“Nice bike, pal,” a fellow Genesis owner heckles to me on the north bank of the Clyde as I make my way back to the office from Glasgow Sheriff Court. I quickly realise the reason for the compliment and mumble a thank you.

It is a nice one – a gravel bike with chunkier tyres than the standard road bike, as remarked upon by my shadow shadower who is tagging along behind the advocate instructed to represent our client. Bike2Work scheme! I hastily add – the company paid upfront.

My steed, whom I admit to christening Cécile after the character in Dangerous Liaisons – the last book group novel, has enabled me to take trips to places I’d otherwise find too effortful to arrive at and has expanded my psychogeographic sphere. Yesterday we went to Falkirk together. Well, not Falkirk proper – I decided to halt my journey when the famous Wheel came into view and lock up there.

The ride out was sprinkled with intermittent drizzle but otherwise smooth. There was one patch, however, where tree roots were bursting through the tarmac unexpectedly and gave the frame such a jolt that my phone mount flew off its anchor and into the bushes. Luckily, it was quickly recovered unharmed and I continued on my way.

When I got to the Wheel it was unlike what I’d imagined. There is a whole entertainment complex there. You can go zorbing, do archery and explore a visitor centre. Of course, the main attraction is the Wheel itself, which raises canal boats 24m from the Forth & Clyde Canal to the Union Canal to Edinburgh.

I arrived just in time to watch the Wheel rotate 180 degrees from stationary. To observe the Wheel in motion was for me an unexpectedly moving experience. Coming across the landmark at a standstill is impressive enough as a towering modern art installation, but to see it move approaches the technological sublime.

Standing about and tucking into a well-deserved apple I can hear the chirpy tour guide rattling off facts over the loudspeaker, but their contents are indistinct. Lined up along the Forth & Clyde dock are clinking China and cutlery as the café overspill are beset by a fresh westerly. Yet more onlookers grip onto railings, some clutching tickets to be the next to ascend.

The five-minute spiel comes to a close and the process begins. Steadily, inexorably the boat is drawn up towards the spectators. The rational part of our brains knows it’s going to miss us and get pulled up over our heads, but the animal in you cannot help but be somewhat unsettled by the inevitable arc of this colossus. I intuitively step back, though I know the café tables at the water’s edge will be safe. My rational self says this is just to get a better viewing angle but I know on some emotional level there is fear. An autistic child vocalises what I’m sure many are feeling at this moment in a repetitive and emphatic cry, “It’s coming straight for us! It’s coming straight for us!”

As I retreat for a better angle I am struck by the beauty of this creation. Not merely for what it is, objectively – an impressive and elegant piece of engineering – but as I imagine it too. It is a symbol and material manifestation of humanity’s dominion over Nature: terrible and beautiful; Godlike precision and simplicity.

A medieval peasant might marvel at this while shrugging off an iPhone. Witnessing the wheel at once shows the smallness and greatness of Man.

After refreshing myself with a slice of Victoria sponge I saddle up again for the journey back. Before I leave, I catch two young boys in conversation. From the context, I gather, one of them local and the other from further afield. “Do you know this is one of the wonders of the world?” says the local, and from the tone of his voice I can tell he believes it.

On the return cycle, I experience a different sort of humbling. Already pretty fatigued from my morning run and cycle out I faced a relentless headwind and become progressively more puggled with each pedal. My phone, on which I’d helpfully programmed a route map from what is essentially a straight line along the canal, showed me objectively that I was at close to half the speed of my outward journey on my energy-depleted final third.

The sense of smallness was compounded as drizzle gave way to downpour. I battled on and was able to make it home. Conclusion: I think I will wait for more conducive weather conditions before I attempt Loch Lomond, which is likely to be my next bike-based weekend adventure.