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On the fourth birthday of our daughter Anna, in 1995, she gave me a choice. I could choose between fatherhood and the nomadic existence of a cycling correspondent. In the case of the former, she would continue to be a part of my life, and in the latter, she would disappear from it and take my daughter with her. I chose to become a real father.

I went to the editor-in-chief and explained my situation. A month earlier, our crime correspondent had died of a heart attack. The editor-in-chief asked if I knew anything about crime and justice.

‘I’ve been a cycling correspondent and I’ve read Crime and Punishment,’ I replied, more or less as a joke.

‘Okay, then you’re the man we need. Congratulations.’

When I turned 40, I stopped smoking, got my old Batavus out of the shed, and began cleaning it up. It was, may I say, one of my better decisions. On the bike I began slowly but surely to realize that you can go right, but also left. That you can always take the same route, but can also choose a different one. That things sometimes happen to you, but that you can do something for yourself. Anyway, it was another five years before we got divorced. Anna was 18 by then, and there was no longer any reason for Hinke and me to stay together.