THERE were two great cycling achievements in Europe this week.

In the first, lycra-clad super athlete Bradley Wiggins became the first Briton ever to win the Tour de France. He flashed past crowds of cheering spectators in Paris like a wiry yellow rocket.

Meanwhile, in Morecambe, I was attempting the Tour de Promenade with my friend Jristos.

Twenty minutes in, and still stuffed full of pub lunch, I wasn’t travelling quite as fast as Wiggy. I wasn’t travelling as fast as some of the pedestrians.

“I want to go home,” I said, grumbling about the gale that was blowing into my face and making every metre feel like a mile.

“My seat is too high, I can’t put my feet down. And it’s too windy.”

Jristos did not seem at all bothered. He sailed past, cool as a cucumber, treating his bike like a unicycle.

I wobbled down the coastline, cursing whoever was responsible for the line: “It’s easy - just like riding a bike.”

I’ve always found it hard. By the time my dad attempted to initiate me into the two wheels club I was 11, and it did not go well.

We spent a summer’s afternoon on Far Lane in Derby with me tilting and squealing.

“Yeah, you’ve got it, just change the gear,” my dad called to me as I cycled downhill.

I changed gear successfully, but unfortunately I also changed direction. The next thing I knew I was lying in a ditch full of nettles, with my bike on top of me.

I walked home covered in nettle stings, feeling suitably unimpressed by the pedal phenomenon. And that was just the beginning of my battle with gravity and gravel.

However, this weekend, when I turned my bike around and cycled up the coast with the wind behind me, I got a moment of pure cycling joy.

The noise of the wind dropped to silence. Its force buoyed me along and I began to race – a bit like flying.

I’ll accept I’m never going to pip Wiggins to the finish line, but this weekend I got to share a little bit of the same sense of achievement.