I admit it. I’m a roadie bigot. In the world according to Al, all those in baggy shorts playing chicken with the trees are the good guys, while the whippet stiffbacks imprisoned in their tarmac corridor are Beelzebub in Lycra. Given the choice between being the filling in the Lycra sandwich of the ‘chain gang’ or repeatedly slamming my privates in a desk drawer, then it’d be that bastion of office furniture for me every time.

I would like to present my factual case validating these wild slanders and outrageous stereotypes. I’d like to but I can’t. There is no justifiable reason to be nasty to or about our road-going brethren. Except that they always look and sound so miserable. An illustrative example beckons I think. Lance Armstrong: “Pain is just fear leaving the body”. Ned Overend: “Riding mountain bikes, at the end of the day, is just about having fun with your friends”.

Ask any MTBer what’s the best thing about mountain biking, and the response will contain the following words: “beer, real, man”. Try it, works every time – I rest my case. We’re the free love, free thinking, free beer (in a perfect world) hippie throwbacks and they’re a bank clerk mincing about in spandex, sporting a serious haircut. And that should be that. The road is a necessary evil for linking singletrack and a pathway to the pub. Bikes are for off the road, cars are for on the road.

Except that I’ve felt the call of the tar side. You see, mountain biking in the winter can be a trial. Oh sure, you get those bluebird days with frozen trails under crystal skies. But you also get a lot more hub-deep mud, grinding transmission days under leaden clouds spitefully spitting stinging rain. A winter ride generally includes rediscovery of the bike under its winter mudpack, the replacement of whichever component has died in the cold murky battlefield where transmission has the lifespan of a wine gum, and a cleaning regime for your clothes that requires you change the house carpets twice a season. There are those who claim to enjoy the winter, but most of take a hopeful breath every morning praying for the sense of a spring breeze.

I was safe though. I didn’t have a road bike. But an agent of the dark side planted one in my barn and, although unloved through the onset of winter, one depressingly dreary ride suddenly propelled it to the fore. What the hell, I thought. I’ll give it a go, I’m going to hate it and even if I don’t, I can give it up. Anytime I like. The last time I’d ridden a road bike they were called ‘racers’, ten speed spindly frames made by Raleigh and Dawes. Every Christmas morning saw young lads wobble out onto the road with nothing more than youthful immortality to protect them. Halcyon days – the bikes were just wheeled freedom, the brand as unimportant as the specification. It was our way of getting away. Mine died during a quarry jumping session but by then mopeds and girls were way cooler (if slightly less obtainable) so I never bothered to replace it.

In the intervening years, things have moved on a little. This was a surprise. While MTBs are on the bleeding edge of design in terms of frame materials, suspension and brakes, road bikes look exactly the same as they did once they’d ditched the penny farthing. The evolution of the bike shows the MTB as having exploded into many different species, some thankfully extinct, whereas the sloth-like road bike appears to have developed, er, indexing. Okay, I’m being facetious but it still looked like my racer – dropped bars, small cogs and thin tyres. Although 100psi was something new, as were the shifters which someone had cunningly hidden in the brakes. Took me a while to work that one out.

My friend Andy also swings both ways and it was with a shock that I realised my old pal had dispensed with all things baggy, instead turning his body into a mobile sponsors’ billboard. All he was lacking was a “Golf Sale Here Today” sign. I, on the other hand was fully MTBed up – Camelbak, helmet with peak, mud resistant jacket and carrying the obligatory four tubes, full toolkit, two chocolate bars and money for beer. In spite of being inappropriately trousered and riding like a man searching for the other ten inches of bar, I think I pulled if off pretty well. Except all the other roadies waved at Andy and sneered at me. No change there then.

It’s not as easy as you think its going to be. The facts are all around you – skinny tyres, no heavy suspension, nothing overbuilt to withstand being bounced around in every direction at 30 mph. Climbing the first hill in a ring I’d named “dinner plate for 2”, things were not going well. Except Andy, he was going very well. So much so that I’d almost lost sight of him before rounding the last bend of the hill and trying to pause for breath. No such luck. Apparently roadies don’t do that, it’s bad for the statistics.

