‘I have concerns about you joining us today,’ said the impossibly chic French guide who had just witnessed my appalling attempts to control my bicycle.

I was meant to be setting off on a cycling tour of the Ile d’Yeu, located just off France’s Vendée Coast, but the guide had other ideas.

‘Return your bike to the store and wait at the hotel. Someone will collect you to join us for lunch.’

Oh, the humiliation – at the age of 49, on a press trip with women in their twenties and thirties, I was being banished from the group because of my inability to do this most basic thing: cycling.

It’s an activity that forms a basic rite of passage for most children. I’d seen that cycling was on the itinerary, but had blithely assumed that it, like most things on work trips, would be an optional activity – one that I, not for the first time in my life, would be able to swerve.

My parents emigrated to Australia before I was born, but they didn’t exactly adopt the outdoorsiness of their new home. My mother’s fears coloured my childhood. Heights, speed, water, activities requiring balance or temporary loss of contact with terra firma. Bridges. Balconies. Uneven pavements. Stairs.

My father, although more athletically disposed, set more store by educating and disciplining his children than by playing with them. The ‘fun’ stuff was left to my mother – and, while she was lots of fun, in her own way, there were certain things that, on her watch, simply never happened.

Learning to swim and riding a bike being two of them.

Shame is a debilitating emotion (Picture: Anantara Al Jabal Al Akhdar Resort)

Oddly enough, I’ve inherited none of my mother’s fears: on the contrary, I’ve willingly participated in any number of ‘adrenaline’ sports, ranging from snowboarding and hang gliding, to canyoning and white-water rafting. I can even scuba dive, and have got my advanced open water diving certification, thanks to learning to swim in my twenties.

So why had I never conquered riding a bike?

I’ve seen how limiting my mum’s fears have been both for her and for me, and have been determined to not let them strangle my experiences and capacity for joy as an adult. But all of the ‘scary’ things that I’ve done, like the extreme sports, didn’t come with the same side helping of shame in having never done them before that cycling does.

It’s an activity that forms a basic rite of passage for most children (Picture: Phoenix Rodrigues-Miller)

Nobody expects you to ‘know’ how to abseil, or tackle a tricky climbing route in a canyon. Nobody bats an eyelid if you confess you’ve not spent every evening after school jumping from planes or scrambling up sheer rock faces. Activities such as swimming and cycling, however – who on earth can’t do those? What’s wrong with you? And what on earth is wrong with your family?

Shame is a debilitating emotion. It’s one thing to be ashamed of ourselves, but probably quite another to be ashamed of our family, because this kind of shame is mingled with guilt.

You’re supposed to love your family, especially if they are, as mine were, safe and loving. Why would you want to give anyone ammunition with which to attack them? Why would you want to expose, not only yourself, but your entire family unit, as oddly different?

The wheels started to be less wobbly, the braking less frantic (PIcture: Phoenix Rodrigues-Miller)

Something cracked for me that day: those stern words on Ile d’Yeu were the final straw. I wheeled the bike away from the sympathetic eyes of the group (and the terrifying traffic of the port) in the direction of the bike shop and, as soon as I was out of sight, headed to a pedestrianised alleyway, lined by flowerpots and wooden doors. It was no more than 50 metres in length, but it was enough.

I pedalled furiously – and badly, frequently slamming a foot down on the cobblestones to prevent a fall – up and down, up and down.

A string of memories, akin to mental middle fingers, steamed through my head.

I’d climbed the highest mountain in Bolivia without supplemental oxygen. Given birth three times at home without any form of pain relief. Hiked high-altitude trails in Nepal without a porter or guide. No way was anyone about to tell me that I couldn’t ride a damn bike.

My daughter’s delight in cycling with me made every bit of former humiliation worth it – one thousand times over

Yet the feeling of embarrassment was still so acute that, each time I spied someone approaching, I dismounted and pretended to be busy on my phone. Even so, I could feel that I was starting to get it – the wheels started to be less wobbly, the braking less frantic.

Soon, I was venturing further into the streets of the town, away from the heavy traffic, granted, but on to roads shared with cars, including some featuring steep inclines and descents.

By the time I was to be collected to join the others for lunch, I was confident enough to ride – not wheel – my bike back to the rental shop and walk the short distance back to the hotel pick-up with my head held high.

At lunch, the others in my group were at first kind, and then jubilant, when I told them how I’d spent the morning. And, as nervous as I was the next morning, their encouragement and support, as well as my own determination, made all the difference when I woke up and thought, ‘oh no, I need to ride a bike today.’

Of course I dawdled behind the rest of the group – but yes, I was cycling with them along forested trails (well, parts of them anyway). That, however, was nothing compared to being on holiday with my children later in the summer and being able to go for a cycle ride with my 16-year-old daughter who, along with her brothers, was taught by her dad to ride almost as soon as she could walk.

Her delight in cycling with me made every bit of former humiliation worth it – one thousand times over.

Of all the experiences I’ve had that my mother, because of her debilitating fears, has not been able to enjoy, this is one of the ones that I, as a mother, most cherish – and one that, as a daughter, most wish my mum and I could have had together.

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I pedalled furiously – and badly, frequently slamming a foot down on the cobblestones to prevent a fall – up and down, up and down.