During the summer – if that’s what it was – John and I were on our usual Sunday ride when a fellow lycra lout caught up with us. He cycled alongside for a while, chatting. Mostly to John, as I need to preserve oxygen. I don’t have enough for the cycling, never mind the talking.

I don’t know how he does it, but John as an ex-racer knew this guy would streak away. It’s cycling machismo. When they go it’s usually at the start of a hill, and sure enough, just like Lance tearing away from the peloton going up Alpe d’Huez (here and here), at the first rise this guy was out of his saddle and going at it fit to bust. But John was ready for him and tore after him – ferrets and rabbit holes comes to mind – getting right on his wheel. The pair of them were off, leaving me floundering.

I’ve said before, John is 72 next May. Looking over his shoulder our new friend started to get a bit worried. This wasn’t supposed to happen. This old guy was racing him and looking more than useful into the bargain.

They disappeared over the hill as I continued in my pedestrian way, breathing hard but keeping the pedals turning.

Over the top of the hill there was no sign of John or the other guy. I plodded on to the usual cross roads where we turn right and found John sat on his bike waiting for me, completely unruffled. We carried on with our ride at my pace.

I shouldn’t really have asked, but I couldn’t help it.

‘So how did it go?’ says I.

‘Oh, him,’ says John. ‘I knew he was going to jump us, so when he went for it I was ready.

‘He wasn’t as good as he thought he was. I let him go in the end.’

And with that put down, we carried on with our ride. It was only afterwards that it occurred to me that, if you have any sensitivity at all, you could get your feelings hurt in this cycling business. Then again, if I was a sensitive soul I wouldn’t be in this one…