I suppose it had to happen sooner or later.
For years, it's been a sort of proud boast that I could not ride a bike. Along with not being able to swim or drive a car, it was one failing that was so unusual as to be something of an achievement. I kind of enjoyed the shocked reaction when I mentioned the fact to friends.
So I didn't really want to change. Admittedly a few years ago I took lots of driving lessons but never actually got anywhere. The fact that my instructor was an idiot did not help.
However, when my wife bought a bike it occurred to me that maybe it was time to change. It did seem a healthy and environmentally sound way to travel. And I could do with the exercise.
But the longer you go without learning, the harder it gets. It's not just that my ancient bones and muscles take longer and are more susceptible to injury. It's also that I feel foolish practising in the street alongside little children.
So I did nothing about it. I did see a website which offered cycle training. But it was expensive - about £70 an hour. Given that I was not sure I could actually manage it, I decided to pass.
Yes, I know cycling is easy. You just get on a bike and magically you get the hang of it. This never worked for me.
When I was about 7 or so, I got a bike. It had training wheels on the side, which I immediately demanded be removed. Then when I got on the bike, it fell over. And I fell with it. At this point I figured I wasn't interested in bikes.
I was never much of an out and about kind of kid. I prepared reading or playing by myself in the back garden. I didn't really miss bikes. My friends cycled to school but since the school was just around the corner I didn't miss anything.
One friend did try to teach me when I was about 16. In the school yard, he let me get up on his racing bike and held the back of it while I started.
"I won't let go," he promised.
I pushed my foot down on the pedal. The bike move slightly to that side, but I didn't care because he was holding on. It moved forward.
Then he let go.
I realised at once that disaster beckoned. I was going to fall off, because nobody was holding on. I fell off.
That was the end of cycling for me. He offered to let me have another go but I didn't trust him after that. I didn't trust anyone after that.
It wasn't that I didn't trust the physics involved. Clearly, it worked - I could see the evidence everywhere. It was just that I never felt it was going to work for me. It was that idea of pressing down on one side of the bike. How could that not make it fall over?
Then I noticed something on a website - many local councils now offer subsidised cycle training. A quick search revealed that my council had lessons for just five pounds. How could I turn that down?
I was told to get in touch with the provider, Cycle Training UK. So, just a week later, I found myself in my local park with a woman in shorts.
She was older than me, and looked dangerously healthy, the sort of serious cyclist with every right to be contemptuous of my non-bike status. But she turned out to be an excellent teacher - patient, resourceful and supportive.
We began with me trying to start off - just the point I failed last time, thirty years ago. But she knew what she was doing. She stood in front of the bike (it was hers, and I paid a small amount to rent it) and held the handlebars firmly. There was no danger of me falling off.
I pressed down on the pedal. The bike moved forward, and slightly to one side, but when I pressed down on the other one it steadied. Yes, I know that's what it's supposed to do but I never actually believed it.
We moved forward slightly, with Vicky still holding on, and I tried again. Over and over, until I was convinced that this was going to work. Then we moved slightly further each time.
Then she moved to behind the bike.
"You're going to tell me that you'll hold on to the back, aren't you?" I asked suspiciously.
"No," she said. I'll jog along behind you however far you go. I'll have my hands on each side ready to grab hold if you have a problem. Don't worry."
I tried. She did exactly what she said she would. I managed to go quite a while before I fell off.
"I think I should have taught you about stopping first," she said.
So we spent ages showing me how to stop.
And then I tried again. Sure that I could stop if I needed, I surged forward. I didn't fall off this time, with Vicky jogging along beside me at increasing speed.
I'm actually not an easy person to teach. Pretty much everything I've ever learnt has been self-taught. But Vicky was a good teacher because she just helped me teach myself.
She was surprised at my quirks. Bumps in the road didn't bother me, but turning corners did. Going uphill was fine because I was in control - I was moving because I was pedalling, and when I stopped pedalling I slowed down. Going downhill was different because the bike was moving because of gravity, not me.
"Most people prefer going downhill," she said.
After nearly an hour and a half we stopped to take stock. I had a good basic understanding of what I was supposed to do. I was still having problems with stopping, but I was getting there. I couldn't change gears and I wasn't great at turning.
I was a little disappointed to discover that I still had some way to go - not so much things I needed to learn, as the experience that would allow me to get used to how the bike moved (I was still wobbling all over the place at times, and panic still got the better of me from time to time). I would benefit from more lessons and practice.
She took her bike back and we said goodbye. I walked back home from the park with a great sense of achievement. It didn't matter about the need for practice. The thing was, I could do it. It didn't matter that I was not a great cyclist. I had got the hang of it.
I was a cyclist.