All I can hear, far away in a distant place, seemingly removed several times from my own psyche, is a low groan punctuated with a kind of strained whimper.
I can't see anything - certainly not with any clarity. My vision has become acutely distorted by a deluge of sweat combined with a heavy dusting of midwinter drizzle.
This serves not only to impair my sight but also to add to the snowballing pain which now envelopes the entirety of my person.
Both mentally and physically I am absolutely fucking devastated. I feel like my thighs are harbouring the entire Lebanese faction of ISIS. Surely they're about to shatter. Surely they are on the threshold of splitting into a million sharp and tiny shards?
I can't do this for much longer - a lucid thought at last.
The thought gives me hope. It lets me know I'm in control, that I'm the fucking boss here.
But I'm not. This hill is. And currently, at this moment in time, this innocuous contour, this ruck in the sprawling rug of rural Surrey is all-powerful, all-consuming, all a tremendous pain in the arse.
But why? Why would I pit myself against an ascent which should be stood in The Hague up on charges of crimes against humanity?
Why (oh fucking why) did I step out of the front door this morning, clad in ill-fitting cycling fatigues, and hasten to the hills? The sun hasn't shone in months now - although admittedly it did make a fleeting appearance one afternoon in late November - so what is the attraction? Why couple getting drenched in sweat and drizzle with acute pain and suffering?
I'm now - as far as I can make out - less than 100 metres to the summit. The road has considerably ramped up and I'm struggling to draw breath into my lungs. Somebody, another cyclist, flies past on his way down, offering a "morning" as he goes by. I just about manage not to puke in acknowledgement, and instead offer up a sort of sob-cum-grunt.
The pain mitigates, the white noise subsides, I breath easier, my vision returns - a wave of transcendent joy and vitality now surges over me.
I look down, swigging theatrically from my water bottle as I inspect my handiwork... and steadily pedal on to the next one...
Ground into submission.