This biking thing is getting out of hand. Last Wednesday I slunk away from my desk half an hour early, got changed into my cycling gear in the disabled toilet (fewer passers-by to remark on the lycra, you see) and headed downstairs to unlock my bike. I was off to the village of Kirkliston (tr. ‘the arse end of nowhere’) for my first bona fide bike race.

On Sunday I’d gone on a ride out to Haddington and back, organised by Edinburgh Road Club, and one of the more serious road cyclists shepherding the rest of us along was in recruiting mode. “You should come along to the Kirky 10 time trial on Wednesday nights. It’s easy to get into, and you’re really only racing yourself.”

Excellent, I thought — I’m an inherently lazy bastard, so I should be easy to beat. So it was that last Wednesday night I arrived sweaty and breathless at Kirkliston sports centre at 6.45pm. I signed on the dotted line as directed by one of the marshals, who explained what I had to do.

“You’re number 17, so you’ll be starting at 17 minutes past seven. The numbers are in that box down there — find your one and pin it to the back of your jersey. The start is out by the roundabout; it’s five miles straight out, a U-turn in the road (make sure you check for cars first) and then five miles straight back. You’ll see a marshal at the turn. Shout out your number as you cross the line so the timekeeper hears you.”

Ten miles as fast as you can, and don’t get run over: this is the essence of a time trial.

Having sorted myself out, I headed down to the start with a couple of other new faces from the Sunday ride. The knot of cyclists hanging around the start were a mixed bunch: granted, the demographics of the group didn’t veer far from ‘white male ABC1’, but the bikes themselves (and the associated levels of seriousness) ranged from sleek carbon time trial machines through normal road bikes to an elongated cargo bike whose rack was laden with bungee-corded barbell weights.

“Are you having a laugh?” I asked its rider.

“Training bike,” he replied jovially. “Makes a normal bike feel fast!”

The minutes ticked down, with a rider being sent off each minute until I was next. I rolled up to the spray-painted start line and steadied myself as the fitness instructor-alike starter reeled off more instructions, smoothly punctuating them with a countdown read off his stopwatch.

“Okay, are you twenty seconds ready to go? Remember, go hard on the way out but keep something for the way back and fifteen seconds call out your number as you pass the ten seconds timekeeper.”

Another marshal, this time a curious older chap wearing a three-piece tweed suit and a flat cap (I never found out the story there — he was utterly incongruous in amongst all the lycra and tracksuits), held my bike steady as I clipped in my free foot. I wobbled a bit. Only now was I starting to get nervous. The starter counted down from ten seconds.

“…one. Go!”

The old chap gave me a rather feeble shove and I wobbled slowly off the line. Not quite the blistering acceleration I would have liked. Both he and the starter seemed concerned that I was going to fall off.

“Are you okay? Go! Go now!” barked the starter.

“Pedal!” the old guy added.

“I’m fine, I’m going,” I muttered back petulantly, steering unsteadily away from the kerb then standing up and getting some power into the pedals. I wound up to what I thought was a reasonable cruising speed, got into the drops and put my head down with my eyes flicking between the heart rate monitor on the handlebars and the road ahead.

Turns out it’s a disingenuous to talk about ‘tactics’ for a time trial. It’s just you versus the course and the elements, and other than moderating your effort to varying degrees there’s little else to do other than to keep grinding away at it. Even should you find yourself in the fortunate position of overtaking another rider, the rules preclude you from drafting behind them to gain any advantage.

My vague plan had been to stay within a particular range of effort for the first two miles, then move up a gear for the next three and finally blitz the return leg in an all-out blaze of glory to shoot speedily over the finish line with fists punching the air. Unfortunately, I’d failed to take into account the two-mile climb and unrelenting headwind that confronted me as soon as I’d started. My heart rate immediately shot through the roof and my legs were burning within minutes. My three-part strategy degenerated into just keep going and the next eight miles were an exercise in gritted teeth, running nose and streaming eyes.

I crossed the line in 29 minutes and 53 seconds, having averaged almost exactly 20 mph over the ten miles: my first time trial had been a deeply meh performance, but I’d enjoyed it nonetheless. And like I said, I’m going to be very easy to beat next time round.