It takes but a blink of the eye for firsts to become lasts. We all remember the first time we met someone special, played for a team, started a job or commenced college: these are memories that are stained on our minds as we are aware as to what they represented and signified.

But then we age and receive no warning as to the last time you do a certain thing. I love football and played until one Tuesday last year when, standing in the classroom the next day barely able to walk, the realisation dawned that a less than illustrious footballing career was now gone, forever, and for that I felt saddened.

But then, out of left field, comes a belated, and unexpected second wind. A few years ago, I was bought as a gift, an experience at the London Velodrome. The day came and I had the nastiest illness one can possibly experience: a bad dose of man flu, but trooper that I am, I attended and within a minute of the one hour ride, I was literally being sick on myself and the bike, as I attempted to hold it in. I trundled around the home straight and got some strange looks from the smattering of spectators, yet I vowed then, that was it, never again, and so, after one session, I hung my head in shame and pursued less physically demanding cycling activity.

That was until last week when, having arrived back from a Spanish all inclusive and piling on two stone, I read about a velodrome world record which I truly believed I had a shout at. It was broken (although I don’t think many have attempted it) by some Welsh chap who had started cycling one year prior. His was a ‘seniors’ world record where he rode 100km in just under three hours averaging 27 seconds a lap.

So I found myself booking up for the ‘flying lap’ experience at the Olympic Velodrome where, for an hour or so you ride and at a particular point you have a ‘flying lap’, on your own, in competition with the other punters, and your time is posted on a certificate to take home for posterity. Quietly confident, I rode around in 25-26 seconds for a few laps then realised I had over reached my physical ability and that slowed considerably.

Watford Observer: Brett Ellis

It’s a curious concept is the velo ride: the bikes are ‘fixies’, and you have no respite whatsoever, as the wheels turn, so do your pedals, as do your feet, and that lack of a few seconds here and there to relieve the pressure is agonising. Oh, and also, they have no brakes as you whizz around a oval track which is around 45 degrees. Too slow and you come off, and too fast and there’s no way of stopping should you run into a back marker who is swaying around like a windsock in a gale.

But then the moment arrived for the flying lap. Despite sweating profusely as I tried and failed to keep up with the cycling 20 somethings, I was up first and posted a time of 20.811 seconds, but I was in absolute bits. After a warm-up lap you hit the start line at full speed and I couldn’t catch my breath at the end, and was as close to a coronary as I have ever been. The eventual winner posted a time of 17 seconds as he pushed with all his might and, although impressed, it was then pointed out that the world record holder for the one hour averaged, for 60 minutes, 16 seconds a lap and here was I crying for my mamma after one 20 second lap.

At that point I again put my dreams of holding a world record to one side and yet again quit, safe in the knowledge that this really was the last time I will ever ride a velodrome. But do I have regrets? No, and neither should you when you reach the end game of things you love, as Tennyson once said, ‘it’s better to have loved and lost, than not to have loved at all…’