Visualising!

Nearly there. The cobbles announce themselves even before you see them. They rise through the tyres, through tired bones, through the very notion of comfort, until you are no longer riding a bicycle so much as negotiating with history itself. And then, there it is, the grand, unapologetic theatre of the Champs-Élysées, stretching ahead like a runway built for emperors and madmen.

It’s the last week of July this year, 2026. I am with the Cycle Against Cancer team, on the last day of 23 and the last kilometre of 3,334. From Barcelona to Paris and 55,000m of climbing mountains in between. We have raised $500,000 for Cancer through the Al Jalila Foundation in the UAE.

I arrive as a conqueror, in my mind, and as a survivor of three relentless weeks of heat, of mountains that seemed to scrape the underbelly of heaven, of winds that mocked ambition. This, the final act of our greatest cycling challenge. Behind us, three days behind us, is a real, professional peloton. For us this is less a race and more a procession of defiance. Yet do not be fooled: even here, even now, our speed is savage, our intent unmistakable. Our tiny peloton roars like a squadron of Spitfires, and I, somewhere within it, behind the strongest but not by much, feel both infinitesimal and invincible.

Paris does not merely host us; it absorbs us. The ghosts of centuries line the route, the revolutions, the triumphal marches, the quiet, stubborn endurance of a city that has seen empires rise and fall like poorly tuned derailleurs. To ride here is to trespass upon legend. Since 1975, when this boulevard became a ceremonial crescendo for the greatest bike race, champions have etched their names into its stones, from Merckx’s merciless dominion to the modern titans who have turned watts into myth.

And yet, for all the grandeur, there is something deliciously absurd about it. We, 15 grown men and women with full lives behind us, and unknown years ahead, clad in lycra - hardly the attire of statesmen - hurtling past cafés where Parisians sip espresso with studied indifference. It is, in the best Clarkson tradition, gloriously bonkers. The speed, the danger, the sheer theatricality, borders on the ridiculous, and becomes sublime.

The Arc looms ahead, indifferent and eternal. My legs burn, my lungs revolt, but there is a peculiar clarity now. This is the end, yes, but also the point. Every climb, every crash narrowly avoided, every fleeting doubt has led here, to this furious ballet on ancient stones.

And as we surge once more down the avenue, I cannot help but think: this is not merely a finish. It is our statement. That endurance, that stubborn, unreasonable persistence, still matters. And by God, it always will.