It's well known that Fiat Panda's are inherently jealous machines, because they know they could have been five or six Pinarellos. Bad luck.

I kiss my wife and children goodbye.

That, for fifteen minutes, is the last contact I will have with regular humanity. I catch a glimpse of myself in the window of the back door: Lycra leggings, gaudy cycle jersey indicating I have raced around Italy at some point in 2006 (read: I have not), courier bag and helmet. I look ridiculous, but I can't help myself.

I get my steed ready for the quick burn to work - my "acquired" 1989 Peugeot Sahara. Not "acquired" as in naughtily taken from someone - I picked it up from a friend's garage, more as a favour for getting it out of the way for them. Even at that point it was still rideable, after eighteen years of being cooped up. The front derailleur was knackered, literally snapped in half, but the 6-speed free hub and shifters were all intact. Of course, all that's changed anyway. It's now a single speed wonder, new bar and quill stem, new cantilever brakes, wheels, chain, grips and saddle - it's halfway to becoming a true hipster mobile, stopping just short enough to keep me the safe side of ironic facial hair and espadrilles.

And I'm ready, Lycra'd up and straddling a bike that was built when I was eight. A bike that, although a little rusty in places, has more character and emotion than anything I've ridden in the past. I love it.

Pushing off down my driveway, for fifteen minutes I am someone else. I am a cycle commuter. I am looked upon by pedestrians. I am hated by drivers. I am assessed by other cyclists, scorn or admiration unable to be detected in the milliseconds that they have to see if my rusting Peugeot is actually a retro classic or fit for the scrappers. It's not, I assure you. The frame appears to be completely sturdy - although that's probably jinxed me know, with a full snap of the downtube coming my way sometime soon.

Fifteen minutes of tackling rush hour traffic, strategically negotiating parked cars, schoolchildren, cats, slower cyclists and buses. I have little regard for them. They are merely chess pieces that I have calculated and forgotten about three moves ago. Kids, I've noticed, have very poor judgement when it comes to bikes. Whether it's a generational thing - that they know cars move fast and hurt a bit, but bikes are some unknown, a remnant of the past - I don't know, but they do seem to take their time whilst I'm hurtling towards them.

Through the brunt of the traffic, across the lights of a main junction, and I know it's only a few minutes before I'm at work. Slowing down physically and mentally, ambling through suburban streets with nothing left but empty parking spaces and the odd suit with toast in hand, running for a bus that left five minutes ago. And I'm there.

That's it, full stop for eight hours. GPS tracker checked, time recorded and uploaded, never as good as the time I had the wind behind me all the way. But for fifteen minutes I had exhilaration, excitement, a good workout, fresh air and fun.

But there's always another fifteen minutes.