THIS week I’ve been on the road with Hercules, my trusty steed. Needless to say, Hercules is not a real horse. He’s a bicycle. I recently purchased him for £25 from a man with whom I exchanged cash in a dark alleyway, where I wasn’t able to admire the glorious, rust-tinged tones of my new companion.

For £25 I got what I deserved. Over the course of the last month Hercules and I have traversed miles of Oxfordshire tarmac. The reasons for this are complex, but I may have mumbled something in my sleep about saving money and keeping fit. Let us conclude that there are several reasons why I won’t be trying this again.

Foremost in my mind is the occasion on the Woodstock Road this morning when we were overtaken by two toddlers on tricycles.

Hercules has only got one gear but he was making able use of it.

We slid jestfully over the mangled leaves which lend National Cycle Route Five such spectacular autumnal hues.

I was just revelling at our ability to stay upright in the sludge, when the toddlers shot past.

To add insult to injury, their mum overtook me as well. I’ve been overtaken by many other cyclists in the past few days but not many have been under the age of four.

By co-incidence, this morning I also managed to crash into a hedge. I was swerving to avoid a cyclist who rushed towards me at speeds which wouldn’t be out of place on the A34.

He was wearing all the gear, of course. You know the sort. Men in their fifties.

99.9 per cent of them are good sorts, who’ve got into the sport. I can well imagine myself in 10 years’ time, embroiled in their japes around the Yorkshire Dales, stopping off to warm baked beans over a camp stove, and cracking open bottles of non-alcoholic lager.

And then there are the other point one per cent. Those few who are determined to beat their personal best on the way to the office at eight o’clock on a Tuesday morning in November.

This chap probably fancies his chances at the Tour De France I reflected, disentangling Hercules from a hedge.

Perhaps such reckless cycling signalled contempt for such an obvious novice as I. There are few things you could ever see on a bike that look less aerodynamic than I do.

But I can build up a reasonable speed on downhill slopes, especially once I’ve put my fag out.

So it’s time for Hercules to hang up his handlebars. I could pack him off to the knackers yard but I believe he has a bright future in store. Apply a couple of sprigs of mistletoe, coil round some fairy lights and tinsel.

Hey presto – a pair of Christmas wreaths on sale in our local shop, yours for £25.