Doof. Doof. Doof. I'm surrounded by sweaty bodies in lycra clothing as fast doof-doof-doof "music" thumps through the speakers. No, I'm not at a rave. I'm at a spinning class at Virgin Active. It's November 9 - the very first session for Training Wheels recruits. Through a programme of spinning sessions and supervised rides, the Cape Argus Pick n Pay Cycle Tour aims to get this motley crew of beginners saddle savvy by March 8.

The spinning instructor is trying to convince us that we're not even in the gym. We're on the road with breathtaking sea and mountain views (in this scenario there are no speeding motorists wooshing past). I close my eyes and try to picture the mountain and smell the salty sea breeze. Nah. My only view is of my fellow spinners in a spin and no matter how much I try (and believe me I do try) the stench of sweaty socks can't be mistaken for a sea breeze.

Before I got on the bike I knew that spinning was something spiders did to trap their prey, I knew it was something chubby Australian bowlers did (also to trap their prey) and I knew it was what politicians did when asked tough questions they didn't want to answer. I didn't realise it was also something that could be done on a bike.

The session goes by in a blaze of perspiration and "let's get physical" doof-doof thumps. But I make it through without stopping. (Between you and me that might have been because the stern instructor pointed her glare in my direction whenever I was tempted to slack off.)

I walk out of the gym, and although I feel like I've been whirled, twirled and whisked through a washing machine's spin cycle, I can't help feeling a bit smug. I have taken a step. It's a small step down a long road - 109-kilometres long to be exact. But it's a step nonetheless. I look at my fellow novice cyclists as they drag their weary bodies out of the gym. We are different people in various stages of fitness from different walks of life but we have one thing in common: in 118 days we intend to conquer Chappies.