Breastfeeding is a symbiotic relationship between mum and baby – meaning you can only leave your baby in between feeding times. For me this meant a maximum three hour window, and when I took into account getting dressed, getting out the door and needing to be back half an hour early in case of a baby breakdown (baby deciding he needs to be fed early and screaming to make sure everyone understands that), the three hours became two and a half.

With a baby bottle in the fridge in case of emergency, it was with trepidation that I hit the road for my first real ride in almost a year. With the wind on my face and the road under my wheel, I felt strong and free. I grinned at the fields of sunflowers and passersby, revelling in the energy I felt, the sleepless nights since baby arrived no longer important. I rode for an hour and a half and joyfully returned home to tell my partner how surprisingly well it had gone. It’s the muscle memory, he said as he handed the hungry baby.

On something of a high, I told my ex-cycling buddies about my ride and somehow I committed to joining their weekly road ride over a mountain pass the following week. Despite the thrill I’d felt on my last outing, I was afraid that I wouldn’t be able to keep up with my able bodied friends as we climbed what I’d normally consider the leisurely 5% Col de Saxel. I mentally prepared myself for the worst, seeing myself straining and struggling up the col while everyone waited for me at the top. Between imagining failure and chatting with my friends, I didn’t notice that we had arrived. We were at the top, 943m. My scalp tingled with endorphins. I could not quite believe it. I felt almost normal, like my pre-baby self, as we broke out our homemade muesli bars around the water fountain.

The following week I climbed the Saleve!