I’M in the fortunate position that I have a job, running Oxfordshire Artweeks, where the summer months are quiet, a perfect match for school holidays. I’d envisaged rose-tinted weeks of sunshine stretching over the horizon, green grass under foot and birdschirruping gently through child-sized binoculars.

Yet here we stand at the window, peering up at undecided clouds, and I wonder whether I can hold off the greater forces of the games console with a glue stick andscissors. Obviously the answer is no and it’s time to send thechildren out to play in the road...

When I say road, of course I really mean the pavement. However, I’ve been teaching The Youngest to ride his bike recently and the swerve of his forward motion requires a greater width than the pavement affords, so while he’s wobbling down The Close, I’ve been running slightly ahead of him to stop a rogue car shooting too fast out of nowhere.

This has proved to be remarkably good exercise: The Youngest’s cycling improved rapidly and the neighbours may have been surprised to see me, clad in strappy sandals and optimistic summer dress, chased round and round the block at high speed.

The tables are turned when it’s me on the bike and I pedal like the clappers to leave the children behind on a metaphorical sidewalk. In my teens, I used to cycle gently from A to B while my bike-negligence regime encouraged the rapid deterioration of my shopper until the final spoke rusted through, the wheel collapsing under me in St Aldate’s. Since having children I have turned to low-level endurance sports for light relief, and I try to put some miles underneath a competitive road bike every week.

Obviously it’s the bike that’s competitive: as soon as I’m astride, it drops rapidly down the ‘Which bike?’ rankings. Competitive or not, I love pulling away from the house, leaving JLS desolate in the front room and the Lego castle lurking ominously sharp on the floor between the kitchen sink and the cooker.

On a smart black racer with the wind whipping up my hair and the open road ahead, I’m like a competitor in the Tour de France and I’ve even mastered those aerodynamic drop handles that allow you to rest yourtummy on your thighs and have a sneaky frontal massage while you ride. Who needs a city-centre spa?

After a fast hour ride and a sprint-finish into the driveway, any serious cyclist stows their bike away with great care. Unfortunately the inside of my garage looks like a giant welded sculpture with a strong anti-car message: pedals, spokes and other metalwork are interlocked with an apparent permanence so that the removal oraddition of anything is a major task. And so I see my next endurance challenge: The Great Garage Tidy. Are you enjoying your summer this much?