Growing up I owned a second-hand bike.

It was bought as a surprise gift by my grandfather from an ad in the local newspaper one June afternoon. I have no recollection of the make or model, only that it was a baked clay colour and had a handy clip at the back to hold in place the old ice cream tub I would use to transport around my insect collection.

Fuel on longer journeys was typically diluting orange juice and fish paste sandwiches. Sometimes a handful of penny chews in my pocket.

My cycling attire generally comprised faded cords and acrylic jumpers, my trainers permanently scuffed at the toes from those slightly hairy moments when my brakes didn't work quite as well as they should have done.

I would ride my bike on the road, across grass, fly up hills and hurtle over the gauntlet of gnarled tree roots in the woods. Living in a rural village, two wheels represented adventure and exquisite freedom.

It wasn't until my teens that I discovered the mesmerising spectacle of the Tour de France. There was a decade in my twenties when I didn't cycle at all (well, maybe once or twice, including the time I pedalled at ferocious pace around Ferrara in Italy on a press trip and then had to have a nap in the mini bus afterwards while everyone else got sozzled at a wine tasting in a nearby vineyard).

I tried running for a while (I use the term loosely, think more of a lumbering jog) but nothing beats cycling. It wasn't until adulthood that I got my first ever brand new bike as opposed to battered second-hand steeds. Its public debut was a proud moment.

In the months since I started this Cycle-pathic column (and indeed pretty much ever since I began contributing to the sports pages of this newspaper) I have often been asked about my passion for cycling and where it stems from.

Curiously, it's only been since cycling became The Thing that this line of inquiry has been posed. I remember booking my hotel and plane tickets to go watch the final day of the 2012 Tour de France in Paris.

That was in March. In the four months that followed, the lion's share of people I mentioned to about this being the year that would see the first ever British rider win the Tour showed only a polite, passing interest (most often it was met with glazed eyes - the same look that I myself reserve for those who talk about X Factor and Scottish football).

By early July in 2012, that reaction hadn't altered much. "Who is Bradley Wiggins?" asked one acquaintance. "What is Team Sky?" queried a colleague. "Will Chris Hoy be there?" mused more than one person.

Over the course of less than three weeks that all changed. It was like an information bomb had exploded, showering the country with new-found knowledge. The success of the 2012 Olympics in London only served to strengthen the notion of a cycling renaissance.

Some would argue, however, that the wheels of change had already started to turn long before Wiggins stood arms aloft on the Champs Elysees clad in yellow or claimed his throne at Hampton Court Palace some 10 days later after winning the Olympic time trial gold.

Whatever the catalyst (and undoubtedly there are many) cycling had become popular and mainstream and cool. It was a bit like when Wimbledon is on and all the kids in the street start hitting tennis balls against the gable end wall. Yet, this was magnified on a far larger scale.

Suddenly everyone was buying bikes, riding bikes, talking about bikes, watching bikes on telly. And it was sublime.

Lately, though, something has started to niggle a tad. It feels like there has been a shift in mood. Whereas before I felt thrilled every time I saw a shiny new cyclist out on the roads, now I pedal along weighed down by soul-sapping weariness at some of the ridiculous antics I see.

Let me share a disheartening exchange between myself and a fellow road user. Not one driving a hunk of metal on four wheels, rather a cyclist who I watched filter up the inside of a double-decker bus which was stopped but signalling to make a left-hand turn.

The vehicle had halted momentarily to allow other traffic coming from the opposite direction to turn into the bus station.

There was no way to safely overtake on the right-hand side (a traffic island blocked the way not to mention the line of oncoming buses). So there was - in my view - little to do but wait patiently for the bus to move forward once the traffic ahead cleared.

Regular readers of this column will know that when it comes to cycling I have a live-and-let live attitude - but the crux of that is in the word "live". My heart was in my mouth as the cyclist squeezed up the side of the bus.

It gained her, at best, a few seconds and half a mile up the road we met again. I gently pointed out that cycling up the inside of a left-turning bus wasn't the smartest of moves only to be met with a dirty look and the snarky response: "I don't need a lecture."

Afterwards I wondered if she knew the dangers and simply took the risk anyway or if she didn't and was embarrassed by a complete stranger flagging up that it was only by complete fluke that I didn't see her crushed by a 12-ton HGV in front of my eyes.

One of the things I have always loved about cycling is the tremendous sense of camaraderie and community. Pretty much every pearl of wisdom I have learned about bikes has been gleaned from fellow cyclists. That includes how to stay as safe as possible on the roads.

There is a generosity of spirit I have experienced from the top pro riders through to the raft of great cyclists I've met in social situations and at work.

My fear, though, is that we are about to reach critical point in terms of cycling. The soaring numbers of participants - Scottish Cycling has seen a 35% growth in membership since 2012 - is truly glorious. But here's hoping everything that makes it so special isn't eroded away in the process.

What are your thoughts on how cycling is evolving? Feel free to share your comments below.