"We tore around the Sydney suburbs at 60kph in a terrifying, feral pack"

Fast, furious and furry tales from Australia

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The first time I ever took a bike on holiday anywhere, I took it to Australia. I'd won the trip at a bike race, so I felt I had to. It was a long time ago.

The internet was young. Plane tickets were made of paper. And British Airways insisted you couldn't pack a bike in a bag. You just brought it to the airport and handed it over, and a man in some overalls came and took it away. If you think that was strange, here's the punchline. I got it back totally unharmed.

In some ways that was the most benign thing that happened all trip. On my first morning in Sydney, I snuck out of my B&B early, and headed out to explore. I quickly discovered that there is no driver who wants you deader, faster, than an Australian driver. They don't just want you dead, they want you flat. And if they achieved this ambition, and subsequently had cause to drive past the scene of their triumph, I'm pretty sure they'd stop and shout abuse at the stain you'd left on the road.