Do you ever get the feeling you might be overdoing your hobby?

It’s one thing staying fit and healthy, and getting out for rides every now and then. But when riding gets in the way of kids’ bath-times, house-cleaning duties, turns cooking and doing the gardening, you start to get it in the neck.

The other day before work I was spotted furtively wheeling my full-suspension mountain bike out of the shed. It was the ridiculously loud tick-tick noise of the freewheel mechanism that gave the game away. Tick-tick-tick-tick-tick. I pushed my bike gingerly towards the side gate to the accompaniment of a small machine gun ensemble, scanning the rear windows of the house for …“Where you are going with that”? asked a voice from inside the kitchen.

“Er, I thought I might pop out at lunchtime for a little ride down to Stonesfield Woods …”

Being self-employed, I had worked out that the best guilt-free riding would be in my own time rather than at times when domestic slavery is required.

No more “I had a puncture.” “Another one?”

No more “But I got lost and ended up near Chipping Norton.” “What, again?”

Not even “I’m just taking the dog out” cuts it any more, returning half an hour later covered with sweat and bramble scratches, and letting the dog skedaddle over the nice, clean kitchen floor.

They say with substance-addicts that recognising that you have a problem is the beginning of the road to recovery. Perhaps that day – flinching as I trotted out my reason for taking the full-susser to travel scarcely a mile to my office in downtown Charlbury – I realised that maybe – just maybe – I was spending too much time in the saddle.

I just can’t help myself. I blame the weather. If it’s warm and the sky is blue, I yearn to be out on a dusty trail, whizzing along a twisty single track or bombing down a rocky trail.

And if I’m not riding, I’m scrutinising Strava on my phone, seeing if I’d managed to get the “King of the Mountain” badge coming down Chad track or a “Personal Best” on the short bridleway climb up to Ditchley Woods.

I’d deleted Facebook from my phone in a fit of self-righteousness and determination to win back my life from relentless digital encroachment. But have I simply replaced my acquaintances’ Facebook narcissism with my own Strava obsession?

Strava is an app that allows you to record routes and timings. You can compare your timings with people you know – and people you don’t know – and see what new routes others are riding. It’s becoming ubiquitous: there are more than 1,000 riders along the more popular roads leading out of Oxford.

Mostly around Charlbury, I have conquered my friends on the climbs and downhills that matter to me. But there is one guy, Ben Smith is his name, who I have come to regard as something of a nemesis. This guy is consistently 20 per cent quicker than every other rider on every single Strava route I ride. I swear on some of the off-road climbs he has to be using a motorbike to get those speeds.

Strava’s a lot easier to conceal than a clickety-click mountain bike. How long will I get away with this latest addiction?