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After two years, the paper’s cycling reporter retired and I was able to take over from him. In the spring I followed the peloton and reported first on the Paris-Nice or the Tirreno-Adriatico and then on the classics, and in the summer I went to the Tour de France.

During the day I would drive slightly behind the peloton and afterward talk to the racers. Then I would type up a piece, and in the evening go out with colleagues to a good restaurant to talk over the race and life in general. I couldn’t imagine a better existence, and I was always sorry in the autumn when, after the world championship, Paris-Tours, and the Giro di Lombardia, it was over for another five months.

When I was 24, the week after Holland became European football champions, I moved in with Hinke. She was beautiful, and had the Nordic white skin and clear, challenging eyes. She could easily put her long legs behind her neck, since she had done gymnastics from an early age. I was in love and thought she was a very nice person, but that was before I had awakened a less nice side in her.