Riding the Highway to Hell

(CNN) -- If you've ever wired your major muscle groups to a power socket as a cackling scientist flips the switch, you might begin to understand the pain I was going through.

Actually, if that's your idea of fun, you might not. My pain was caused not by weird voltage experiments, but by huge cramps as my dehydrated body attempted to tackle Europe's toughest mountain bike race.

My screams rang out over the Alps as I tumbled from my cycle, spasms in legs, arms and torso scrunching me into a ball of agony so tight that at one point I began rolling down the hillside.

This was day one of the Jeantex Bike TransAlp, a grueling endurance race from Germany to Italy, which I had spent the last six months training for without ever having previously ridden a mountain bike.

With another seven days, 600 kilometers and endless steep climbs to go, it looked like I may never ride one again, my best chance of reaching the finish now an ambulance -- or a nice comfortable hearse.

It had all seemed like a good idea six months ago. Use the race as an incentive to get back into shape and also enjoy a trip across the Alps without the guilt of a huge carbon footprint.

The race had begun well, riding partner Pete and I keeping pace with a pack of 1,200 riders as we left the Bavarian town of Mittenwald pedaling as fast as we could, largely to escape the TransAlp anthem of AC/DC's "Highway to Hell," which was blasting over loudspeakers.

But as the midday sun beat down on our first 900 meter climb, I failed to spot the danger signs as -- distracted by breathtaking scenery and the unpleasant sight of one rider's buttocks plainly visible through his thinning shorts -- I began to feel lightheaded and dizzy.

Then came the cramps.

Using a tire pump for leverage, I somehow managed to crowbar my knotted body apart and clamber back on the bike. Very gingerly, stopping only for the occasional bloodcurdling howl, I made my way down the mountain and eventually, as the sun began to set, to the finish.

The fun didn't end there. Every stage of the TransAlp -- which winds its way through Austria and Switzerland before reaching Italy -- climaxes in a "pasta party" where riders load up on carbohydrates before retiring to makeshift accommodation in a motley collection of school classrooms, gymnasiums and underground car parks.

The good riders, who finish within a couple of hours, get the best portions of food and grab secluded spots to lay their sleeping bags. The slow cyclists get to eat the slops before trying to bed down in the only place left: Within earshot, and noseshot, of the toilets.

Day one was bad, but day two brought fresh horrors. As I clipped feeble legs into pedals, the starting announcer interrupted "Highway to Hell" to tell us we were facing the toughest stage of the race.

He wasn't lying. The 87.3 kilometers with 3,424 meters of climb challenged even the leaders, who had to eat a delayed lunch after taking 4 hours to complete the course. It took me 11 hours, by which time the finish had more or less been dismantled. Mercifully, so had the evening's pasta party.

I came close to tears several times that day, excruciating back pain, cramp-weakened legs and furnace temperatures pushing me to breaking point. Others suffered worse: We passed one rider being treated with a drip, another was evacuated by helicopter.

Despondency arrived with day three. Too weak to go on, I loaded my bike on to a truck headed for that day's finish in the Italian town of Brixen. I dwelt heavily on failure. Not enough training? Not enough water? Not enough AC/DC?

The gloom didn't last. As the day wore on my leg aches faded and I began to feel stronger. Beating most riders to that night's gymnasium camp I was able to grab a coveted corner spot far from the toilets, lifting my spirits further.

Day four saw me back in the saddle and riding hard until disaster struck again. Pedaling furiously uphill to avoid being stuck behind the cyclist with wobbling buttocks and thinning shorts, I made a bad gear change and sent my chain crashing into my back wheel.

Exasperated riding partner Pete spent the next 30 minutes using oily brute force, fiddly mechanics and foul language to get me back on the road, but by now we were firmly in last place.

Not for long though. My newly refreshed legs felt great, grinding the bike up slopes that two days ago would have left me sobbing. Now I was almost crying tears of joy, but didn't because I was still worried about dehydration -- and about looking a bit soft.

Although no longer in the official running due to my day off, we steadily improved our placing in the remaining days, savoring the snow-level summit views and the eye-watering fast descents as we conquered the Alps one mountain ridge at a time.

By day eight we were keeping level with new faces in the middle of the pack; lean-looking riders with expensive bikes and cycle shorts that thankfully covered all the cracks.

Rocketing on adrenaline, we charged into the Italian town of Riva del Garda where, with almost one third of the pack still behind us, we crossed the finish line unscathed.

Gasping in triumph I looked back over the past week with sense of pride, despite my early stumble. Seven out of eight days wasn't a bad effort, and I had more than achieved my main goal of shedding a few pounds.

To celebrate my new fitness levels, I drank a beer and went off in search of pizza. E-mail to a friend