For a while there, I thought I was ready for the Tour de France. On my annual fantasy trips to Florida each March, I always drag along my Trek 750 Multi-Track bicycle, to pretend I am going to do something beside drink beer, watch baseball and go to the beach.

This year, I actually did some bike riding around Fort Myers. It seems that Florida has some law that requires a bike path to be built along any new roads, an excellent idea.

Before going to the ball park to watch the Red Sox, I promised to take a bike ride on these paths at least every other day. If you are going to drag along a bike for 5,000 miles, in and out of motels and hotels, you might as well use it.

Gradually, the length of the morning trips increased from five miles to eight miles, 10 miles to 15, and finally 20 miles a day. Some days, I wasn’t even sore.

As the mileage piled up, I fantasized that I was ready for some serious competition. Then, Lance Armstrong decided to quit the Tour de France, in order to spend more time with his new honey, Sheryl Crow, an idea with which few would find fault.

Then I came home.

Of course, April is hardly biking weather in Maine, unless you are a card-carrying Eskimo. I confined my bicycling activities to the machine found at the warm indoors at the Camden YMCA, a very level course with few hills.

Finally, the weather broke.

On Tuesday, I finally took the Trek out of the barn for the first Maine bike trip of the year. The weather was perfect. I was not.

The plan was to complete the 16-mile loop from Camden to Lincolnville Center, then back again. In the first half mile, a decent hill up Cobb Road, the body started falling apart. First the wind went. Then the legs started hurting a little.

What was this? What about the 200 miles I rolled up in Florida? Had I fallen apart that fast? What happened?

Then I remembered the peculiar fact about Florida: The highest point in the entire state is an overpass over Interstate 85. There are more hills on Cobb Road than the entire Sunshine State.

By the time I got to the top of the first hill, I was winded. I didn’t stop, but I was breathing hard, very hard. I refused to stop and kept going for all I was worth, all the way to Washington Street, by Lake Megunticook, by the Lincolnville line.

All of three miles.

I tried to concentrate on the music coming from the Walkman headset, tried to keep in rhythm with the music. It was no use. At the three-mile mark, a decision must be made. It is mostly downhill after that and the trip to Lincolnville is comparatively easy. But it would mean a 16-mile, one-hour- and-20-minute trip.

I thought about Lance. I thought about the Tour de France. I thought about Sheryl Crow. I turned around.

Even that was taxing. The hill up Cobb Road was as steep as it ever was.

Puff, puff.

When I finally reached Cobb Manor and the safety of the barn, I erased all pretensions of the Tour de France.

Tour de Florida, maybe.

No hills.

Send complaints and compliments to Emmet Meara at emmetmeara@msn.com.