I believe the only way you can really know a city is by bike. But the one thing that spoils matters, and it seems to thrive whenever I'm on my bike, is the abuse I receive from pedestrians and motorists alike.

The sight of me whizzing away on two wheels seemed to increase some people's boldness to the point where they'd shout insults they'd never dare express to people who would have the time to stop and challenge them.

As I zoomed from work to home and back again, I'd often let such insults fester in my head. I wondered – why had they chosen to shout them at me?

Whenever I mentioned these incidents, I met with disparate responses. Men would usually imply I was exaggerating, that I was oversensitive and incorrectly ascribing all comments shouted in public to myself.

My female friends would be indignant, explain that such incidents were commonplace, happened more often than not and be annoyed that men could be so convinced that this kind of thing didn't happen.

One evening, after struggling up a particularly steep hill in Greenwich, I was angry and aggrieved that an athletic feat met with only sexist comments – "Come on love, put some back into it!" and "I hope you put as much effort into the bedroom!".

I ranted about it to some friends in a nearby pub. They asked if I noticed whether comments and altercations were concentrated in certain areas. I wasn't sure, but finding out seemed like an interesting experiment. The following day I started cataloguing the comments I experienced, and recording them on Google Maps.

What I found was interesting. Firstly, the opportunity to write about the abuse hurled at me dispersed my anger. I was able to retaliate in a calmer, more amusing way. People found my responses to these idiotic comments funny. I made my peace with the idiots by exposing them.

Secondly, hundreds of women wrote me emails, responded to my blog and spoke to me on Twitter and told me they'd had identical experiences. They didn't tell me of every incident – they were too numerous – but they told me about their worst ones.

I told people about the time a pedestrian pulled my top down at a traffic light; they told me of people spitting at them and throwing building braces at them as they drove by. A dozen women told me they'd had their backsides slapped by drivers and passengers. I'd opened the flood gates by daring to speak out and say that enough was enough.

What surprised me was that far more men than women contacted me. They said they'd had no idea of the level of abuse women received, and that when they mentioned my site to female cyclists they opened a Pandora's Box of untapped resentment towards the sexist abuse they'd experienced over the years.

Male correspondents were appalled and ashamed of how much grief their friends had experienced, and apologised for something they'd personally had no part in.

After a few days of recording and ridiculing this abuse, I hit a pitstop. My bike was stolen near my workplace.

Floods of condolences poured forth. People I'd never met sent lengthy emails detailing the heartbreak they'd felt when their own bikes were stolen. Clearly my blog was hitting nerves with men and women alike.

A group of ardent cyclists, at the London Fixed Gear and Single Speed web forum, even offered to build me a bike from scratch.

In the end, sentimentality won out. I bought a better version of my stolen bike on eBay and hope to be both cycling and recording idiots again soon. The experience has changed me though. Before I felt cowed by taunts and one-liners, now I think "what an excellent blog post".

I enjoy responding on the blog, my readers adore it, and I hope some of the abusive drivers and pedestrians realise they are being cordially mocked throughout the internet.

• Dawn Foster blogs at 101 Wankers