HOW I BECAME A REAL MAN THE DAY AFTER NEW YEAR'S DAY

Can you catch ebola off a drink bottle this dirty?

Brace yourself. I too have a serious cycling confession. I did some. Cycling, I mean. I did some cycling. Specifically, I did mountain biking. Up a real mountain.

"What's happened to you, glennzb?" I hear you ask. "You're not the lay-about, B-movie watching cheese-melter we used to know. All this talk of bridge-jumping and triathlons, it's like you've morphed into some kind of thrill-seeking adventure dude!"

Admittedly, that's quite a specific sort of comment for me to metaphorically hear all of you make at once, but work with me here...

"Now all this talk of mountain biking. Up a real mountain," you say (even if you don't say it, you're thinking it now) "What's going on with you, glennzb? Have you some kind of death wish?"

The answer is no. I do however, have a mate called Craig. He's a bit of a bad influence on me. This works well, because I'm a bit of a bad influence on him too. While my influences usually revolve around creative ways to get yourself under the influence (I'm talking cocktails and boutique beers here, and nothing else. Don't jump to conclusions) His influences often result in me ending up covered in mud, water, bits of tree or all three.

Craig's suggestions always seem so innocent when he first makes them. "You feel like taking a drive round my mate's farm?" he asks, which then turns into me off-roading my way along the bottom of a giant mud pool. "Shall we get a bit of exercise tomorrow morning?" he asks, which culminates in my 2nd placing in the inaugural Pataua Triathlon. "Why don't you bring your bike camping in case we want to go for a ride?" he asks, which obviously turns into another hair-raising foray into the world of extreme sports.

I do, as it happens, own my own bike. To call it a mountain bike would be a slight over-statement. The only mountains it's ever scaled had roads, footpaths and controlled intersections all over them. I didn't pay $4000 for it. I didn't pay $400 for it. I got it from the Warehouse for $140. Actually, it might have only been $120 - I know it was a pretty hot deal although I did have to assemble it myself, which may go some way to explaining why I've never really got gears 1, 7 and 13 working properly.

The point is, when I mentioned I thought I'd bung my trusty steed on the back of the car to go camping, you can understand why the Domestic Manager said, "Are you nuts? You'll snap it in half!" I assume she was talking about the bike.

Craig had assured me it was a very easy ride, ideal for a rookie like me and the risk of bike snappage would be minimal. You see? What a smooth talker. The guy could probably sell cats to Gareth Morgan.

Fast forward to January 2, 2013. The last full day of glennzb's life-changing camping experience. Time was running out - if this "easy ride" was going to happen, it'd have to be today.

I didn't realise we wouldn't be able to cycle TO the mountain we were going to ride over. Instead we had to enlist the services of Domestic Manager to chauffeur us there. I magnanimously took the back seat, a move I regretted 20 minutes later as we ascended a disturbingly winding gravel road. As the first face-numbing symptoms of car-sickness began to take hold, I started to wonder just how rookie-appropriate this ride was going to be. My apprehension heightened even further once we finally reached our starting point, the end of the road, the beginning of the track. Except I couldn't see the track. Where was the track?

Ah, a small gap in the brush that dropped away... steeply. Domestic Manager looked even more worried than I felt. She drove off with one last look back, the kind of look a soldier's wife might give her husband before he ships out. When I turned around Craig seemed calm enough. In fact, he was taking this opportunity to widdle in the bushes. That's how we mountain bikers roll.

Then we rolled.

I didn't try to keep up with Craig. He had a proper bike. His tyres were 3 times fatter than mine. For all I know, he even had access to gears 1, 7 and 13. I was just trying not to fall off the world. There was mud. There were branches. There were roots, ruts and rocks. It was a steep learning curve. Most of it was just steep.

My forearms were screaming. My armpits were streaming. We were 2 minutes in.

Weirdly, the trick to mountain biking seems to be avoiding the track wherever possible. If you get stuck in the track, you could find yourself sunk up to your crank in no time. Nothing worse than sinking up to your crank, take it from me.

I'm sure it was scenic, I'm sure it was beautiful, but the only time I had a chance to look up was when we stopped for a drink. Here again Craig completely outclassed me - he had one of those backpack bladder things with a straw. I had a plastic drink bottle in a holder on my bike. A bottle that was now completely caked in foul-smelling mud and assorted detritus. At least I HOPED it was mud. I was bloody thirsty though, so I drank and tried not to breathe through my nose.

We eventually made it to the end of the track, where Craig revealed the full extent of this particular adventure was still ahead of us. First we were making our way back the way we'd come, then we'd take on the gravel road we'd driven up. In a car. A 4 wheel drive car.

Uphill mountain biking is easier because it's not as fast. It's harder because, well, it's uphill. I'd say, on balance, the harder part is harder than the easier part is easier. I almost fell off in slow motion about 16 times... but didn't. Craig rode into a tree at one point. That was satisfying. He had his revenge when we got back to the top though.

I figured we were in for an easy-going coast back down the road to our prearranged pickup point. Craig had other ideas. He hurtled off round the first corner and that's the last I saw of him. There's only so fast I'm prepared to cycle down a gravel road because, well gee, IT'S COVERED IN GRAVEL! Even at my nana-ish pace, there were still a couple of bends I thought I may have underestimated. In those situations, there's really nothing you can do but sit back and hope for the best. I tried to rationalise the situation with what little I know of the basic laws of physics - you know, gravity, torque, how shit-scared you're feeling. Apparently those laws just don't apply to Craig. That guy's insane.

I lived to tell the tale, in case you were wondering. Not sure if I'm going to take it up as regular pastime though. Maybe if I had a bike with gears 1, 7 and 13.

This is my badly bruised arm after my harrowing ride. Oh, sure it got better, but if you use your imagination...