Covid-19 and the subsequent lockdown have shown me a lot of things about myself that previously went unnoticed: I can actually cook something beyond pesto pasta if I put my mind to it; when my brain is forcefully submerged in a slower-paced world, my attention span isn’t as short as I once presumed; and, last but not least, I shouldn’t ever be allowed on a bike.

I’ve flirted with cycling before this moment. In New York I owned a trusty steed I named Ingrid. She was bronze, her chain was non-committal and I was forever losing the key to the lock within the pockets of my dungarees. She now collects dust in a basement in the East Village between suitcases of cherished old clothes, another relic from my hipster past.

Cycling in New York is a simpler affair than attempting a journey in London. The avenues are one way, nothing east of the West Village is particularly higgledy-piggledy, and the abundance of Citi Bikes means even those without their own Ingrid can whizz around at the drop of an unflattering hat.