Made it to Granada yesterday after a grinding climb up from the Costa del Sol. The first day of the trip was a truly awful experience; There is no way to get across a huge section either side of Malaga without going on dual carriageway.

At one point, I ended up on a Motorway. There just wasn´t any choice – except for a 800-900 mile detour via Madrid. I have no license plate on my bike so I don´t expect to be receiving a non-speeding fine.

East of Malaga the roads were beautiful, and more than made up for the previous day. A climb of 1200 metres (from sea-level) was a sharp reminder of what lay ahead, and served as a reminder to keep the evening libations to the absolute minimum.

It was a hot day and I ran out of water before the summit of the climb; there was nowhere to locate any for miles and a sickening depression descended. Pain to the max.

Today was the big day, the main event as I headed up to climb the Pico Veleta. Only Mother (Flipper) Nature had other ideas.

Mile for mile the most painful, energy sapping, Cerebal Edema-inducing ride of my life.

After 26 miles of slog, I managed to approach the summit. It was windier than the staff canteen at Heinz, and had started to rain. It took nearly all the energy I could muster just to keep the bike upright. Suddenly, the cloud-level dropped. Just like a curtain; in the space of two minutes I couldn´t see much more than 200 metres and it was very chilly indeed.

A few cars and a huge truck slowed as they passed me – signalling that I shouldn´t head further. Thought that I would wait and see what happens under the cover of a large boulder.

10 minutes later, and a couple in a ´Sierra Nevada Regional´ official looking van stopped. They spoke English and were adamant that I headed down the mountain. They had reports of 120 km winds at the summit, and said it was raining much harder there. They offered me a lift back down in the van, but I politely refused. I think I was hoping to wait a little longer and then see if I could head up further. Nonsense. Even though I failed Maths A-Level, I can make the quick calculation that 120 kmh equates to roughly 75 mph.

So, Pico Veleta puts one over on me straight away. I decide that I have many more things I want to do in life, people I´d quite like to see again – and so reluctantly, guttedly, heart-wrenchingly head back down the mountain.

This in itself is no mean feat; It´s incredibly cold on the descent, despite a change of cycle mitts for proper gloves, and full wet-weather kit. Keeping the bike in a straight line is far from easy, even though I slow down as much as possible. I get drenched, absolutely soaked. The wettest I have ever been on a bike. The only solace is that the freezing cold shower simulator I find myself in, slowly turns up the hot tap as I descend 2000 metres off the mountain.

God* laughs when people makes plans. I am praying** that I will get one more bite at the cherry tomorrow. If the weather is absolutely perfect when I wake, I will make one more attempt on the mountain. The thought of 26 plus miles of that agony fills with me dread, but I am determined if I get the chance to bag this b%stard.

(* Non denominational supreme being. ** Hoping and wishing for a change in the weather; I realise that it´s something I cannot do a single thing about)

A second attempt will mean a much more arduous return to Gibraltar than initially planned. I will have to make up the time somehow. It may not be necessary – let´s see what´s Mother Nature has planned tomorrow.

If I can´t reach the summit – well, then I can´t. It´s that simple. I will definitely come back for the Veleta one day, but it would be so much easier to get it sorted tomorrow.

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