I was walking through town one evening recently when a sprightly young man with rosy cheeks and a luminous orange helmet whizzed by on his bicycle as I waited to cross the road. "Mmm, I must buy a bike soon," I said to my pal, so impressed was I by this display of youthful, wholesome vigour. "The exercise and fresh air would do me a power of good," I said. "You did buy a bike, about 18 months ago," she pointed out, rolling her eyes to heaven. "Did I?"

I wasn't convinced so when I got home later that evening I set off in my crampons for the shed, informing mountain rescue of my trip before I departed. And there it was, behind the three broken down Hoovers, four Gutbusters (well, I'd forgotten I'd bought the first three), one swingball, two deceased lawnmowers and one Subbuteo set, complete with Arsenal team minus heads . . . they asked for it after the 1979 FA Cup final (you should see the state of Alan Sunderland, not even superglue will help that lad stand up straight again). It's shiny purple (what was I thinking of?) and has 10 gears, nine more than I need, but it's hard to buy a one-gear bike these days. I think it's something to do with the Celtic Tiger. It has handlebars, two wheels, a saddle and a pump, so the salesman knew he wasn't dealing with a mug.

It has also, evidently, been home to most of west Dublin's spider population these past 18 months, so many weaved webby homes did it host. I evicted them all, dusted it down, oiled the semi-rusted chain, took it out into the garden and introduced myself. Then I put it back and returned indoors in time to eat my home-made, heavily-buttered popcorn.

But I had to take it out again last week. Well, that's the problem with summer, there's this awful pressure on us slobs to . . . choke . . . exercise. Do you find that? A sniff of sun and you're morally obliged to hit your nearest golf course/tennis court/mountain/football pitch, etc. Power-walking is still big out my way, especially with middle-aged men and women who mostly look like they could do with a good meal and psychiatric treatment, and its popularity has soared disturbingly since the sun came out. And I tell you something - I hate power-walkers with a passion. They must be the nastiest, most vicious breed of people ever put on this earth.

Have you ever been sauntering along a path of an evening, minding your own business, chewing the fourth of four Star bars you just bought in the shop, when you've spotted a power-walker coming straight at you? Yeah, me too. Arms flailing, blood-curdling look in their eyes? Uh oh, windmill alert. I've learnt now to assume the foetal position as they pass because I've discovered it reduces the number of injuries you sustain from their thrashing limbs by about 40 per cent. But it still hurts and you end up with the last bite of your Star bar lodged in your left ear. Hate them. They may be skinny, but they don't look happy to me.

Back to the bike. I took it out on its maiden voyage last week and I'm still walking funny. A bit like John Wayne in . . . well, one of those cowboy films. I haven't sat down since, which was especially embarrassing when I was at the cinema the other afternoon, where my seat was in the fifth row from the front. How do you explain to 450 six-year-olds that the reason they can't see Woody in Toy Story 2 is because you've just discovered you bought a bike 18 months ago and you're trying to make up for lost time? My mistake was that I took on Alpe d'Huez, as I call the hillock near my home, on my first stage.

Granted, I stopped to admire the scenery on several occasions during the eight-minute round trip (aren't roundabouts gorgeous?) but about 335 years after an apple fell on his head I think I finally copped on to what Isaac Newton was waffling about. What goes up must come down.

I may have free-wheeled my way to the shop, waving at motorists stuck in the car-park that is my local motorway along the way, but on the way back they were making triumphant, vengeful and somewhat rude gestures out their car windows as I made two wheel-turns forward, and seven back. There's only so many times you can free-wheel in reverse down a jammed motorway before you conclude that cycling isn't for you. It might hurt, but the truth is that some of us will never have "Sweetie" waiting for us at the bottom of the Champs Elysees.

So, I gave the bike back to the spiders and dusted down the Gutbusters, but accidentally damaged them beyond repair with a sledgehammer. So, I put them back and dusted down all 12 bits of Alan Sunderland.

I'll spend the summer trying to put him together again in the back garden (that's a sporting activity of sorts, isn't it?) and then, when the sun goes in, I'll go back to the telly, my buttered popcorn and Star bars. Me and Alan may never powerwalk, nor sneak poxy winners past Gary Bailey, but at least neither of us will need a hernia operation come summer's end. (P.S. For Sale: One 10-gear purple bike, hardly used at all at all).