I’m wondering if this cycling caper is all it’s cracked up to be. I mean, it’s supposed to be fun and enjoyment, to keep fit … right? So why then does it hurt so much?

Some years ago, when we were really into this fitness lark, a group of us were riding down near Hastings Point, or Casuarina, to be more precise, and this intrepid though inexperienced warrior was leading the way.

We came to a little bridge with rails on both sides, and I, being the mother-hen that I am, decided to look back to check on my chickens – just as I encountered the bridge.

Well, I’m not that steady on my bike even looking forward, but looking back proved disastrous.

I got too close to the edge, the handlebar hooked into one of the uprights and next thing I knew I’d been catapulted into the top bar – ribs-first.

To say it was painful is an understatement.

I could hardly breathe.

But it looked funny.

And when I picked myself off the rails I could see people trying to compose their expressions to hide their smiles, cupped hands over mouths to muffle their laughter.

I mean, how can you ride into a BRIDGE? It’s not as if you can’t SEE it.

A bit like that lady in the RACQ ad whose husband drove his boat into a charter boat. She quite rightly asks: How can you NOT see a charter boat? And then wanders around, arms extended and with a shirt over her face, muttering, ‘Charter boat? What charter boat?’

Except in my case it’s: ‘Bridge? What bridge?’

Anyhow, I continued the ride nursing bruised calves, a bruised arm and what felt like cracked ribs. For weeks afterwards I found it hard to cough or even laugh, but I received scant sympathy from anyone I told the story to. Their reaction was just that: How can you NOT see a bridge?

I thought I’d put all that behind me until some months ago when we were cycling into a headwind down at Kirra and my husband, very heroically, offered to take the lead.

Now, as any cyclist knows, to take advantage of the slipstream you have to keep close, so I was doing just that. But then, as happens to me, I began to lose concentration, and found myself looking at the birds, the trees, the houses, the ocean … and oops! I was right on his rear wheel.

Afraid I would take him down with me, I braked sharply, got up a fierce wobble – and crashed to the concrete, face- and knee-first.

The young couple following on behind us showed due concern, but rode off giggling – at some private joke, I presume.

For weeks after that episode, I hobbled around, while my wrenched back, grazed knee and palms healed.

And after that episode, I really thought I’d learned my lesson.

Until yesterday.

This time we were riding at Currumbin and again I got too close to the bike in front of me. Luckily this time it was a sand and grass track, so the fall was softer, but I’m still hobbling, and all I can say is: Thank goodness I was wearing my jeans with the hole in the knee from the last time I fell, otherwise I would have two pairs of holy jeans.

And cycling’s for the birds!