I didn’t start riding bikes because I thought it would make everyone like me. I started riding, in fact, in a hot fever of anticipation, thrilled at the idea that I would be viewed by all and sundry as an outsider, a rebel – and quite possibly a dangerous one.

Old people and postmen would roll their eyes as my mates and I rolled into town and leaned against our bikes in the market square. When I was knocked off at a junction, having bounced off the car’s bonnet in the time-honoured fashion and lain in the road for a bit, I stood up shakily and looked at the driver. Surrounding the car were various witnesses to the accident. Of course the young biker, with his long hair and smelly jeans, was in the wrong. The police agreed. It was my fault.