Most bikes look great in the shop. The smell of new rubber and factory lubricant, the glint of metal never exposed to the grime of the road, the fancy paint jobs … all are powerful buying catalysts. In the shop, it seems that you could choose pretty much any bike and be happy with it.

A year ago (at the age of 35) I bought my first new bike. All through my childhood and student days, I’d ridden hand-me-downs or second-hand bikes bought for the minimum amount possible. I’d never had a choice over colour or type or spec – it was whatever was on offer at the time.

So when I was in a position to get a new bike, I entered my local bike shop like a child entering a toyshop. I was after a hybrid to replace my sturdy but weighty Dawes MTB, whose steel frame and fat wheels were becoming too much to haul uphill on the morning commute. And I’d heard tell of a mythical new material called aluminium.

Perhaps because of my experience, it never occurred to me to test ride the Trek 7.3 fx I ended up buying. I was so overcome with the novelty of being able to choose a bike that I was happy to hand over the money and walk out of the shop with my very first new bike. I didn’t even want to ride it – only look at it and pore over its various features in the owner’s manual.

But eventually the time came to saddle up, which led to that most curious of sensations: the shock of the new.

Over time, your bike – like a favourite chair – becomes almost an extension of your body. You intuitively know its every sound and response; you know how it will brake, how it will corner, what gears to choose and when. Mounting a new bike is like using someone else’s toothbrush.