MY legs have been feeling stiff all week after I went out on my bike and accidentally cycled 55 miles. Be careful not to make the same mistake because it is easily done.

It was only supposed to be a little jaunt with the cycling club I belong to, called Recycles.

I knew it was going to be one of those days when I turned up at the start of the club’s weekly ride and discovered that not only was I the only cissy who thought it was too cold for shorts on a chilly morning, but I was also easily the oldest in the group.

But it was far too late to chicken out, and, if anything, I was feeling a bit over-confident.

This may have something to do with the fact that I was the only one not wearing the club’s grey kit, and in my dreams my yellow jersey made me the leader of the Tour de France.

From a distance I probably looked like I was, indeed, the star of the team, slipstreaming behind and being protected from the wind by all his teammates.

When I say that’s how I must have looked ‘from a distance’, of course, I mean as far as France.

Anyway, things were going quite well after about 15 miles, when the word came back to me at the rear of the group that instead of heading for the usual destination of a cafe at South Cerney, somebody had the idea of going to another, further away.

They just needed to check with the slowest and oldest duffer in the group that he was capable of it.

The slowest and oldest duffer in the group rashly said yes, and soon found himself cycling through little villages he had never heard of before and wondering what county he was now in.

When we finally reached the cafe and stopped for a cup of tea, I had to admit I didn’t know where we were.

And when another of the riders said we were not far from Stroud, I thought he was joking.

I had to inform the rest of the lads (and lass) that if I managed to get home from here, it would be the second furthest ride I had ever done.

And if I had realised we were going to go that far, I would have brought along a load of sponsorship forms for them to sign.

I think they were impressed that I did manage to get home and that they were able to keep up a (comparatively) decent pace and not lose me.

But cycling always puts things in perspective whenever you start feeling proud of yourself.

I may have been the oldest rider on the day, but I am far from being the oldest in the club.

That honour belongs to a man called Denis Hedges, whom all serious cyclists in Swindon will know, but I have only recently had the pleasure of meeting.

It happened when he came along to the club, one evening, and introduced himself by saying he had been cycling for 70 years.

Only a couple of years ago, when already in his 80s he cycled from Land’s End to John O’Groats in just 11 days.

So I made the joke I always make when people tell me they have been doing something for ages, which is: “Do you think you are going to like it?”

I have a feeling he is, and I hope that part of his pleasure comes from demonstrating to people like me that age is mostly in the mind.

And only temporarily in your legs after accidentally cycling to Stroud.