There is a wonderful moment in Fawlty Towers when Basil, lamenting the restrictions imposed by his formidable wife Sybil, sighs, “Well, even that avenue of pleasure has been closed to me.”
The phrase has stayed with me over the years. As one grows older, one becomes aware that certain avenues of pleasure do indeed close, regardless of wives. Some disappear gradually, others abruptly. Yet life is not simply a matter of closures. While some roads become inaccessible, others open unexpectedly, sometimes widening into grand boulevards and ceremonial avenues that we could never have imagined in our youth.
When I look back over my life, one particular avenue of pleasure stands out above all others: life on two wheels.
My love affair with two-wheeled transport began, as it does for so many people, with a bicycle. I still remember the moment when my father decided that the stabilisers had to come off. He ran behind me in the park, holding the bicycle steady while I wobbled uncertainly forward. Then, after a while, I glanced over my shoulder and discovered that he was nowhere near me. He had let go long before. I was cycling entirely on my own.
That moment was freedom.
From then on, London became my playground. In those days the roads seemed friendlier and the traffic less intimidating. I cycled everywhere. By my early teens I was venturing considerable distances simply to satisfy my curiosity. I remember riding all the way to St Albans along Watling Street because I wanted to know where the ancient road went. Not long afterwards I cycled to Cambridge, years before I would eventually become a student there.
At school, the bicycle sheds formed a small universe of their own. At Dulwich College they were places of conversation, occasional mischief, the odd argument, and the sort of adventures that seemed enormously important at the time. Today they have largely disappeared, victims perhaps of changing times and changing traffic conditions, but they remain vivid in my memory.
My bicycle accompanied me through university as well. Cambridge and its surrounding villages were made for cycling. Barrington, Shelford and countless other villages lay within easy reach, connected by lanes that invited exploration. Looking back, I realise that I was never cycling merely to get somewhere. The journey itself was always part of the pleasure.
The bicycle remained central even after university. During my working life in London I often commuted by bike. To save money on travel fares when I was training and teaching, I would cycle extraordinary distances, sometimes from Woolwich all the way across the capital to Wimbledon or Richmond. Looking back now, I can scarcely believe the energy I possessed.
One day, while riding through Camberwell Green, I was overtaken by a familiar face. It was Paul McCartney, who gave me an encouraging smile and a cheerful comment as I pedalled on. It was one of those wonderfully improbable London moments that remain fixed in the memory.
Cycling was not merely practical. It was also one of the great pleasures I shared with my wife. Taking advantage of discounted rail tickets, we would travel with our bicycles to different parts of Britain and spend days exploring. Dorset, Somerset, Norfolk, Cambridge, Brighton, Corfe Castle, Lulworth Cove—places that revealed themselves at the perfect pace for two cyclists. Fast enough to cover distance, slow enough to appreciate every detail.

Yet eventually I discovered another form of two-wheeled freedom.
My first motorcycle was a rather unreliable Villiers Ambassador passed on by my brother. It spent almost as much time breaking down as it did moving. My first proper machine was a Honda CB250. Some people advised me to buy the larger 360 model, but the 250 was quite sufficient for me.

That motorcycle became part of my life story. I courted my future wife on it. It carried us through the early years of marriage. Most importantly, it taught me something that every motorcyclist knows: for moving through a city, there is nothing quite like two wheels. Cars sit in traffic. Trains follow fixed routes. A motorcycle feels alive.
What I also discovered was the remarkable camaraderie of motorcycling. Car drivers often regard one another as obstacles. Motorcyclists regard one another as companions. There is an unspoken fraternity. A raised leg, a nod, a wave—small gestures acknowledging a shared understanding of freedom and risk.
Years later, in 1997, I returned seriously to motorcycling with a Honda Transalp 600. It was a hybrid machine, equally at home on roads and rough tracks. Some enthusiasts dismiss such motorcycles as compromises, but for me it was perfect.
The Transalp transformed travel.
I rode it through Wales, into the Berwyn Hills, along forest tracks and mountain roads. Then came a far greater adventure. Crossing first to the Channel Islands to meet my wife for a camping holiday, I continued alone through France and over some of the highest Alpine passes in Europe before descending into Italy.
The motorcycle proved ideal for Tuscany. On sweltering summer days I could simply climb higher and higher into the mountains, escaping the heat and discovering another world among forests, villages and mountain roads. It was one of the most exhilarating periods of my life.

