I'm a city cyclist. Most of my riding is done on the daily commute through town, but I also harbour foolish Tour de France fantasies, own a handsome, hand-built racing bike and a drawer full of the coolest-looking Lycra that money can buy.

Very occasionally I'll get up with the sun and trudge out to the shires to get some mud on my frame and miles under my belt. Usually I just roll down to Regent's Park to join the peloton going round and round the Outer Circle, a good place to get in shape and get the wind in your helmet. The only problem is it's flat.

The fact that London is a largely level city is a boon for cyclists trying to go about their business, but not so for those of us who like a little pain with our pedalling. And you can't pretend to be a serious cyclist unless you tackle some gradients. The real test of any rider is how well they suffer.

Up here in north London there's really only one summit that cuts it. Highgate is something of a legend among British bike-nuts because it's about as close as we get to an urban Alp. Admittedly Marco Pantani wouldn't have bothered with the EPO if this was the only col he had to climb, but for us mortals the rigours of Highgate West Hill are tough enough.

The full ascent is about 2½ miles if you start at Camden Town, although down in the foothills it's a gradual slope. It's when you get to the green expanse of Hampstead Heath that the gradient suddenly kicks in. The real tough section begins by the spire of St Anne's church and it's about ¾ of a mile to the spire of St Michael's at the top. I do a lot of praying in the four or so minutes between the two.

Your progress is made harder by the traffic bumps which can destroy your precious rhythm. I'm usually up out of the saddle for the first half, before the burn in my thighs makes me sit down and gear down, being sure to save one precious rung for what's still to come.

By the time you've gone past the razor wire of the Russian Trade Delegation it levels off a little, and first timers might believe they're over the worst - but this is a short respite as the road now veers sharply round to the right and gets much steeper. From here to the still-hidden top is the real test. By this stage my chest is complaining and I've flicked the gear lever numerous times to see if there's anywhere left to go. There never is. Just grit your teeth, grind the pedals and, whatever you do, don't stop. It's the impending ignominy of failing in all your racing finery which eventually gets you to the top.

Then of course your breath comes back, the endorphins kick in, and the sense of achievement hits home. Now for the thrilling, scary freewheel back down - and a chance to do it all over again.