I love tennis. When I was a little girl I had a couple of plastic bats and a tennis ball, and I used to hit the ball against the weatherboard wall of our house, playing and winning noisy matches. In a movie I would have gone on to become a famous tennis player with a tragic back-story, but in reality I studied science at university and watched grainy black and white images beamed directly from Kooyong.

These days I do play tennis. Very, very badly. I am a fixture at number four in my section two social competition team. I watch tennis much better than I play, and I remain glued to the TV for the two weeks of the Australian Open every January – when I am not actually down at the grounds. I also make my best efforts to stay up to watch the other tournaments from around the world that are still on free to air.

Wimbledon has been in my sights for a while now, and last year it happened that I would be in London at that time, so, optimistically, my friend Michelle and I went into ticket ballot, naively believing that the All England Lawn Tennis Club (AELTC) would welcome us with open arms. I had everything in place – flights, Airbnb, and a full week in London – but I was overlooked in the ballot and I spent my week sightseeing. Yes, I could have gone and lined up and hoped, but though I love tennis, there are limits to my love, and a warm bed beats a night out in a line with only the hope of a ground pass at the end of it.

Late last year Michelle and I, under the influence of a glass of red or two and the headiness that comes from extended stays in her her hot tub, vowed to try again. We both put in applications, this time with no expectations. The odds are against you – I’ve heard only one in ten actually get tickets. In line with the odds, I got nothing except an excited phone call from Michelle: she had been allocated tickets and I had first dibs. I did hesitate initially. I had no plans to travel this year, but pretty quickly figured you’ve got to grab chance when you get it.

So here I am, sitting in seat X105, accessed by flights of stairs and gangway 505, perched above the hallowed grass of Centre Court, Wimbledon, for day five of play. The sun is shining and it is going to be a warm one, but our seats are in the shade. We have strawberries, but baulk at paying 22 pounds for a 200ml bottle of champagne. We score two out of three with the order of play: Azarenka (thumbs down), Rafa (my boyfriend!) and Andy Murray (local and likely crowd favourite).

At 1pm, with no fanfare, and not even an announcement of names, let alone the reading of bios, the players are on the court. Victoria Azarenka and Heather Watson, a local, and definitely crowd favourite for this match. I always believe in investing in a tennis match, and immediately choose Watson. She does not disappoint – she comes our firing, and blasts Azarenka off the court: 6-3 in the first set. My dislike for Azarenka extends beyond her contrived grunt-shrieking, however she seems somehow less noisy today. Maybe it is the grass, or the open roof, or she used it all up in childbirth?

Azarenka regroups for the second set, and takes it 6-1. We are poised for a third set, and this match is cooking, with the crowd firmly behind the local girl. It is neck and neck for most of the final set, before Azarenka, disappointingly, breaks and takes the set 6-4.

The players pack and leave the court to resounding applause. But that is it. No post-match interview. It is as if we are being very firmly reminded that we are spectators only, and have no place to share the lives of the players we are watching.

And then comes, for me, the main event: Rafa arrives on court with his opponent, Karen Khachanov. I’ve been a Rafa fan since his early butt-picking, muscle shirt days, when I saw him play at in Melbourne. I watched the Australian Open final earlier this year, where Rafa and Federer, both now elder statesmen of the game, fought a grand battle, and I’ve been thrilled to see Rafa make a huge comeback over the course of this year. I fix my long lens on my camera, and prepare myself for a great match as well as a perve. Rafa doesn’t disappoint, though the match is probably the least thrilling I will see today. He plays with his normal intensity and fire, and while Karen puts up a fight in the second set, and draws a tie break in the third, Rafa triumphs.

One of the things I admire about Rafa is his incredible intensity while playing. People laugh at his obsessive mannerisms, but nobody can fault the gladatorial manner in which he goes about his matches. Some of our young Australian players could take a leaf out of his book. I reckon you could cut off one of his legs, and he would still take the court and fight in exactly the same way. I know why I am no good at tennis: I don’t have the killer instinct. Rafa has it in spades.  He also cuts a fine figure when changing out of a sweaty shirt, which he does at the end of the match. And you can see, though he ducks his head and acts coy, he loves the applause and the cat calls.

The two players leave the court, and once again I am disappointed by the lack of post-match interview. I love to see the transformations, especially with Rafa: from gladiator to human, focused to shy, and to see that Rafa smile, which he rarely takes on court with him.

At around 6:30pm Andy Murray walks out with his opponent, Fabio Fagonini. It is going to be a late finish. Unlike the Australian Open, Wimbledon has only one session daily on the main courts, starting at 1pm. Murray v Fagonini is the last Centre Court match for the day, and the crowd want to see their local boy win. They say that Murray is Scottish when losing, but British when winning. He is world number one, so most definitely British at this tournament.

Yet he doesn’t quite play like a number one. He seems a bit off, and I don’t think he moves so well. He always looks a little awkward to me when just walking, but today he looks to be limping. I’ve heard he has a hip injury, and is taking two ice baths a day to help him mange. Kudos to him. I guess that is what separates a champion from a wannabe.

The match see-saws wildly. A set to Murray. A set to Fagonini. Murray looks gone. Murray fights back. And just when it looks like we are heading for a fifth set, Murray claws his way back from 5-2 down in the fourth to snatch a match victory in a tie break. Most of the crowd go wild, apart from the Italian crew seated near us.

And then they are gone, and we join the crowd trying to exit the stadium through narrow corridors. I try not to think about how this crowd would get out in an emergency, and just shuffle along. We walk with hundreds of others back to the station, through Wimbledon village, where the pubs are full and lively. We’ve had only one Pimm’s today, and though it is tempting to stop and join in, we have an early start tomorrow. Michelle is off to Copenhagen, and I need to get to King’s Cross to catch a train to Edinburgh.

So what has Wimbledon got to do with bikes? Nothing at all. But that single Wimbledon ticket spawned the thinking that lead to this UK bike trip.