He took our money, directed us roughly towards two of the wedge shaped things, handed them over, and went back to bed. We hit the road in unbridled glee, unaware of the shame, ignominy, yet uniquely iconic venture we were about to engage in.

Millport’s main (almost only) road was still quiet, and we had it to ourselves, trying to get familiar with this oddest of sensations. The plastic seat left an immediate numbing pain in the bone of the arse. The angle of the handlebars meant getting a grip on the brakes was tough. The steering was direct from a child’s scooter. But wait. What’s this button, there?

If you have seen The Living Daylights, when 007 hits the afterburner on his Aston Martin on the frozen lake, then you’ll get some idea of what a shock to an eleven year old boy’s system it was to suddenly be powered forward under his own stream on the open road for the first time. And rear wheel drive, no less. With your bum only three inches from the road, the illusion of speed is more convincing than the reality, but the sudden lack of control, combined with unbridled exhilaration, was genuinely akin to the surprising and unexpected pleasure of a boy’s first crush. And if we are honest with ourselves, we all remember that rather painfully, don‘t we?

So suddenly, oh my god, I am at 9 volt battery propelled warp factor 12 miles an hour, and my legs aren’t even moving. Oh, the freedom. Oh, the open road. I am eye level with the seats on the public benches, and make out the wee burrens in the adjacent field. I can go anywhere (within 10 and ¾ miles). The world is mine. And I don’t even need to be fit. Bliss.

Is it possible that my later love of driving, cars, trans-European road trips and the love of powered propulsion stemmed from that one moment of unbridled novelty? When the world shifted from black and white into colour, like Dorothy stepping into the magical land of Oz? Like a kiss from the road. Either way, the pure, pre-pubescent adrenalin-charged exhilaration was unbounded, and in the child’s mistaken sense of innocence and invulnerability, I powered on, intoxicated by the unending open road. I was only going at little more than jogging pace. But in my minds eye, a red cape flowed from my shoulders, and a painted ’S’ for Stevie adorned my chest. Coming through a storm on the M8 last night in the buffeting rain at not 1mph above 70 (ahem….), I swear it could still be seen through my shirt. For nearly one brief hour, I believed I could fly.