I HAVE RECENTLY decided to take my own life. It will not be a conventional suicide. There will no vodka or sleeping pills. Hanging is too passé. I don’t plan to jump off a tall building, or stuff the barrel of a 9mm pistol into my mouth. My death will be more unusual than that.

Yes, that’s right: I have decided to become a cyclist in Los Angeles.

Don’t get me wrong: I have always hated cyclists. There’s something insufferable about their tight, inappropriately bulging shorts; their skinny, hairless legs; and the way they cut between gridlocked traffic and mount the pavement whenever it suits them. Not to mention the unbearable smugness that comes from saving the planet while staying fit at the same time.

I have long comforted myself with the thought that cyclists still need oil from the Middle East to lubricate their chains. And that rush-hour smog still smells better than sweaty Lycra.

Fortunately, there are very few cyclists in Los Angeles, for obvious reasons. The computerised air suspension of Paris Hilton’s Range Rover would barely register the muffled thump of a ruddy-faced pedaller falling under its monster-sized wheels.

As for cycle lanes, this is a city whose planners rarely acknowledge the existence of human beings, never mind alternative modes of transport. A handful of pedal-pushing lunatics persist, however. One of them is a homeless man who spends his days riding in loops around West Hollywood, shouting obscenities at anyone he sees. The locals who sit outside Red Rock Saloon on Sunset Boulevard cheer him on as he passes. He offers them a gloved middle finger in return.

Riding a bicycle isn’t just a transport decision in Los Angeles, you see. It’s a political statement; an environmental plea; an act of personal courage — or stupidity, depending on how you look at it. The one advantage of riding a bicycle here is that no one will try to steal it. No self-respecting gang-banger is going to return to Compton on two wheels, wearing trouser clips.

Los Angeles is one of the few cities left on Earth where the car is still the undisputed king. I laugh at the thought of Parisian eco-activists visiting Los Angeles to deflate the tyres of pimped-out Hummers, in protest at their poor fuel economy. They would manage one vehicle, perhaps two, before the situation turned very, very nasty indeed.

So what convinced me to swap four wheels for two? First came my growing waistline. Next came the tripling of petrol prices. Then, to rub it all in, came a new SUV with a computerised dashboard, which informed me I was consuming one gallon of petrol for every ten miles travelled. The solution to the first problem was easy: join a $200-per-month air-conditioned gym, then drive to it every other day in my $1,000-per-month air-conditioned SUV.

But environmental guilt and common sense got the better of me. So now I am the proud owner of an 18-speed mountain bike, which I bought from a ranting Canadian eco-lunatic on Melrose Avenue. “Ride in the middle of the street,” he advised, with a fixed, crazy stare. “Those dumb, polluting idiots can’t go faster than you, anyhoo.”

So now I am one of them: the few; the brave; the suicidal. We wear helmets, flak vests, leg protectors, hiking boots and buttock pads. We use handlebar bells and hand signals to survive. Hybrid drivers stop and wave as they see me wobbling up the Santa Monica Mountains, sweating like a Marine, with a water bottle in hand.

But I have a terrible confession to make: I became scared. I needed the exercise, and enjoyed the planet-saving smugness, but feared becoming a human bumper sticker.

So I did what needed to be done. I bought a bicycle rack for my SUV. And now I cycle the proper Los Angeles way: by strapped my bike to my car, and driving it to the beach, where it is safe to ride.

• IF I’M beginning to balk at the rising price of American petrol (still insanely cheap compared with British fuel), imagine how Americans are reacting.

  Take Jim Jundt, from Minot, North Dakota, who gave up driving his SUV to work and now commutes on Patty, his 14-year-old horse. The 15-minute journey takes only five minutes longer than usual.

  It reminds me of the Saudi proverb: “My grandfather rode a camel, my father drove a car, I fly in my own jet. And my son will ride a camel.”

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