We’re up well before 6am and following an early morning Tai Chi stretching session, led by the inimitable Tom Baigrie in the hotel driveway, we set off once more with 90kms ahead of us before we reach Vietnam’s third largest city, Haiphong. However as my posterior hits the saddle and the instant stinging soreness of my chafed buttocks sends shooting pain signals to my brain I realise my rookie mistake. I’ve forgotten to apply Vaseline to my buttocks and groin and by God, do I know it!

The situation is exacerbated by the fact that we’ve got 17km to the first rest stop and the vast majority of it takes us along untarmacked paths of splintering, jagged, sharp rocks. The relentless bumping of my throbbing cheeks on the saddle is gruelling enough, but the added concentration required to navigate the potholes, crevices, boulders and roots that litter our way is exhausting. Thankfully the views as the sun rises across the paddy fields are glorious but I exclaim a heartfelt prayer of thanks once we hit proper road and pull over for refreshments.

Thankfully Gunnar has packed a tube of sudocreme in his bumbag and I disappear into the front seat of the van, cycling shorts pulled down as I liberally smear my lower portions with the cooling unguent. More and more cyclists pull up, telling tales of how Paul & Frank were hit by a moped but thankfully survived unscathed, and we all douse ourselves in sun cream as the rays are hotter and hotter than yesterday, whilst stood incongruously next to a woman selling bloody portions of her newly slaughtered pig to passing locals

The next leg of the ride finds us battling strong headwinds as we press on through little villages and flat landscapes of canals and rice fields, with workers hunched in the waters, before we start encountering ever-increasing traffic which becomes a veritable rush hour as we cycle into the town of Phat Diem where we gather at a café in the main square for condensed milk coffees and a rest.

I wander off into the intriguing Catholic cathedral, built of wood in the style of a Vietnamese temple and completed in 1891. It’s vast and the interior has rows of massive wooden columns, along with an altar made from a single block of granite, while the main tower houses a enormous bell much bigger than the one in France’s Notre Dame. In front of the cathedral is an ornamental lake where locals fish for carp, standing in the water with huge nets.

Once the stragglers have caught up and everyone has had a rest, we set off again braving the crazy traffic and the incessant honking of horns before heading down bumpy country paths, passing dozens of ornate churches and cemeteries. This area has well over 120,000 Catholics living in it, having been subject to French missionaries travelling into the rural areas around Hanoi and converting the predominantly Buddhist population to Christianity 150 years ago.

After much pedalling we come to the first of two rivers we need to cross in quick succession, both with overloaded ferries onto which we crowd, our bikes jumbled up with cars, lorries, scooters and vans; the bemused locals wondering what on earth is going on, and then another 13kms later, and a few wrong turns, we pull over to a little restaurant where we have a picnic lunch.

Unfortunately, while the meat-eaters are all served burgers and chicken wraps with chips, the vegetarian and vegans amongst us have to make do with fried rice. Literally, just rice. Naturally it’s all washed down with cans of beer so when we set off again, those of us who’ve only eaten some cold rice are somewhat wobbly in the saddle, the lack of nutrition failing to counteract the alcohol.

Despite having lubed up earlier, the pain of cycling on the raw behind is becoming ever more present, so added into the mix are some strong painkillers and I just plough on and on for mile after mile, sometimes alone and sometimes with company as we all spread out along the route. The changing landscape is constantly fascinating and, as we cycle ever closer to the Chinese border, the influence of China and communism in northern Vietnam is obvious.

Here the towns are more ordered and designed, the buildings, roads and bridges over canals adorned with flags and banners, big civic structures emblazoned with worker’s messages and iconography and speakers set up on lampposts to broadcast patriotic songs. It’s all very structured and quite pretty, and everyone we see appears very happy, waving and smiling at us as we go past.

This part of Vietnam rarely sees tourists, especially Westerners, and as we all fly past on bicycles, in our varying states of age, size and fitness, the locals gawp and laugh, sticking their thumbs up and cheering us on, crazy lunatics that we are. It helps that we’re all dressed in red t-shirts with gold lettering; the Tet colours of luck and prosperity, so we appear to be blessing the villages with New Year greetings as we barrel through at speed.

At one point there’s a mid-afternoon karaoke party at the side of the road where the men all offer us (very strong) drinks as we stop and chat, asking for directions, but the final 10km is exhausting, the rural prettiness fading into traffic clogged towns. We push hard, negotiating chaotic traffic, dodging huge slaughtered pigs carried on the back of scooters and trying not to notice the roasted heads of dogs at stalls on the side of the road, but eventually the decision is made by the organisers that we’ll stop a few kms earlier than planned, having covered 85kms already today, as we have a long transfer ahead to our next hotel.

We wait at the side of the busy road for the buses to find us, our bikes loaded on to lorries and then settle into our seats for a three hour drive to Vietnam’s third largest city, Haiphong, 90 miles away. I’m seated next to Barry, who has a bit of a cough, and we natter away, chatting partly about the Wuhan flu that’s in the news and being grateful for the fact I bought masks back in Phu Ly as we’ll be needing them for the flight home.

The bus crawls along slowly, heavy traffic extending our journey, until eventually after a couple of “comfort breaks” we pull up outside the optimistically-accredited 3 star Huu Nghi Hotel at almost 8pm. Our very basic room is at the end of a damp corridor and the dribbling shower I try to rinse the day’s dirt off under is luke-warm at best. It’s not the most auspicious end to the day.

Dinner tonight is at Maxims restaurant across the road, one of the few places still open on New Year’s Eve, most workers having now headed back to their home villages to be with their families. The food is poor, the wine so dreadful that we’re advised not to touch it and we’re all shattered, but most of the riders decide to try and find a bar. However as I leave the restaurant I suddenly feel faint and decidedly strange, my legs almost giving way beneath me as I cross the road.

Lee, the medic, is outside the hotel and Ryan helps me over to him where he takes one look at me and tells me to go to bed, drink lots of fluids, take some paracetamol and pray I’ll be in a fit state to cycle tomorrow. I collapse into bed feeling like I’ve been run over by a truck!