Fifty years ago I travelled from Liverpool to South Wales on a 350cc AJS motorbike. On the pillion was a French friend who had promised to telephone his nervous wife the minute we arrived. Nearing Builth Wells, I was driving too fast and we hit a farm gate on a right-angled bend. Hilaire, my passenger, continued over it, while I remained with the bike, and was unhurt. Hilaire staggered to his feet, muttering, 'J'ai fait une culbute' - the word for somersault remains with me still. Mercifully, his injuries were slight, although he said, 'I 'ave eaten my lip.'

The motorbike, however, was in a sorry state. The handlebars were pointed along the axis of the bike rather like the tiller on a boat and the headlamp was smashed. Surprisingly, the engine started first time. We proceeded with caution to Builth Wells and decided to stay there overnight. Hilaire telephoned his wife. 'Allo, Isabel,' he said. 'We are 'ere!' She was much relieved that we had arrived in one piece.

The next morning we decided to ride on, and returned to Liverpool without further incident. It was one of the least comfortable journeys of my life.

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