The Author 1958

The other day, walking along our street, I met a neighbour cleaning his new motorcycle. I stopped to admire his machine.

It's difficult not to stop and chat with neighbours, as the street is little more than 6 feet wide, but it can take half an hour to walk its quarter of a mile length during daylight, when neighbours are out and about, and one wants to say 'hello'.

Anyway, he offered me a ride, immediately nostalgia gripped me by the guts, and before I knew it, it popped his helmet on my head, and I was riding along the narrow winding road.

It wasn't disappointment that struck me, it was a sense of profound loss. I had to think about changing gear – was it left foot, was it up for up, or up for down?

The clutch was fierce, and my reactions were not.

I rode to the top of the hill, had a spin round the car park, and rode back to his house, thankful that there were few people out walking, and no Dogs, to chase me.

"Did you enjoy that Tom" he asked.

I replied "I did indeed – it brought back memories".

What I didn't say, was that unlike in my youth, or in my dreams, me and Machine were not one. Rather, it brought back memories of my 10 year-old self, riding a motorcycle for the first time, and experiencing the fear, the ecstasy, and the anticipation of mastery.

It is said that one never loses the ability to ride a bicycle, or swim, because muscle memory takes over – but, what one does lose is confidence, and that, I believe, is what goes with lack of practice.

Maybe that is why every time I drive my car, I practice. I try to take the best line on the bends, so that I keep a good speed without sending the groceries flying. And silly things, like changing lanes without the tires touching the cats eyes.

It is then that I remember my father, who every day would practice snooker, and play music, knowing that he would never get any better, but that he would never lose the magic.