Of course, motorcycling has its own intoxicating pleasures. On the long, empty roads of northern France, there were occasional moments when the speedometer climbed past one hundred miles an hour. Motorcyclists have a name for that sensation. We used to call it “tunnelling up.” At such speeds the world narrows and stretches simultaneously. The landscape streams towards you. Time itself seems to accelerate. Any thought of danger vanishes completely, replaced by a feeling that borders on flight.
Eventually, however, my beloved red-and-white Transalp was stolen after I returned to London. I was devastated.
Yet my affection for the machine remained strong, and before long I acquired another Transalp, this one an olive-green model equipped with disc brakes front and rear.
That second motorcycle carried me on another unforgettable journey, this time across Germany and into Eastern Europe.
A violent thunderstorm greeted me in Germany, but the weather soon cleared and I continued eastward. Unlike my earlier trip, this journey was shaped as much by music as by geography.
One morning I arrived in Leipzig and entered the church containing Johann Sebastian Bach’s tomb. The experience remains among the most profound of my life. The church was almost empty. There were no crowds, no ceremonies, no performances. Only a cleaning woman quietly dusting Bach’s memorial slab.
For decades Bach’s music had accompanied me. To stand there at last, in silence, before his resting place, was overwhelming. It felt as though I had arrived not merely at a destination but at the source of a lifelong inspiration.

From Leipzig I followed other musical trails: Handel, Schumann, and eventually Chopin in Warsaw.
Poland itself was fascinating. I remember roads that rose and dipped gently across marshy landscapes, and endless forests where, in the middle of nowhere, a solitary table might appear beside the road with a young woman selling freshly gathered mushrooms.
Warsaw was memorable for another reason. Having found a campsite, I later became completely unable to find it again. I spent hours circling the city searching for my tent, unable to remember the name of the campsite and utterly defeated by Polish pronunciation.
Further south, Kraków made a deep impression, not least because of its proximity to Auschwitz. To visit the beauty of the city and then confront the industrialised horror of the camp was a powerful reminder of the extremes of human civilisation.
I had hoped to continue onwards into Russia, but circumstances made that impossible. Nevertheless, the journey gave me a vivid sense of Eastern Europe at a moment when much of it still felt undiscovered by Western tourism.
When I eventually settled in Italy, motorcycles gave way to scooters. In Italy, scooters are not merely vehicles; they are part of everyday life. Mine carried me all over Tuscany. It transported me to schools, businesses, factories and private lessons. Occasionally I treated it as if it were an off-road machine, which was not always wise, but it served me faithfully for many years.
The scooter still exists.
The motorcycles are gone.

And now, approaching my eightieth year, I find myself asking whether this particular avenue of pleasure has finally closed.
The practical argument is obvious enough. My wife is an excellent driver. A modern car is warmer, safer and more comfortable. The risks of motorcycling increase with age. Reflexes slow. Bones become less forgiving. Common sense begins to speak more loudly.
Yet when I look back, I do not feel regret.
I feel gratitude.
I was extraordinarily fortunate. Across decades of cycling and motorcycling, I escaped serious injury. I travelled where I wished to travel. I crossed mountains, countries and cultures. I saw landscapes that remain vivid in my memory. I reached places that mattered deeply to me. I courted my wife on two wheels. I stood before Bach’s tomb. I explored Europe under my own power.
Many people reach old age mourning adventures they never had.
I have been lucky enough to have had mine.
Perhaps, then, the question is not whether the avenue has closed. Perhaps the better question is whether the journey itself has ended.
And the answer is clearly no.
The boy cycling to discover where Watling Street led, the young man crossing Europe on a motorcycle, and the older man reflecting on those experiences today are all driven by the same impulse: curiosity.
The desire to see what lies beyond the next bend.
The vehicle changes. Sometimes it is a bicycle. Sometimes it is a motorcycle. Sometimes it is a car driven by a beloved companion. Sometimes it is nothing more than memory, music and imagination.
But the journey continues.
As long as there remains another road to notice, another piece of music to hear, another landscape to admire, another book to read, another conversation to enjoy, another question to ask, life continues to open fresh avenues.
Some pleasures close. Others arrive.
The important thing is not the vehicle.
The important thing is to keep moving, to keep seeing, to keep living, and above all, to keep being.