If you're one of those who drag their behind to the gym six times a week, please stop reading now. If you can run up a hill singing, or run the marathon backwards this won't impress you either, and I won't stand the idea of your eyes rolling into your forehead.

So, last week I took to cycling. I managed to get from Birkirkara to Ta' Qali when I stopped for a much needed gasp and a drink. That's when my phone rang, and I went against my better judgement and answered it. It was a family crisis, so whilst my super-fit and super-annoyed cycling companion circled around me waiting for me to get going again, I just stood there sweating and discussing a bad haircut with my mother.

Thirty minutes later, and after having failed to console the inconsolable, I took off again enjoying every downhill and swearing at every uphill that's on the way to Golden Bay.

It was a beautiful sunny day, so as expected when we finally arrived, the bay was bustling. There was hardly a spot to sit on, and the food and beverage outlets were bursting at the seams.

With my muscles complaining and my heart rate protesting, I was very nervous about having to face the hills on the way back, but as doubtful as I was about getting home alive, I had no intention of giving up. I had a face to save so I put all my doubts aside and got on with it.

But, as fate would have it cycling back home was not going to happen!

It wasn't because of my bruised coccyx which I acquired whilst negotiating the Mgarr cycling lanes. Nor was it because of my screaming muscles or my sunburnt shoulders. In short, it wasn't because I'm a wuss with the stamina of an eighty year old, but because my bicycle chain decided to protest against such forced labour hooked itself between the spokes and categorically refused to be paddled.

We tried everything, but couldn't fix it, so with oily hands, sweaty armpits and a beading forehead, I stopped a bus and asked the driver if I could hitch a ride, bike and all. A few eye flutters later the driver said that he couldn't possibly leave me stranded, so he let me on.

All the way to Naxxar, I stood between the door and the driver, balancing the bike with one arm and holding on for dear life with the other. Because religious statues had allegedly thrown themselves into the middle of some roads, the driver had to figure out alternate routes to accommodate his passengers. He also had to steer in and out of potholes the size of Mars, pick up tourists who didn't speak a word of English, and as politely as he could, repeat move 'buck' a thousand times.

Hats off to Mr. Bus Driver I say. Not only did he get me and my bike to our destination safely, but he did it against all odds, leaving me with a newfound respect for all bus drivers at large.

Contrary to popular belief, and counter to the burly bus driver stereotype that lives comfortably in our heads, it is only possible to remain unruffled in the face of such continuous disorder, if you possess a calm personality and a wicked sense of humour.

And if you're still unimpressed, remember - the new Arriva bus drivers manage all this without any holy pictures or devil horns to adorn their cabin!