So off we went again in our mini peleton, driving onwards into a 40mph headwind enlivened further by my ham-fisted attempts at changing gear. Many times I cheered as fat boy dinner plate was finally engaged, the cheer turned to terror as I lurched wide-eyed into the face of oncoming traffic. Everything is so narrow – tyres, tubes and bars – that a single wrench of the brake levers expedites an appointment with either Mr Ditch or Mr Othersideoftheroad. Eventually I gave up and decided to use my super mountain bike fitness to grind up the climbs out of the saddle. Ha ha, yeah right. Thirty seconds of that and I was back into ditch/oncoming car territory as muscles unused to roadie cadence mocked me into submission.

Still, when you do get a gurn on, the bike leaps forward like a badger with its arse on fire (I know, but I was younger and we were just exploring and anyway they never actually arrested us for it). Talk about direct – it’s as if your legs are connected to the rear axle and as the speed builds you just go with it harder and harder until you’ve beaten the hill or you’re having a little lie down in the verge. Until the first corner that is. I love swoopy singletrack and like to think that I’m mildly accomplished when faced with sensuous curves sweeping between the trees. So smooth, safe Tarmac roads should be simple – yes? No. Not at all – as Andy drifted to the white line carving a perfect apex before sprinting off into the distance (again), I wobbled round in the manner of Romans portaging a slab of marble from a quarry.

Things improved as the ride progressed and so long as your mental blindness over tyre width remains intact, it’s actually quite a lot of fun. I’m yet to be convinced by those narrow bars, though. Aerodynamically efficient I’ll grant you, but bloody useless if you’re used to hauling on a 26 incher. So to speak. As for hand positions, well, that was shrouded in mystery the entire ride with each change bringing its own brand of terror. I can brake but I can’t turn. I can turn but I can’t see. I can see but I can’t do anything else. And so on.

Anyway after an hour or so, we climbed the final hill to our appointed rest stop. Out of the saddle, let the bike move below you and fire up your competitive gland even though you know you’re going to lose. You just can’t fight it on a road bike and despite all my misgivings, I wasn’t actually hating it. There isn’t the rush you get from blasting singletrack or nailing something technical but a certain sense of satisfaction started to bloom from the seed of all things roadie. Odd.

We stopped at roadie central. I did my best to look credible but on the bike, I’m a complete novice and off it, I’ve no idea about anything. What kind of bike is it? Er, dunno. What’s the groupset? Point vaguely. What ratios are you running? Some. I found myself explaining that it all worked really well together so why would I want to spend any more? Andy looked shocked. He’s seen me racked with indecision on whether it’s okay to slum it with an XT mech. You see roadies are like that too – I never knew that. They talk in terms of lightness, longevity and loveliness. Except that a bike should last ten years because they evolve at the pace of crocodiles. The crux of my argument was that it’s just a bloody bike, get on and ride it, you don’t need to spend money on something so simple. That’s marketing nonsense and by being taken in, you’re just feeding someone else’s green eyed monster. Which is exactly the same argument my wife has with me. As I said, odd.

Back out on to the road for the home stretch, I knew that it was five miles to the place where bacon sandwiches await and the wind was behind us at last. Out of the last village and I’m a bus-chasing monster. Dinner plate engaged, narrowly miss family walking dog on the far side of the road and get a wriggle on. Because there is nothing technical, it’s just a test against your own strength and stamina. There’s nowhere to hide on a road bike as skill comes a poor second to effort and lung capacity. But it’s still addictive with mobile chicanes disguised as other cyclists being dispatched but without the breath to say ‘hi’. Hills are almost welcomed as monuments to your climbing ability and then you hunker down on the straights to preserve precious momentum. It hurt way more than the mountain bike but I couldn’t stop pushing on until the final junction where I lay spent over the bars waiting for the spots to fade. My legs were jelly and I was hyperventilating. Somehow, I’d dropped (yes, I’ve slipped into roadie terminology) Andy for this last stretch although he was probably just bored of me slipstreaming him for the last thirty miles. I still milked it for all it was worth though.

So was it fun? No, not really. Satisfying, different and not truly terrible. Just because it’s not my gig doesn’t make it a bad thing though. And if this weather continues to deposit its merciless packages of showers through April, it’ll be my medium of choice. But for me, it’s the difference between creosoting your shed to stop the rain getting in against painting for the pleasure of painting and to hell with the final result.

Cycling is a broad church. We all go round in circles, some in the woods, some on the Tarmac. We’re all doing something that at least partially defines us and provides endless excuses not to conform. We’re all finding ways of sticking two fingers up at our regulated society and so pretending to be different.

But, for me, mountain biking is better. Having tried the tar side, I still have no proof or compelling arguments to why that is. It just is. All right?