Road cycling is an odd sport... no wonder the French find it so enjoyable

From sunrise until lunchtime, 140km of streets heading west from The Mall, through Richmond and Hampton Court, and out towards Guildford, were closed for a contest between around 150 of the world's best road cyclists.

They included the irascible Manxman Mark Cavendish, who won five stages and the green jersey at the Tour de France last month, and is generally considered the best sprinter in the world. The competition was a dry run for the Olympics, which will take place on the opening weekend of the 2012 Games. Cavendish will then be a favourite to win Great Britain's first gold medal.

Logistically, road cycling is the grand-daddy ballache of Olympic events.

And yesterday, as a vast swathe of the south-east shut down for the morning, not everyone was happy. I strolled up to The Mall early. As I walked, my BlackBerry pinged. A friend in Surrey had tried to leave his house, only to be told he was not allowed down the road.

"It's like being under house arrest," he wrote. "You've been imprisoned for a crime you didn't commit," I replied. "This must be how the A-Team felt."

There were large crowds on The Mall. Many people wore cycling gear. I parked myself at Hyde Park Corner and watched as a confused rasta on a red mountain bike wobbled through a gap in the railings and began to ride along the course. Several marshals blew whistles and waved their arms crossly until he left.

At 9.01am there was a roar of engines. Along the course came many cars and motorcycle outriders, full of people looking stern and self-important.

Seconds later the peloton followed, in front of a convoy of cars with bikes on roof racks.

The peloton started slowly. The cyclists were bunched together and almost indistinguishable behind bright sports sunglasses and helmets. They passed inches from the barriers. It felt strange to be so close to the athletes.

They shaped along the street almost as one body - moving as gracefully and colourfully as a shoal of tropical fish. And in less than 30 seconds they were out of sight.

I walked down to Victoria Station. An hour later I alighted a train at Box Hill & Westhumble, where the riders were to do two climbs (there will be nine next year), before racing back to London and The Mall.

The village was quiet and green and leafy. A short lane led from the station down to the A24. Already I could hear the rumble of engines, as police motorbikes shot along the road. Less than five minutes later, the first cyclists fizzed past. Four riders had broken away. They moved so fast it was hard to pick who was who. Then there was a gap of several minutes, before cheers further up the road announced the approach of the peloton.

They were moving quickly, jostling for position. They seemed more like hornets than fish now, as they hurtled past, tyres buzzing angrily on the tarmac. The crowd huzzahed genteel, home counties approval. A half-full waterbottle shot out of the peloton, thrown by a rider. It missed my head by about a foot. I walked back to the station, heading for Victoria and The Mall again.

It had been a long journey for a mere glimpse of sporting competition. But it didn't feel like a swindle.

When the riders hurtled back along The Mall, Cavendish was among the leaders. He had timed his ride perfectly. He hit the front late, beating Sacha Modolo to the line. For hundreds of kilometres behind him, railings were being dismantled. Normal service was being resumed.

Road cycling is an odd sport. It places much inconvenience on spectators and gives back only fleeting seconds of entertainment, in which it is largely impossible to work out what the hell is going on. It's quite perverse. No wonder the French like it so much.

Next summer we will hear more moaning about Olympic disruption. It's natural. In the hierarchy of human needs, getting a fresh pint of milk on Sunday morning trumps the economic advantages of hosting a world sporting event. But like Tony Soprano said, whuddya gunna do? Road cycling is an Olympic event and it has to happen some time.

Yesterday was a reasonable day to hold the test event: a Sunday morning in the middle of August, when any Surrey homeowner with sense has packed off to the Cap d'Antibes or Sandy Lane. It was an interesting, if not exactly a captivating race. You can't please all of the people all of the time.

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