The stillness inside a large group of cyclists is fascinating. To be part of a large body in movement but more or less unmoving relative to those around you is hypnotic. Like a flock of birds or a swarm of bees, the peloton exhibits unity of action and single-mindedness; only the whole is appreciable to the observer while its individuals blur and coalesce. To belong to that animate mass, to feel part of something faster and larger than oneself is one element of the appeal of the sport.

There is also silence. The mesmerising whirr and the clicks and the occasional shouts are contained, isolated from the muteness outside and beyond the group. Turn your head to look around and suddenly the wind isn't rushing into your ears. The hushed world slips by. Inside, all is quiet, still. Looking towards the side of the road, I see the outside as a strange, lonely place: fields, parked or stationary cars, hedgerows, gates, some bystanders, a house or school and I feel a sharp pang of pleasure to be inside and to belong.

For all that, it is an intensely individual sport, prone to both loyalty and betrayal. I can see the first breaks leaving the front and sides of the peloton and disappointment breaks the spell. The fellowship is gone. In a few hours from now, one of those pulling away from us will be a winner and we will look on with some respect and some envy and wonder how. The answer is that he chose not to belong, never needed to belong, needed, in fact, to be different while we watched out for one another.

Of course there are issues of talent and strength, but the difference between winner and loser is also the chasm between individuality and community. There are only losers among the small number who actually believe in winning. For most of us, the sport is about the achievement and the exchanges between rider, surface, machine, weather and companions.

This I learnt much later, too late to assuage the disappointment of competition and too late to understand success. As the trickle of the faithless increases off the front of the peloton, the group will become nervous and agitated and there will be movement, noise, perhaps a fall, a cry. The bond is broken. I will chase too –perhaps out of loyalty to the group, perhaps because of lost belief, perhaps because I think I can win – or just to bring back the escapees. I will try to break away too; to punish the others for their faithlessness.

Not today, though. I try to move toward the front to avoid falls and being trapped. I move forward also for fear of being among the dropped, those left behind.

I am struggling to find and keep my place. The shouts are louder and more aggressive now and, along with struggling gear changes, have overwhelmed the hum. The peloton is stretched out in a long snake. Riders shift to find a better line or wheel to follow, move up on the outside to get a better position or avoid the frantic and inexperienced.

The road rises slightly and some in front are in difficulty, allowing gaps to open. More anger from behind and some sprint past to avoid splits or, better still, provoke splits behind them, weeding out more of the weak. I'm out of the saddle again and pressing hard on the pedals to accelerate away from those riders going backwards.

I look around again and realise that I am alone and slipping to the back. I look at my front wheel and focus very hard to contain the tears. A hand pushes me forward. The other is feeding fruitcake from tinfoil to a tired face which nods and says we're nearly there. Hang in. Do I have food? I've finished it all. I see my bulging red eyes and snot-smeared cheeks through his eyes. I realise he can also see the pain.

Looking back, perhaps what he really sees is himself in another time and place. He offers me the remaining fruitcake. We cycle on side by side and wordless for a while until the final surge for the finish starts and we sprint to catch the passing wheels.

I last see him when he has stepped off his bike after the finish line and is moving with his shoes' gentle click-clack towards his team-mates who are laughing as they get changed in a van.

Patrick Bohan, Barcelona, Spain. Is back on the bike. www.fjopus7.com