There is a magnificent absurdity about his mission: a man in his late thirties getting on his bike for the first time since adolescence to have a crack at the most extreme experience sport has to offer.It is tempting to view the book as Bill Bryson on two wheels. But though Moore is a worthy competitor in the comedy stakes, with a one-liner every other line, this is a different project – not so much witty travelogue as self-examination in a joke-heavy trial by fire.For a start, Moore appears not to like the French that much – or, indeed, the Italians, Swiss or Germans – and most of his exchanges with the locals are fuelled by mutual hostility. He's writing a book about them, though, so revenge is his every time. He recounts his humiliation at the hands of one "tormentress" hotelier: "By looking less like a shovel-faced Def Leppard groupie, I had the last laugh."The book is filled with the likes of "skunk-mouthed French OAPs" or young Swiss men "proudly displaying the tight jeans, rolled-up jacket sleeves... and threadbare moustache of the prize arse".Moore is not much interested in France, except as a beautiful backdrop.

He is, though, able to take more notice of the scenery than the pros, who mostly stare at the wheels of the bike in front, and there are fine passages of pithy description. In Alsace, he rides through "Reiningue where there was a cow loose in the maize fields; Bernwiller where I was respectfully applauded by an exiting congregation; Balschwiller where a crow pecked horribly at two roadkilled fox cubs".He attempts to recreate the whole experience lived by the professionals. That means, among other things, having his legs depilated: he discovers, mid-waxing, that it's done to cut down on infection from all the grazes and gashes. He also attempts on-bike micturation (with limited success, due to the "fearsome elastic tension" of his shorts material), and even indulges in a spot of drug-taking.This is not quite what it seems. Some hay-fever remedies contain ephedrine, which clears the tubes. Although Moore has to counter the resultant drowsiness with Pro-Plus, at least he's not resorting to the Tour's trademark pick-me-ups: EPO, steroids, or the celebrated Belgian mix (heroin and cocaine – oh, and amphetamine, caffeine and corticosteroids).He also cheats with the course, cutting loops with impunity. As his potted history of wrongdoing on the Tour suggests, he is simply continuing a rich tradition.

Glass and tacks on the road, sabotaged bikes, illicit train journeys, riders towed behind cars, Heath Robinson devices for fiddling urine tests – the catalogue of transgressions is long and brilliantly inventive.Ultimately, the book asks only one question. Not what is France like to cycle through, or what are the French like to cycle among, but: can Moore achieve his objective? As part of his preparations, he watches a video which observes that "the racer in the Tour has his place somewhere between the animals and the gods," with Moore "rather closer to the animals than the gods, and indeed within that former category rather closer to the invertebrates than the mammals."By the end, although he concludes that "my endeavour had not been a turning point in my life, just a memorable detour," he has none the less wrought a kind of transformation In cycling terms, at least, he has discovered his backbone.. Twenty-odd years ago, the American Richard Evanson made his fortune from cable TV, and cashed in his chips. Today's equivalent would have been making dot millions and getting out before the bust. He then, almost by accident, bought an island in the beautiful Fijian Yasawa group and turned it into a resort. A very small (just 14 rooms) and very expensive (a straightforward £1,000 a night) resort.

The 14 rooms ties up very neatly with Turtle Island's sum total of beaches – 14. Which means you don't have to share your stretch of sand with anyone – apart from the person who's sharing your room There are also about 15 staff for every guest But there is one catch There's a minimum stay of seven nights So count on £7,000 as the starting price for your stay. Twenty-odd years ago, the American Richard Evanson made his fortune from cable TV, and cashed in his chips. Today's equivalent would have been making dot millions and getting out before the bust.

He then, almost by accident, bought an island in the beautiful Fijian Yasawa group and turned it into a resort. A very small (just 14 rooms) and very expensive (a straightforward £1,000 a night) resort. The 14 rooms ties up very neatly with Turtle Island's sum total of beaches – 14. Which means you don't have to share your stretch of sand with anyone – apart from the person who's sharing your room There are also about 15 staff for every guest But there is one catch There's a minimum stay of seven nights. So count on £7,000 as the starting price for your stay. Turtle Island is not, as you might have guessed, a backpacker resort, but I was not there as a pampered guest. Last month I travelled to the island because Richard Evanson was getting into the backpacker business.Backpackers are like the poor They've always been with us.