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There was nothing. I asked a passer-by if he knew where dottore Locatelli’s old house had been, but he shrugged his shoulders.

It was the end of February; people were still talking about the Eleven Cities Skating Race, but she had already done a few circuits. She pointed to the kilometre counter: 195 kilometres. ‘Four times. Not bad, is it? And alone, you know, you’ve got to allow for that. Average 26.1.’ We made a date for two days later. I was looking forward to it—cycling together is friendship, love and togetherness, all in one.

We rode west. At Egmond we went into the dunes. Rays of sunshine were drawing the cold out of the ground. ‘Take it easy, Dad,’ shouted Anna. ‘I’m still not properly in shape.’

She was talking like a pro in the early spring. I held back, rode alongside her, and gave her a push in the back. ‘You’re pedalling too hard! All women pedal too hard. It’s because they’re always toiling along on those crazy Granny bikes. You must keep it supple. Change gears more lightly.’ She did as I said. I put my hands on the handlebars and just for a moment touched happiness.