When word came through that a large area of south Wales was being terrorised by a dragon, and that a posse of cyclists was being rounded up to sort it out, naturally I jumped at the chance.

But as the train pulled into Port Talbot on Saturday evening I feared I was too late – the town was a smoking ruin and the streets deserted; most of the inhabitants had fled, and those who remained seemed in a state of bewilderment. ‘Dragon?’ I asked a taxi driver. ‘Dragon Gran Fondo?’; but he just gazed at me in blank incomprehension.

I retired to a nearby hostelry where my bike and I were put up for the night; the following morning at dawn we rode out, heading east in search of the vile beast that had so cruelly laid waste to what should have been a pretty seaside town.

‘Dragon? Oh yes, you’ve come to the right place,’ said the wizened old gatekeeper in a yellow high-vis tabard at Margam Country Park. He pointed me up a path through the woods, at the end of which a host of my fellow knights of the road had assembled, resplendent in all the colours of the rainbow, their burnished steeds gleaming in the weak morning sunlight that filtered through the hazy sky. All talk was of the dragon and its size, there were even rumours of several dragons. The Gran Fondo I was chasing was believed to be a big one – 224km long, and almost 3000m high. We would later discover this was no exaggeration.

We set out in waves and I joined an early party set to leave at 7.20. Ducked low over our mounts, a breeze at our backs, we sped back towards Port Talbot then cut inland, heading north east along the Afan Valley. All was peaceful, just the hum of rubber on tar and the murmur of conversation as riders, bunched in small groups, discussed tactics and chatted on issues of the day. This unpleasant business in France: Froome or Sir Bradley? Compact gearing or regular? What have you got on the back – a 27? You should be alright...

We had been warned that the dragon lay entwined among the hills and mountains hereabouts, and the first climb soon presented itself: Bwlch is the name, who needs vowels anyway – a long slope of some seven kilometres winding into the distance. But a gentle enough climb, around six percent gradient and the road is smooth. We settled into a rhythm and the minutes ticked by as we climbed steadily out of the valley under the gaze of the roughly shorn sheep.

Then swooping down the other side, exhilaration – and at the bottom, after another two kilometres it begins all over again with another hill: the Rhigos. As we climbed I fell in step with another rider, no number, a franc tireur who’s not on the sportive but just a local cyclist on his local ride. He points out the landmarks as sweat drips from the point of his nose. ‘In a bit we’ll see a Swiss-style hut appear on the right. When you see that, you know you’re nearly at the top. And the descent is the best in south Wales. 50mph, easily. Look now, there’s that hut.’

As he clicked into the big ring and flew off I let him go, because we’d reached the first road camp. I pulled over to refresh my water bottles and draw breath after the climb. Tables were set out on the edge of the road, virtually on a precipice with the mountainside tumbling down just feet behind the volunteers who handed out fruit, energising potions and salted potatoes. We had ridden 48km. Early days yet, and it’s all downhill from here I mused as I looked across the valley.

I set off again, and the first couple of miles were indeed downhill. But what goes down must come up, and in some cases quite spectacularly so. After 90km of riding we reached the Devil’s Elbow, a switchback road carved into the hillside that left me incredulous as I gazed aloft at the tiny rows of cyclists inching their way along the slopes above me to my left. The Devil’s Elbow is part of the Sarn Helen climb, 1.8km long with an average gradient of 12%. On the other hills there were snatches of chat along the way, but not here. Out of the saddle, dancing in slow motion among a group of fellow riders, my observations on the fine view are met with grim silence.

The mood brightens at the top of course, and we’re all friends again as we spin downhill. Just one nagging question persists: where’s the dragon? I have a train to catch this evening, it leaves at 18.40. Pleasant as all this pain is, I can’t hang about all day.

But as the ride wore on, my frustration at not actually finding the dragon receded. The countryside was just too jolly ravishing to think of battle. Beauty everywhere, all wind-blasted mountains and wooded valleys, trickling brooks and winding traffic-free lanes – not to mention the fact that, what with all the climbing, I was getting a little fatigued to face a dragon.

And there was still one summit left to climb. The Black Mountain is not black, it’s sort of greyish-green – but it is definitely a mountain, and the 7.2km road up it is another lazy, winding, alpine affair. I decide it’s not a job for explosive, intense effort, and settle instead into the now familiar rhythm of protracted low-gear spinning. After 30 long minutes of effort we’re nearing the end, in every sense. Knots of spectators have gathered at the top and cheer us on as we crest the peak. But there’s little pleasure in the descent, as a ferocious crosswind threatens to tear the helmet off my head and restricts my speed to barely 20mph. Scant reward for a dragon slayer.

Just one more climb to go – Cimla Hill in Neath. The hill rises out of the town and is busy with hundreds of cyclists as this final part of the route is shared by riders of each of the four dragon distances. Cimla drags on a bit, especially with 130 miles already making themselves felt in the legs. But the dragon has one more surprise in store as a sudden downpour of rain and hail has riders pulling over for shelter and throwing on rain jackets. I plough on, not having taken my rainproofs, and can barely see through the sting of hail and salty water as I race the final 15km through Port Talbot and back to base at Margam Park.

At the event village the party is in full swing. Still soaked to the bone, I grab a pot of free pasta and some coconut water - the elixir of life itself - while the announcers welcome in the riders by name. No one on the 300km Devil distance has finished yet and there are still a couple of thousand cyclists out on the roads. I pass a hundred or so of them nearing the finish line as I ride the other way, back to Port Talbot to collect my bags, the sun now once again shining down on the wet roads.

As the train pulls out of Port Talbot past the smoking chimneys of the steelworks it occurs to me that a dragon is not the worst thing that could happen to the town. The countryside around here is stunning, and if events like the dragon bring appreciative visitors into the area that can only be a good thing.

So that was the Wiggle Dragon Ride. It’s not dead, it’s just resting for a year – why not come and have a crack yourself. It’s a monster but you’ll love it.