I learnt to ride on a hand-me-down Raleigh Grifter in Dawlish. Looking at Wikipedia I think it must have been a MK1, and I inherited it from Jim, my youngest older brother. My eldest older brother, JR, had a racing bike, red and white as I recall, hung from the wall in the garage. Its skinny tyres and weird handlebars made it seem like a scary machine, only for accomplished riders, and I never climbed astride the saddle.

I don’t remember much about the Grifter, except that it had three gears and was a rusty red colour, and that there was an incident, coming down a grassy field near where I grew up, at quite some speed; such speed that I lost my nerve and slammed both brakes on at once, when I really should have squeezed the rear one first and then gently put some pressure on the front brake. Needless to say, I went over the handlebars, sans helmet (it was the 80s and we cared little for personal safety back then). Fearing that I was done for, my mate Jonnie ran for his mum, who was a nurse; luckily I was fine, aside from cuts and bruises. (This is a trend that will continue; but more of that later.)

There was a particular circuit I used to like to ride near my house; up the lane at the back of the estate, to the road at the top where I’d cross and head into the forest; from there you’d take a dirt path to the edge of a farmer’s field, which you’d follow for what felt like ages but was probably less than quarter of a mile. Back into the forest, along another trail, over the road again, and onto the trail that ran along the top of the field where I’d lost my nerve; hammer along that trail, dodging rocks and bouncing over partially erupted tree roots. It was amazing.

I didn’t really ride during my teens; the town where I grew up is a valley, and we lived at the top of one side of it. I never fancied forcing my way up the hill homewards on a bicycle, especially one with only three gears. Halfway through university though I decided a bike would be a good way to traverse the anonymous midlands town I was trapped in, and I spent £150 of my student loan on a red mountain bike with full suspension, which helped me explore the nature reserve that bordered our main campus, and meant I didn’t have to rely on the buses to get me from one campus to another and then back to our student house. I don’t think I ever wore a helmet, even though I cycled along main roads. It seems insane to me now.

When I got back from university I only made one significant bike ride; from Dawlish to Exeter one sunny Saturday, in order to impress a girl I’d met who worked in a record shop. I had no idea how to get from one point to the other – just a vague sense that there was a cyclepath alongside most of the river – but I managed it, and it obviously impressed the girl some, because 13 years later we’re married, and there are three bicycles in our house.

Those bicycles took some time to amass, though; I didn’t push a pedal for the best part of a decade, until we got married in 2010, and decided shortly afterwards that we should get bikes via the Cycle To Work scheme (when, I’m afraid Rob, I was 31 rather than 35). That’s when the bug really got hold of me; I’d bought a decent enough flat-bar hybrid for commuting, but soon enough I was taking it out at evenings and on weekends, hammering the estuary trails and eventually going further afield. For while I always rode with one pannier, just in case, even if I was only doing 10 or 15 miles. I’d carry a lock, a pump, tools, a camera, a jacket, and heaven only knows what else. It seems insane to me now.

Within a year I’d ordered a new bike; with skinny-ish tyres and weird handlebars now, almost like my eldest older brother used to have, but not quite; an aluminum cross bike that you could bolt a rack to if you wanted, race through mud or commute really quickly or take on tour if you so wished. I took it over Dartmoor again and again and again, put skinnier tyres on, made it as aggressive as possible, and rode it into the ground until it could take no more (I’m not much – no, I’m not any – of a mechanic). Bitten, and bitten hard, I bought another bike, a proper racing bike this time, and dressed up like a magic marker with lycra shorts and woolen jerseys and cycle-specific socks and pedals that clip to your shoes. When I go out now I take a tiny pump that fits in a pocket on the back of my jersey, and two bottles of lemon squash, and a tiny multitool, and an innertube, and some flapjack, and I ride for 50 miles or more and never need a pannier.

I’d ridden only a few hundred miles before 2010, if that; laps around Dawlish as a kid, and traversing Northampton as a student. Since then I’ve ridden thousands more, and 99% of them have been in Devon. Occasionally I ponder taking a cycling holiday or going touring properly, but when you live somewhere as wonderful to cycle as here is, it seems like a waste of petrol and time to get there; my bike rides start, almost without exception, at my front door, and that’s usually where they end, too.