke in a reconstruction of the DeLorean in Back to the Future. (I think he's currently in the year 3037).

The first hurdle was the Worsley hill which was long and winding and a beggar of a place for your gears to start giving you gyp as Stevie soon found out. Luckily Mike and the mechanics were in tow to get the Lycras road-bound again. 

By the time we got to Bolton, I was beginning to get the impression that there's a lot of hills in Lancashire - and I wasn't wrong - going down them felt like sheer bliss, however, as Frank (super touring cyclist) Pearce cheerfully pointed out to me; "where there's a down, there's always an up" (words of wisdom and doom). 

Luckily, we were all boosted by Paul's (a Mcr/B'pool veteran) relentless positivity and promise of "don't worry lads, this is the last hill". Unluckily, upon Frank's detection of Bull deposits, Paul's prophecies were not fulfilled until we were yards from the finishing line. Still, it kept the spirits up.

At around midway, we regrouped (it was about the 4th stop, mainly due to Paul's bladder). Anyhoo, at this point I decided to throw myself over my handlebars (misjudging my speed and the fact my feet were in clips). Upon seeing several concerned faces, I did the British "grit your teeth and brush it off" routine, quipping "at least it happened now and not at the finishing line..." (Read on...)

The roads were undulating and the fresh country air filled the olfactory senses (mooooo!). The journey held a few challenges such as the gentle hill somewhere in Preston that turned into a 100m mountain with a hill start at the traffic lights near the top. 

Mike Baldwin kept a steady pace along with Dave. Paul ambled along making it look effortless, chatting as though sat in his armchair. Mike Leigh and Frank showed the benefit of experience - Captain Frank fluctuating between the group ensuring all were ok and kept within a reachable distance whilst the General Leigh lead from the front. Me and Stevie (being inexperienced, shorter stature and the fact Stevie was stuck in lower gears and had to pedal twice as hard) brought up the rear mainly. (Meanwhile, James was sat relaxing on Blackpool shores having finished in 3hours 40).

The final 10 miles were gruelling as we faced a strong costal headwind and ongoing incline (Paul:" this is the final hill lads").

At the finishing line the mums and kids were eagerly anticipating the arrival of the dads with a banner signed by all the kids.

Eventually the finishing line came into view and we all decided that we should finish in a uniformed line...

Glory was a mere few pedals away...

The crowds were gathered...

The cheers became audible...

I could feel the pride building up inside, a heroes welcome awaiting...

I felt the adrenalin pumping...

I felt...

... The back end of Stevie's wheel as I flew Evil Knievel style across the prom prom prom (no I didn't like to be beside the seaside at that moment). As I led spread-eagled, I looked around to see Paul sat in a heap behind me and a pile of mangled bikes. (Luckily Stevie was blissfully unaware and unscathed).

And so, after realigning my handlebars with my front wheel and saddle, we regrouped to edge across the finishing line (I went towards the kids for high fives and cut up a couple of dads almost causing another crash) - well I hadn't been on a bike in over 20 years prior to March so that's my excuse and I'm sticking to it.

We finished with a riding time of 4 hours 45 minutes and luckily all in one piece (just about).

We all gathered after the race to listen to some live music, eat burgers, sweets, ice-creams and let the kids run about whilst we lay collapsed on the grass with our other halves blissfully unaware that we were slowly being burnt by the sun. Hence, we went home not as the Lycra Dads, but the Lobster Dads (I have go faster stripes down my legs).

Dangerous Dave lost his title that day to me. I have been told by the General Leigh that I will have to pass my cycling proficiency test before I can do it again. Then they may consider allowing me to do it...

...in a Zorb!

Over £1000 has been raised through this ride. I cannot put into words what that means to Bliss and the Goodill family other than to say a huge "thank you, our good friends".