I know less about bikes than I do about Peruvian experimental theatre.

So this presented a problem the first time my chain fell off, about a week into my commuting 'career'.

I had started playing with my big front chain as I headed down the cycleway that goes to Sankey Island from the town centre.

I heard a clicking sound, then silence, and I eased to a halt. The chain had come off.

Was the bike broke? Was it faulty? Was it easy to repair?

The last time I felt this frustrated and helpless was when my Fiat Punto seized up (damn drunken Italian carmakers.) I fiddled around for a bit then decided my ham-fisted idiocy could only cause permanent damage.

Then, to my eternal shame, I had to phone my mum to pick me up, but that was just the start.

At home my girlfriend Amy looked at the bike and me with a mix of amusement and bemusement.

In seconds, she had relaxed the back gear and reconnected the chain.

Luckily she is such a feminist she makes Germaine Greer look like Jeremy Clarkson, so I don't think she took her need to help me as an irredeemable slur on my manhood.

Then, a few days later, I got two punctures.

The farmer with the fields opposite the entrance to Fiddlers Ferry helpfully cut a load of frozen thorns that spread over the pavement and road like a police stinger.

But at least carrying the bike over my shoulder for a couple of miles to Sankey train station made me feel a bit butch.