I feel about my bike the way I do about new clothes: I want to be able to fit it into every single part of my life, all the time. If I could feasibly ride it while eating dinner, I would. I want to take it everywhere with me, and talk about it to anyone who will listen.

If you’re a cyclist, this might sound familiar. I’m convinced that part of the reason cycling tends to become a way of life rather than mere exercise is to do with the unbridled love and excitement bikes can unleash within their owners, as a piece of design rather than simply a means of getting from A to B.

Because it simply isn’t possible to be on your bike all day long, you find yourself doing things associated with it instead to fill the time before you can get back on it: shopping for new and completely unnecessary parts; looking at pictures of cool people riding theirs; overhauling your wardrobe to reflect your pedalling prowess. Oh yes, the bike is as much of a consumer gateway drug as your first ever designer purchase.

There’s something arresting about an elegant cyclist – I’d love to count myself within their number, but have struggled up gentle inclines too often to assume with any confidence that I am. There’s something that makes people take notice and feel a bit whistful, something in particular about women on bikes, with flowing hair and skirts, that makes even a traffic-heavy commuter route feel like an advert for a better sort of life.

My cycling look has gone through several permutations. I’ve never been one of that lycra lot - I don’t have the figure or the capacity for it. They divide into the Pros and the Performancewear Dupes; the former tend to spend a lot of money on their kits and be terribly vain, the latter tend not to and it shows. The fact is, most normal people cycling around cities don’t need to be encased in lycra and reflective stripes. Don’t fall for it.

The first incarnation of my cyclist’s wardrobe involved a lot of leggings and sweatshirts that I changed out of once I arrived at the office, before putting on something more normal (and smart). I think once or twice, I tried layering a jersey miniskirt over the leggings before realising how pointless that was. And how much it made me look like a budget ballerina.

Then I decided to splash out on some pro pieces. I knew I’d never reach the speed or brave the sort of conditions for which they were intended, but the Rapha website was so sleek and persuasive. I’d argue still that it was money well spent – five years on, my Rapha rain jacket is still keeping me warm and dry, as well as (and this is crucial) acting as an incentive to cycle even when the weather isn’t that great.

These days, I’ve settled into a more casual approach to bike dressing. Given that my uniform is pretty much jeans and tops, I cycle in my civvies. I’m an adherent of the ‘slow cycling’ manifesto proposed by Mikael Colville-Andersen, founder of the hugely influential – and hugely addictive – blog Copenhagen Cycle Chic, which now has franchises in almost every major city worldwide. ‘Dress for your destination,’ he says, ‘not your journey’, and the motto is backed up by visuals of that city’s innately stylish cyclists as they go about their daily business. No sheer-bummed elastane in sight.

I give myself enough time to get to places without having to stand up and pedal as if I’m winning the Etape, so this approach suits me just fine. It’s easier too, than having to work out one’s shower strategy and remember an extra pair of knickers. It also means your bike feels more a part of your everyday life. Sure, I’ve cycled home from pubs when I probably shouldn’t have done, but in making my wheels part of my wardrobe, something I love has come to be second nature. Which is arguably just how fashion should be too.