"Pedal, bitch,” screams the 14-year-old with the baseball cap and the machine-gun acne from the back seat of an overtaking Ford Escort, somewhere on the A226 between Dartford and Gravesend. I raise a fist in reply, but he and his joyriding mates have already fishtailed round the next corner.

In France, spectators applaud and ring cowbells by way of encouragement before retiring to a charming cafe to drink Pernod in moderation. In the estuary towns of north Kent, the local yoof shout abuse before retiring to a housing estate to glue-sniff and hot-dog. It’s not the same.

This was the first morning of my attempt at stage one of the Tour de France. On July 8, the world’s greatest cycle race will sweep majestically from central London to Canterbury, and I, like hundreds of others, thought it would be fun to try the 134-mile route. I had decided to spread it over two days, treating myself to a night in the Hotel du Vin in Tunbridge Wells midway. With a few tricks and rethinks, it would become a wonderful adventure (of which more later), but for now it was nothing less than a two-wheeled nightmare.

You have to wonder whose idea it was to head east out of London, rather than in any other direction at all. Nobody needs to cycle through Ebbsfleet. Nobody needs to know that velour tracksuits are still all the fashion in Erith. Or that fighting, smoking, snogging and holding a baby can all be done at the same time by the same couple at a bus stop between Stone and Greenhithe.

True, the peloton won’t have to play Frogger with the concrete trucks, white vans and bendy buses. And there’s little danger of them getting lost in an estate so rough even the ice-cream van was on bricks. Like we did. But unless you’re actually in the Tour de France (and I’m sorry but you’ve left it too late to qualify), the first 40 miles are no less than life-threatening.

Things improved dramatically from Rochester. Lunch in the cathedral town was nervy, the locals at the spit-and-sawdust pub we wobbled into being naturally suspicious of two men in Lycra ordering Diet Cokes. But once out, we hit the country lanes, racing through rape fields and orchards, scaring pheasants and peasants alike. Such was the change in our fortunes that I was on the verge of whistling. But with the arrival of Tonbridge, things turned nasty again. Because Tonbridge, though pleasant enough, is ostensibly a battery farm for schoolchildren, and it was half-three, school-run time.

Mothers on the school run are the principal obstacle in a cyclist’s quest for survival because they are always (a) late, (b) distracted and (c) driving a 4WD they’re not in control of. Still, when they mow down cyclists, at least the roo bars and roll cages mean the kids inside are okay. OVER A fine steak and full-bodied red at the Hotel du Vin, a crisis meeting was held. Although we’d escaped the lower intestines of London and had rolling hop country to look forward to tomorrow, sticking to the A roads of the official route would mean more fighting with mad mums and white vans. So we decided to abandon the route, and shadow it on B roads instead, only connecting up with it where it looked nice on the map.

It was a brilliant decision – one I thoroughly recommend to anyone trying the route, including Bradley Wiggins et al. Wouldn’t it be marvellous if they took my advice and just hared off down the B2169 to Frant halfway through the race? Then stopped in glorious Tenterden for lunch and a pint of bitter shandy? After all, it’s not the winning, it’s the taking part.

That’s what we did, only narrowly resisting the temptation of wine-tasting at the Lamberhurst vineyard and a nice cup of coffee in Biddenden. I wanted to stop for a Lucozade drip in the splendid hilltop Goudhurst, but Brian, my sportier compatriot, went all Northfleet joyrider on me: it’s bad enough that we aren’t bothering with the route any more, he encouraged, but now we have to stop every five minutes to buy postcards as well. Pedal, bitch. So I pedalled.

In the afternoon, I would have enjoyed the stunning landscapes, the Garden of England villages, the blossom and the bees, but my tuberosity of the ischium was in tatters. More than one friend had suggested a fillet steak stuffed down the Lycras as a remedy for saddle ache, but you don’t find many good independent butchers in the marshlands of Kent these days. I tried cycling standing up for a few miles, then perching on one buttock, then just whimpering – which worked well.

It was from about 4pm that all I could think about was throwing the bike in a hedge and phoning a taxi. Even though we’d spread the trip over two days, even though we’d missed out a couple of kinks on our Broad diversion, I was faltering. To do twice this distance every day more or less for three weeks, and tick off a few alps en route is sheer madness. My perineum was numb, I had pins and needles in my testicles, and my thighs were burning even on the downhills.

We didn’t get a taxi – Brian wouldn’t allow it – but we did cheat. The proper guys will sprint-finish into Canterbury on the B2068, a bolt-straight Roman six-miler, right into the city centre. But who needs to sprint-finish? Who can be bothered to cycle all the way to Canterbury? Not us. We’d even abandoned B roads by now, crisscrossing single tracks up into the North Downs, stopping for a chat near Bossingham, then freewheeling down a hill to our B&B, on the appropriately named Nackington Road. Two miles more and we could have said we’d done the Tour de France, but I couldn’t have cycled two miles more. Much later, we walked it instead, stopping at pubs along the way.

Bicycles and kit supplied by Downland Cycles (01227 479643, www.downlandcycles.co.uk)

THE CHEAT’S GUIDE TO THE BRITISH ETAPE

The first stage is horrible and most of the route is on A roads. Tell all your friends you’re going to do it, but start halfway round, in Tunbridge Wells, after a splendid night at the Hotel du Vin (01892 526455, www.hotelduvin.com). It has doubles and twins from £105, room-only. Take the B2169 out of Tunbridge Wells, cut back onto the A262 to Goudhurst, then the B2085/B2086 through Benenden and Rolvenden, and on to Tenterden. From there, it’s a glorious run on the B2067, through Bilsington, until the road runs out near the M20. Around there, you’ll see the North Downs: the last stretch into Canterbury is a D-road meander through Sellindge, Brabourne and Lymbridge Green. And a few others, if you get lost. Like any honey pot, Canterbury is not overrun with good-value accommodation. We stayed at the friendly Sylvan Cottage (01227 765307, www.sylvancottage.co.uk), which has rooms from £55, B&B.

Capital Sport (01296 631671, www.capital-sport.co.uk) has a range of Tour de Kent packages and can tailor-make whichever route you decide to take, transferring luggage, planning maps and arranging accommodation.

Times recommends

• The Green Spaces Travel Awards, 2008 - the winners
• Britain's 12 best winter walks
• The insiders' guide to bohemian Paris