It has been coming on for so long that I didn’t realise my bicycle was dying until it could no longer change gears. I’ve had my hybrid Trek since, one windy day 13 years ago, it was delivered to me in a van as a surprise.

Appropriately enough, its first role was to bring on the labour of my first baby as I cycled around some bumpy rural roads in Staffordshire. That challenge didn’t quite work, but nonetheless, it’s been a good companion ever since.

When I moved to a small house in East Oxford, I felt terrible having to leave my bike outside the house – knowing this could take years from its life, rather like taking up smoking for humans (except of course, our rust is on the inside).

My two boys first had baby seats on this bike and then ‘tagalongs’.

Until recently I’ve been cycling with my toddler daughter at the front and my son on the tagalong at the back.

But all these things have taken their toll, so that when I took my bike for what I thought would be a simple adjustment of the gears, I was instead given a long list of replacements for virtually everything except the frame.

Indeed, I was given an ultimatum by the bike shop akin to the RSPCA dealing with a donkey owner – either I need to spend an awful lot of money replacing everything, or instead just get a new bike.

They told me I’d been pushing it too hard for her age, and putting too much weight on it (I think they were tactfully referring to the extra children on the bike here).

When I went to Morocco some years ago, I saw people treating their donkeys and bikes with equal disdain – both were carrying small haystacks on top... and the rest!

Under those circumstances life is short and cheap. I realise I’ve been treating my bike similarly with little thought to maintaining its life. And as I left the bike shop, again on my next mission to race my kids to the train station, I did indeed start to notice the wheezing and groaning, the death rattles of my bike that I’d previously missed in my rush to move onto the next place.

Now, the message in this column could be to spot the signs – in ourselves as well as our loved ones – our Treks, Raleighs and Dawes, our lovely Bromptons and all the rest.

For example, listen to when your bike’s telling you to oil it; the slither ‘slither’ of an un-oiled chain – and don’t just ignore it.

My neglect at noticing my bike’s predicament is going to cost me.

So while I’ve been given the chance of a brand-spanking new bike, one slightly larger (this one had always been slightly too small for me), with all working gears, (maybe even 24 of them), a non-leaking saddle, a rack for panniers, and new ideas for where best to fit lights and even a bell, my bike still sits looking sorrowfully at me, reminding me of all the good times.

It’s easy to think we can move on to something and somewhere new without a glance backwards. These days, everything we have in our lives seems replaceable, with our consumer notions extending to friends, family, and even our beloved bikes.

But what comes next is not always quite so comfortable or meaningful, and most certainly hasn’t been with us on our journey so far.