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It was fairly steady until about five laps to go. Then the Dutch guys all got on the front, and everything became distinctly uncomfortable. The Netherlands always seem to bring seemingly unending numbers of powerful horses to the world’s, and if you’re in the bunch and you see what seems like dozens of 80-kilogram six-foot-plus musclemen in orange jerseys get on the front, it’s always time to take a deep breath and grit your teeth. The “fasten seat-belts” sign goes on in your head. You know it’s going to get bumpy.

Paradoxically, nobody from Holland has won this race in my lifetime. But while they might not have been kings for a long time, they have the ability to be kingmakers, inadvertently or not.

I’d been through a few tests by this time, and mentally I counted them off. Test one: Get to Bergen. Tick. Test two: Start race. Tick. Test three: Look like a cyclist for an hour. Tick.

This was test four: Survive an injection of pace. Oh well, I’ll never be one to die wondering. Better get on with it, Peter.