I don’t like getting caught doing certain things in public. Eating. Singing. Shouting at traffic. Shouting at buildings. And I would rather die than be spotted at a motorway service station (especially as I don’t drive).

But I particularly don’t like getting caught on my bicycle. I don’t like being seen on it because my bicycle gear makes me look like a cross between the Tin Man and the Scarecrow, and some mornings, let’s just say, we have definitely left Kansas.

Once I attempted a cape, helmet and long streaming hair look and I was horrified to note, on seeing my reflection in a large bank window, that I looked exactly like the fourth knight at the killing of Thomas Becket.

I looked like this because I don’t do full-on Lycra — when stretched really tight, it goes see-through but not in a good way. My usual day wear (6in stilettos, fascinator, cocktail dress) is no way to get about either. So I inevitably end up wearing half and half.

I tweak my look for the day: heels in bag; carry spare leggings; nothing thigh skimming; skirts tied in knots. Anything long and dangling — not so much a concern if you’re a girl — is tucked safely away. The result is that, most of the time, I look like I’ve run through a backyard of washing and tucked it all into my socks.

Oh, it’s a faff being a girl on wheels, particularly in a city. Because not only do we not like getting ready for cycling but we also don’t like cycling itself. Women don’t like hot, loud, dirty traffic sewers.

We don’t like harassment on the bicycle (okay, a bit of light banter is always fun but don’t chase me the whole length of a tunnel, please). We don’t like the possibility that we will fall off and get our knees muddy or anything that reminds us of hockey lessons. No: to us, cycling is autumn and bluebells and the books of Louisa May Alcott. Not rain and mud and Jackass.

Fortunately, however, we don’t live in America. In New York, the cycling situation for girls is so dreadful that Scientific American said so.

In the Big Apple, men are three times more likely to be cyclists than women are, because of the frightening cycle lanes and the dust and dirt of the city. Get into Central Park, though, and the number of women using the nice leafy routes jumps to 44%. In Europe, the statistics are pretty similar, I’d bet.

Women cyclists are the best indicator of the “bikeability” (stupid word) of a city. A report found that “comfort” was important when it came to us, and that we find it easier to “jump in a car” than “jump on a bike” to collect our organic vegetables and environmentally friendly cleaning liquids.

So far so good, but when the author of the report went on to suggest that “outreach programmes” be considered to help women use their bicycles for this kind of thing I started to worry. We’re not a battered minority, thank you. The reason we don’t get on the bike is because we’re sensible, not because we’re wet. If it doesn’t look good, we won’t do it.

I think that cities should start off by changing themselves — better routes, safer systems — before they start to change us. Because if we want to cycle in heels and a cocktail dress, we bloody well will.