SPORTING spectacular, charity fundraiser, community event…

Descriptions for the Magna Mazda British Pedal Car Grand Prix are almost endless.

But a single word lodges itself deeper into my consciousness with every stiff-legged step from the kettle to the computer.

Exhausting.

Thirty seconds into my first stint behind the wheel of Cliff Polton’s gleaming car number 26, the canyon-sized flaw in my traning programme becomes apparent: gentle rides through the New Forest and Purbeck hills at a pace suited to nature study are useless as preparation for flat-out racing.

A blood-and-guts run from an adrenalin-fuelled pit-lane changeover sees my career as a pedal car racer begin with a couple of easy places made in the Magna Mazda hairpin (or the Market Place as it is know to the uninitiated).

But as I exit the tight turn and straighten the car, I am struck by an inconvenient truth: Ringwood’s High Street is built on a hill.

Imperceptible to the naked eye, but inescapable from behind the wheel of a pedal car, the minute gradient of this narrow commercial thoroughfare now feels like the Col du Galibier.

My legs are on fire as I bank sharp left at the Naughty Corner, and my heart thumps at my breastbone with the speed and urgency of a hungry woodpecker.

Luckily for me, the demands of my body are overruled by the gallons of adrenaline crashing against my fizzing brain like the sea at Old Harry Rock.

I find myself suddenly affronted by every car with the temerity to occupy the road ahead me, and attack them with a recklessness that would shame the joyriding yobs in Police, Camera, Action.

In my defence, I am only trying to match the efforts of my teammates.

Richard Polton opens our bid for victory with a lung-busting, four-lap stint, accomplished at what appears to be an average speed of about 40mph.

Richard’s sterling effort is almost matched by his father, Cliff, who takes the second turn in car 26.

Gone is the genial committee member who has patiently fielded my endless questions for the last six weeks, and whose good-natured cries of “Lovely evening” have calmed horse rider and dog walker alike on our training rides across the New Forest.

The Cliff Polton who flashes past our pit position in a blur of red, black, and gold is a man whose additional years have clearly been spent fashioning a will to win that makes Ricky Hatton’s look half-hearted.

Graham Morse is next in the car, his school-masterly salutes to his amazed and excited pupils in the crowd barely slowing him as he rattles in one three-lap stint after another.

Robin Shelley provides sterling service as “pusher”, hauling me from the car after an exhausting stint and dumping me in the gutter, before guiding my replacement into the hot seat and steering him back into battle in a single movement. If you thought Ferrari’s F1 pit crew was slick, you should watch Robin on a Ringwood race day.

Once the chequered flag has dropped, normal service is resumed. Some of the nicest people I have met during my time in this job go back to being…well, nice.

Oliver Pilley adds a fourth junior title to his impeccable pedal car CV, receiving his trophy with a been-here-before half-smile.

Steph Mills skips past me excitedly clutching her award for the winning ladies team, cheerily adding that her victory might make an additional item for my report.

Howard Cox, Ringwood Carnival organiser and pedaller with the Lavery Flyers, is showing off a trophy made from pieces of a pedal car which came to grief while under his control at a race last year in New Milton.

Bird on a Wing, Het Nicholson, and her father, committee member, Peter, reflect on what might have been, and look ahead to the next time the pedal car circus rolls into town.

And Jim Stride, a man beneath whose tireless efforts to promote the race the Daily Echo’s email server has staggered, stands with a contented smile, one arm each around daughters Katie and Hannah from the Pink Panthers team, every inch the proud dad.

It’s been fun. I’d do it again.