Parenting was attractive for many reasons, foremost of which was the mainstay of any healthy young male; that is to have as much sex as possible while doing your bit to dynastically supply the planet for future generations.

It’s only when the product of all that count the legs and divide by two action pops out of a business end does the act of copulation suddenly seem slightly premature. Like an uberbitch Wednesday come down after a weekend of booze and drugs; reality bites you in the arse and something immeasurably precious and completely demanding is shoved into your arms.

I don’t ever remember cycling with my Dad. He was always too busy, too tired, too preoccupied with his own life to offer up time to watch his offspring learning how to jump skinny racers in disused quarries. And while “ I hope – my parental obligations have been taken rather more seriously, I’ve failed to invest time in teaching the kids anything other than the rudiments of cycling.

There are good reasons. Firstly, you don’t want to be all competitive dad because I’d rather suffer serial parenting apathy over vicarious screaming from the touchline. It’s unlikely our kids are ever going to be first at anything, for which I’m curiously grateful as the human race is nasty enough without trying to win by pushing.

Secondly, trying to make kids do things they don’t want is a constant challenge “ there’s some bollocks talked about them testing the boundaries. No, they are just criminally lazy and viewing the world from the opposite end to their parents. When asked to go and tidy your bedroom mostly the reply will be why? and that’s a fair question.

So a deal was struck; into the parallel orbit of playing in the park and family riding came Black Park, a place of easy woodland trails and home made ice cream you’d happily sell a child for. Especially a whingy one. And because the Sustrans is boring (Yes it is) we headed out instead for tracks with a personality – a ribbon of hard packed dirt peopled with baby roots and framed by head high vegetation.

My attempts at teaching (if teaching is a word that can be applied to fetching them, bleeding, out of the shrubbery) was mainly of the instructive come on, pedal, pedal, DON’T LOOK AT THE TREE [child bounces off trunk] You looked at the tree didn’t you? and the motivational Right, stop bleeding, get back on and there’s an ice cream in it for you

They did great as did Carol whose increased confidence was nothing to do with me and everything to do with her having a crack at stuff she finds a bit scary. The summary seemed to be that off road riding is hard, falling off can be painful and braking suddenly is generally followed by fetching ones’ bruised nose off the floor. Amazing, it took me YEARS to learn that.

Mark Twain had it right when he said My father knew nothing when I was 18, now I am 21, its amazing how much the old bugger has learned. In that vein, my mum cut through all the modern self help parenting bullshit with Love them, Limit them and Leave them.

She was probably right.

… and I’m bad. Bad tempered because I packed a chest infection to go to Scotland. It accompanied me on three rides weighing me down and holding me back up the hills. Bad riding meant this didn’t matter much because it took me almost as long to go back down again, and this time I had no medical complaint to blame. If I may paraphase Swiss Tony “Corners are like a beautiful woman, fantastic when pumped and taken at speed but not quite so much fun if molested by a shuddering panic and sworn at”

I was bad at hangovers but good at drinking including a first night lager train crash that rendered me almost blind come the morning. And considering what happened late in the bar, this was clearly an act of kindness. I’ll say no more than nurses uniform, hairy bloke, drunken mates and phone camera. It was beyond ugly and still travelling when passing obscene, ungodly and probably illegal.

Here a few photos of men on bikes. Evidence of the previous paragraph was forever consigned to the great digital dustbin in the sky once I’d eaten the phone. It seemed the right thing to do.

Next week, I’ll be 40. Although friends have advised me not to start any long books and to put my affairs in order on hearing a hacking cough which is a close medical twin to tuberculous. If my peak flow doesn’t creep over 450 again soon, I’m going to buy a bungalow because stairs are just too bloody challenging.

It was fun actually. Not the cough but everything else. But then bikes, beer, sun, stupidity and great friends usually is. Until the incident with the dress and the concept that having sex with three or more vegetables should be properly called a “medley”. Or that the best way to treat a weeping wound is to “Stella-rise” it.

You probably had to be there.

Remember the old adage that dog owners begin to resemble their pets ? (I assume it is dogs, as it’d be hard to imagine even the most facially adept animal lover morphing into a double take of “ say “ a goldfish). Whatever, the very same process has transpired between me and my tyres.

First thing this morning, first commute for two weeks, the ˜rat front was partially flat and a strange shining orb was lurking in the sky, looming like an alien craft. Putting two and two together and coming up with a conspiracy theory, it seemed obvious that green eyed monsters had both taken over the free world and still had time to let my tyre down.

After some brief yet grunty action with the plastic pump of piss poorness, I’d punched 120 PSI into the soft tube on the dozy assumption that this’d provide sufficient inflation for both out and back trips. Obviously what I’d forgotten was with this much pressure, the tyre bounced and jumped over all but the flattest tarmac and my teeth will now require much expensive dental work due to unplanned yet frenzied mashing.

Flat legs mimicked the tyres as three hours MTB’ing in the Flanders of South East England had sucked the gas from these vital cycling appendages and the will to live from the rest of me. Actually, my expectations were so low, that any ride not ending in hospital or custody could be deemed broadly positive.

Because jumping on a bike before going on an extended MTB jaunt has recently led to broken bits of Al being littered over uncaring trails. Since we’re off to Scotland on Wednesday for five days of riding and five nights of drinking, this seemed a disturbing portent.

Anyway, I survived through the power of extreme mincing and rapid fire excuses while making real life contact with two people who’d been unluckily washed up on the Hedgehog. It’s like Second Life in here without the celebrity endorsements.

Here’s a picture of Duncan riding a trail that I came to think of as where the f*ck is it? Still at least this meant it couldn’t be as muddy as other 19.5 miles of which mostly all was mud flingingly gloopy and yet strangely fun.

Finding the London bike was a bit of a challenge since a) I’m nearly officially old and have rapidly reducing memory and prostrate function, b) I parked abandoned it while pissed and c) the thicket of bikes made it an almost Stanley like plunge into its’ grimy heart to finally dig it out.

At which point I realised both tyres were on the soft side of usuable. My mobile pumping Viagra is a difficult hybrid of gas powered and manual inflation. It’s fairly rubbish at both but, if pushed, I’d have to plump for it being particularly useless in the wanking elbow scenario. Good job I’ve put all that time in on the Wii.

My final ode to flatness was a bendi-killer-bus doing his best to achieve the unwritten target of two dead cyclists a day. One second of inattention triggered a further three seconds of abject terror as 18 metres of Al-crushing tonnage threatened to grind me flat against the curb.

I know one thing that isn’t going to be flat later tonight “ it starts with B and ends in my belly.