Is it just ME?

Or is taking up cycling at 60 simply plain daft?

MY SON has advised me that my recent purchase of a bike was nothing short of an act of war against the NHS, since I hadn’t actually ridden one in more than two decades.

Have they not got enough to do, without you turning up with a broken leg, he asked? Then he began ticking off the number of times I’ve tripped and hurt myself over the past few years.

I won’t fall, I told him indignantly. I’m going to get fit, even if I do pedal so slowly that old(er) ladies with walking sticks pass me on the road. Anyway, I have a helmet and I will go out only at dusk or dawn, like the bats and burglars, when no one else is out, I said.

Of course, I lied. I have already fallen off the darn thing doing nothing more dangerous than attempting to put my foot on the kerb.

I was even stationary at the time. I had stopped to check Facebook on my phone, as you do, and splat.

A young girl asked (from a safe distance) if I needed help or an ambulance. No, I declared hotly. Sweatily, truth be told.

Then I tried to stand up and . . . nothing happened. After only ten minutes of pedalling, my legs were so weak they wouldn’t work.

Eventually my brain convinced them to do so, but not before my dignity had drained away down the gutter I was lying in. I admit, this sudden-onset cycling still has me tottering about like a newborn colt whenever I dismount. And every bit of me hurts afterwards, which makes sitting down difficult.

What is the deal with bicycle saddles? Do they have to be shaped like alpine ridges? I may have a well upholstered bottom, but it’s like wearing a metal G-string.

And let’s not even start on the handlebars. After gripping on for dear life for my last five-minute expedition to Waitrose, my palms hurt as though I’d crawled up the north face of Everest. Possibly — although I won’t tell him of course — my son had a point. Paragliding might be safer.

Buying myself a bike, my son says, is an act of war against the NHS