3. IT RAINS

Summer in Scotland is never predictable. It’s warm but in the last week, it’s been raining heavily for days. So there’s been no real chance to get on the bike, and it’s still languishing under the pear tree.

We had one glorious moment of sunshine earlier this week, and the girls and I rushed round to Newhailes House for a picnic in the grounds. By accident, I found a secluded place for me to learn.

“Where” has been worrying me. There aren’t many places nearby for me to learn in privacy, but Newhailes seems perfect. There’s a flat, grassy bit, where I can learn to tilt. There’s also a hard path with a gentle slope. I’m not sure I like the sound of that, but apparently it’s essential.

Most importantly, not many people go there during the week.

I’ve not been idle though, I’ve been doing research on the internet. Cycling tuition is almost always aimed at children, the only adult courses I can find are in London. And I found these encouraging words (I think).

A significant minority of the British population have yet to discover how to balance a two-wheeler.

According to the National Forum for Coronary Heart Disease Prevention, in 1990, 10% of adult men and 33% of adult women didn’t know how to do it.

The other good news is that there are only three steps to becoming a cyclist.

1. Learn to brake.

2. Learn to bail.

3. Learn to balance.

Hmm, how hard can THAT be!

2. Does sitting on an exercise bike count?

I’m pretty sure I’ve got the hang of the pedalling action. Up and down, push and pull. And I can keep it going for ages … oh, for 15 minutes. Sometimes I push it to 16 or 18, if I’m feeling a bit athletic. And only if there’s nobody lurking obviously, pacing the floor behind me, casually toying with the weights, waiting to pump out their own Alpe d’Huez. I once did 30 minutes, I was the only one there. I think it was just after New Year and nobody else had surfaced yet. It was mind numbing.

In fact, the noticeboard says 15 minutes maximum on each piece of equipment. And I stick to the rules, adhere to the etiquette, at the morning gym session. Normally a gathering place for retired people. Not me, of course. I’m young, and wear black.

The bike with the broken pedal strap is a bit awkward, and everybody avoids it. I try not to watch the TV as I pedal. It’s Jeremy whatshisname, giving the dregs of humanity their fifteen minutes of fame. Well, that’s my 15 minutes, and they’re not invading it. Anyway, my attention is mostly on the clock.

So I have prepared myself – a bit – for the physical challenge of cycling. I’ve felt the burn, the heart pounding. I do the bike thing because, in the back of my mind, I know I’ll have to learn to ride and I know it will be sore. Like on the road to our house. It’s not steep actually, but it’s a bit uphill and thigh power will definitely be required.

Actually, another confession. I haven’t been to the gym for two weeks!

1. Do Something You Think You Can’t Do

Action 32. From an inspiring little book called Change the World for Fiver, published by We Are What We Do, a new movement inspiring people to use their everyday actions to change the world.

So here I am, taking action. Nicky, forty-four, mother of three. And that, up at the top of the page, is my bike.

Abandoned under a tree at the bottom of our garden, it’s not had much use. It’s a bit of clunker. Or so my husband Tom tells me. I’ve never ridden it. I’m not a cyclist. I can’t do it.

There is a good reason, I never learned. My mum didn’t want us to have bikes. Her brother fell off his bicycle when he was a teenager and spent the war in a plaster cast. So that was it, my sister and I made do with a tricycle and a scooter. I remember they were good fun, our garden had a slope which ended in rose bushes … and sticking plasters. We didn’t graduate onto two wheels, however.

Oddly, my dad was a bike racer. Not “pushbikes” (his word, not mine) but beloved motorbikes. Norton Commandos. He built and raced them, latterly he sold them. Of course, we weren’t allowed motorbikes either, although I did get a biker jacket at 15, all black leather and zips. It was definitely Meat Loaf and Rainbow-influenced.

And then, as an adult, I lived in a city centre, third-floor flat, happily using public transport until I got company car. Cycling was just never an issue.

Now I’m surrounded by cycling. Tom is a roadie. He has two road bikes and a mountain bike. He cycles to work, he’s a road club member and is currently training for a sportif in south-west Scotland. 170km, 2000m of climbing.

And there’s the girls. Fully-kitted, fully-biked up. Perfect balance and they can go the distance, albeit in girly, bickering kind of way. The talk is of biking holidays in Holland or Belgium and idyllic summer cycles down the old railway lines of Scotland.

Except they’re held back by mum. I need to learn.

I sent an email to Tom at work today. The post script read, “Please can you teach me to cycle.” He answered a few minutes later. YES. In capital letters.

This is the diary of my journey to cheap, healthy and liberating transport.

When the photo changes to a shiny new bike, you’ll know that I’ve done it. I will recycle the clunker and get a smooth-riding super-bike. If only I can stay upright!