Winter was ebbing. The smoky aroma of an early-morning bonfire hung in the air — the scent of brown leaves smouldering on dry earth fanned by a gentle breeze. There was a nip in the air, nay a chill.

My father had returned from one of his many official sojourns to distant lands. And he returned, as was wont, laden with gifts for my sister and me. Some of these gifts came as a result of a list handed to him before he departed, and some were products of his generosity of spirit.

It was 1982. Sony’s creation of a genius — the Walkman — was becoming more of a rage with each passing hour. The request for a Walkman was on top of the list handed to my father. Joy erupted as he opened his suitcase ... the treasured Walkman. But wait a minute. The heart sank. This looked different. It wasn’t the small, sporty one. This one looked a bit bigger, nay much bigger ...

My father grunted. It was the best. And he knew his music as he did his food. It took a few moments to come to terms with his judgement. He was forgiven quickly because he had returned with the album of the time: The Police’s Ghost in the Machine.

The Walkman took a few seconds to come to life once the batteries had been inserted. No hang. No reboot. The headphones were things of wonder. Small. Black. The smell of sponge. They were snug on the ear. And with a Walkman one walks. The aroma of the bonfire wafted through the bright morning. There was the winter chill. And there was that tune: Every Little Thing She Does is Magic. The Police is magic. Those were magical days with long walks, the Walkman slid into the belt and The Police belting out Canary in a Coalmine.

The Walkman enjoyed its Glory Days, to borrow the phrase from the Boss, Bruce Springsteen. Then came the Discman. And the MP3 player. Or the mighty icon, the iPod. Now there was no drained battery to dampen your spirits. All you had to do was download The Police on your laptop and transfer the songs to your tiny (finally) iPod. But you must remember to charge it ...

The years have passed. The Police have gone their separate ways. Sting is now a very mature songster. I still ride my cycle every morning though, like I used to as a teenager, with my Walkman clung to my hip. The only difference is now I have an iPod. I still listen to The Police. But more Sting than The Police. I create a playlist every morning and ride out. It’s pure bliss. The breeze, the music, the song of the birds, the green fields, dogs romping.

But it’s not that simple anymore. There’s a lot of preparation to be done and it’s nerve-racking.

The iPod has to be charged. The headphones have to be charged — for a very long time. The watch has to be charged. The cycle computer has to be charged — for quite some time. The power meter must be calibrated. Once these details have been sorted, the long and winding roads beckon.

Bottles filled with cold water and electrolytes are placed in the cages of the cycle and the long journey begins. Sting belts out Love is the Seventh Wave and then when he is somewhere in the middle of If You Love Someone, a chill runs down the spine ... beads of cold sweat on the forehead and the morning bliss evaporates into the moisture laden clouds. I did not charge my cycle ... I will not be able to shift gears. There will be no joy in climbing, no joy in descent. I will just have to ride home.

We live in the world of chargers, staying wired most of the time. Oh for the days of the Walkman and that spongy earphone that I did not have to charge. My father was right, it was the best. But why then do I yearn for my iPod?