Team Marco put their 'best pedals forward' on the recent London to Brighton Cycle Ride, covering 54 miles from the capital to the coast. In the process, the ten intrepid cyclists, including Marco's MD Murray Hilborne, Technical Director Paul Seamons and Marketing Director Mandy Hart, collected over £4000 for the British Heart Foundation.

Left to right: Paul Seamons, Murray Hilborne, Mandy Hart, Cheryl Hilborne, Glen Eacott, Graham Warren, Paul Newman.

Paul started to wonder if his decision to salute all of the other riders really was practical.

What's in a promise?
It's June. Mid Morning, slowly but relentlessly rising behind this pretty village, lies the reason that we're here.

The most famous climb in all of southern England.

The city streets of London seem such a long time ago. The start lies almost fifty miles behind us, and barely a handful more remain ahead. The countryside is peaceful. Very peaceful.

The chatter and banter of those early miles has faded now. With countless and more cyclists on the road, along the classic route to Brighton - you can hear them, all the way.

Not just the whirr of spokes, the squeal of frantic brakes, or the grinding, mashing sound of crunching gears. There's a rhythm of the riders' breathing and - the unspoken thoughts and anticipation of this mobile stream some twenty-seven thousand strong, pedaling joyfully across the fields.

And now it's fallen strangely silent. The pace of others has slowed, noticeably, for a mile or two behind. I listen hard, but it's something else I hear now - the deafening sound of silent tension which hangs heavy in the air.

Ditchling Beacon is in sight. The green monster, and it's waiting for us just ahead.

I take a big breath for a moment, and try to think.

But all winter long, this ride has lain in front of me.

It's not a race today with waves of starters spread out over three hours, that's something this could never be. Long minutes ticked by at all those South London traffic lights. We had to walk one section, up a narrow chalky lane, because there was simply no way round all those other riders on the road.

And so our time, our speed, they don't matter. But all the same, today's the day.

Nearly every weekend since December, I've toiled an hour or two along my Sussex lanes. During all those months, I've panted my way up some of the steepest hill climbs in the area, done battle with the traffic, and tested my mountain bike, into near destruction.

I force myself to forget everything else, just for a moment, as I point my front wheel into a gap on the right of the road and concentrate on the task in hand.

The field slows again, as we all strive to find the bottom cog. I gaze forwards as the road eases gently upwards through the trees, but then it's lost to view around sharp bends.

'Pace yourself. This one's big', pants a gruff brute beside me to his following group. Proper cyclists, these, with all the latest kit and shiny bikes. They slowly disappear, leaving me with some good advice to ponder. He's right - there's no sense in rushing. I've waited years for this.

Others beside me have stopped to push, chatting raggedly as they wander up the climb. The walkers are spreading out across the road. There's still a gap to pass, but only just.

I change down, for the very last time. There are no more gears now, just me and my bike, straining together. It's hard work, but I keep it going as best I can, wobbling as I slow to pass other mountain bikers, their legs pumping furiously as they flounder amongst ratios much lower than my own.

'Refreshments - 800 m' reads a sign on my right - that must be the top. I try to imagine that far, but I can only focus on the tarmac ahead. I look up wondering if that is 800 vertical metres. Just a few metres of it are in my view. A mass of pushing bikes, the drooping helmets beside them telling their tale of a brave battle, fought and lost.

My wheels keep turning. It's a longer gear than I might have chosen, but I'm moving freely, all the same. A minute passes. Maybe two. Silence. Uncertainty. Doubt.

Three hundred metre's left. Two more cyclists dismount, right in front of me, and for a moment I have to stop. I take the opportunity to take a breath and have a drink. As I pick it up again, there's a glimpse of clear road ahead and I don't dare think it could be near.

The road snakes to the right this time. My eyes are stinging as sweat falls from my brow, and I lurch dangerously for a moment to swipe my wrist across my face.

The road turns and turns. I'm not sure if it's my imagination, but the gradient has eased, just a little. Tired legs can still fail, though, and not one walker is remounting here. I keep going.

And then, suddenly, we round a bend, and the valley stretches far and level next me, the road a narrow strip of tarmac threaded through five thousand people milling all around.

From up here, the Sussex countryside falls far away into the distance, looking northwards over all the ground we've covered.

There are five miles more down to Brighton. Good roads, all downhill. A classic sprinters' finish along fast and flat Madeira Drive. But this is not the Tour de France, so the traffic's terrible, and it takes an hour. It doesn't matter.

This route, and to me at least,- it's all about the climb and a promise to my late brother. This ascent of Ditchling Beacon - it's the only classic climb I've ever done. They call it a green monster, but it's far smaller than any other serious bikers' route.

Ditchling Beacon - in cycling terms, it's just a pimple, really. But this year it was my hill, and for once I made it to the top…………