Surfing back into the house one day on a wave of dopamine – the free drug available to every mountain biker – I was somewhat surprised to face the question “What’s the best part of the ride then?” This is akin to me asking what the difference is between court shoes and slipbacks and actually caring about the answer. Stunned into silence, I blew my chance to justify why riding round in a circle on ludicrously expensive bits of metal before replenishing the calories burnt with a one-man effort to reduce the European ham, egg and chip mountain is such a fantastic way to spend my time.

First up, anticipation –like the first day in school. A real candidate this, especially if marinated in alcohol the previous evening. It’s all there playing like a slide show in your mind, the weather, the bravery, the poise, the balance and the technique all coming together to deliver the perfect ride. Empirical and historical evidence never gets a look in either, the fact that you’ve been rubbish for the last year has no bearing on how fantastic you will be tomorrow.

The ‘bully in the playground’ scenario perfectly encapsulates the social dynamics of riding with people you’ve only ever met on an Internet forum. Furtive glances at sparkling, exotica-adorned steeds drives a little nervous tension and fires up the competitive gland. But checking their body-fat index and trying not to be impressed with calf muscles stolen from a horse dictates the self-parody of the mildly concerned. “I don’t feel great to be honest, must have been those ten pints last night” and “Who wants this map? I’m going to ride at the back and make sure no-one gets lost” which roughly translates to “I think you’ll find both those excuses have been logged, recorded and will be trotted out later if I’m crap. Otherwise I’ll put it down to false modesty”.

Playtime is just being out in the hills away from all that responsibility sh*t that you have mistaken for your life. If this were NorCal, pony-haired oiks with melanoma suntans would label it “keepin’ it real”, but back here marooned on planet reality we’ll have to find a less exotic metaphor. It’s probably nothing more than like-minded riders abandoning restrictive social convention and that feeling that you’ve found a sport that keeps you fit, makes you laugh, scares you silly sometimes and has nothing whatsoever to do with golf clubs.

Parting company with the bike and plunging head first into the flora and fauna is like being beaten up in the park after school. Except you are cheered like a conquering hero whether you escape unscathed or eat your next six meals through a straw. And hitting trees is the modern day equivalent to a rite of passage that marks the transition into adulthood for many ancient cultures. Except, I have this suspicion we are making the transition in the other direction.

Friday night after school was always a good time. Sitting in the pub post-ride drinking beer is about a million times better. Tall tales are embellished and endured by your fellow riders ready with their own. Food tastes better, the grass is greener and the sun shines brighter as you park yourself knackered but worthy, regarding those less fortunate than you with their beer guts, miserable looking spouses and fractious kids. Even their dogs look unhappy. Not for you the absurd middle class suburban world they inhabit – oh no you’re a mountain biker.

But I’m sticking by everything else. The sum of the parts makes up more than it should, delivering the kind of gravity-defying experience that – short of televised naked mud wrestling – I’m struggling to see any outdoor experience getting close to.

Better go, looks like the missus has the shoe catalogue out so a new seat post is clearly in order.