SEPTEMBER 23 — One of life’s milestones, well for me at least: my very first cycling trip.

It’s been a long time in coming, going by my decade-old column celebrating my first entry into the world of MAMILs, Middle Aged Men in Lycra, or rather MAWILs, the female equivalent.

That’s when I joined my local cycling club in the northwest of Paris to escape the four kids, the animals and kitchen on a Sunday morning.

I’d be up with the first sparrow-song and head to the piscine to meet the other colourful and keen cyclists.

Then, after a few bises exchanged with tapping of helmets, we’d head off and soon be surrounded by rolling hills, sleepy farm towns and bright yellow fields. Good fun. The dishes could wait.

My fellow cyclists are a pretty adventurous lot, despite being mostly retirees over the age of 60.

In addition to clocking up weekly tallies of 200 kilometres, there’s constant talk of the next cycling trip… the Champagne region to the Pyrenees.

The writer went out on a cycle trip with her friends... it's not all fun and games though.

The writer went out on a cycle trip with her friends… it’s not all fun and games though.

The writer went out on a cycle trip with her friends… it’s not all fun and games though.

I was always invited, but five days away from kids and work just wasn’t going to happen.

That is, until the last of my kids left for university and I took a year’s sabbatical from teaching; result! The scheming began.

The Bellegarde trip sounded interesting — something about the name caught my eye. Trains were booked, picnic lunches arranged and room sharing sorted courtesy of Bernard et Serge, my club’s expert planners.

My planning, however,  can be a bit temperamental. If I had only properly focused on the detailed instructions, I would have realised what I was committing myself to…

It was only towards the end of the first day that the truth became apparent.

Not four days of gentle sight-seeing by bike… but a hardcore Tour de France styled ride from Paris to the doorstep of Geneva. Yes, that’s Switzerland.

I put on my big girl lycra pants and stuffed my pockets with guarana and caffeine infused power gels.

Day One my group got lost, which added another 30 kilometres to our 160 kilometre-ride in 30 plus degrees heat.

I survived, but the casualty of the day was my poor lower legs which suffered first-degree sunburn, much to the amusement of my adult kids I might add.

They took great delight berating me on the family WhatsApp that evening for not heeding my own broken-record advice to them, factor 50 SPF, everywhere.

Humiliating, although I do have my first pair of de rigeur “brown socks”, at least I can call myself a proper cyclist now.

Apart from the rocky start to the trip, I had the most tremendous experience.

I loved the challenge of each day’s cycle ride, the ever-changing landscape — past majestic chateaus, the lush vineyards of Chablis and Nuits-Saint-Georges — to enjoying the daily ritual of a pause café,  particularly in the medieval town of Semur-en-Auxois.

By the third day, I finally worked out how to use my new Garmin, a smart screen for directions and my new best friend.

I also learned to perfect the rider’s lingo like pente (gradient), col (short for hill), vitesse (speed), and the importance of finding shade and the sandwich lorry at midday.

My poor cyclist mates were forced to put up with my funny Franglais throughout. Being the only foreigner on the trip did have its advantages though, and I was fussed over.

Most of all though, I appreciated the camaraderie of everyone — the team support, the camion at the top of a col armed with water, words of encouragement when it all got too much, and a cold beer at the end of a long ride.

Five hundred kilometres, 5,000 metres ascent in four days. Pas mal de tout for my first cycle trip.

However, I shan’t be joining the ladies Tour de France anytime soon, I shall leave that to the likes of Pauline Ferrand-Prévot, who won this year’s breaking a 36-year wait for a French winner.

Although I did earn the name La grimpeuse for my hill climbing. Quite like the idea of wearing a red polka dot jersey.

However, before I do, I’m told I have to do one of the big five Hors Catégorie meaning “beyond categorisation” for its toughness.

Currently, Le Ventoux, or the windy “Beast of Provence”,  is on the cards for next year.

Seems I’m happily sliding from an empty nester into fully fledged MAWIL, brown sun socks, big girl lycra pants and possibly, the beast of the south next spring.

* This is the personal opinion of the columnist.