It’s there the first time that you’re let go by your Dad or your Mum and you’re on your own, wobbling, balancing but riding.

It’s there the thousandth time, the ten-thousandth time, you hop on your bike and glide.

It’s the sense of mastery, of mind over matter, balance over gravity. The minute unconscious shifts of the body that keep you upright on just two square inches of rubber.

It’s the freedom to cycle slowly and watch the world unfold or to go fast, faster than you can ever run.

It’s the freedom to push yourself up a leg-burning, heart-pounding hill knowing that every pedal stroke is worth it when you glide, swoop and speed down the other side.

It’s the freedom to speed through puddles, legs in the air. On a bike you have as much permission to do this at 40 as you did at 14.

It’s the freedom of the elements. In the sun and the wind and the rain, in the heat and the cold, it matters not. You’re outdoors, you’re riding, and that’s what counts.

It’s bombing a rocky descent or slip-streaming another rider, your front wheel just inches from their rear, imagining you’re on the Tour de France.

It’s actually being on the Tour de France or the Karapoti Challenge or any one of the thousands of professional, semi-professional or amateur races around the world where the love of cycling is the only language required.

Because that’s the thing about cycling. Anyone can do it. For all the advances in technology - and there are many - a bike is still a bike. It’s two wheels, a frame, a seat and pedals.

It’s relaxation. It’s exhilaration. It’s fun. And it’s freedom.