SOME bad news recently arrived at my door concerning the father of one of my youngest daughter's friends.

I do not know this man personally, and my knowledge of the exact circumstances regarding his misfortune is sketchy, to say the least. Suffice to say that he had recently bought a powerful motorcycle and, unhappily, had been involved in an extremely serious accident.

Numerous bones in his body were broken and this man was being nursed in a hospital some distance from his home in Worcester. His machine had been in collision with a lorry or car on a road far from this city, and he was now laid up in intensive care while doctors and nurses attempted to mend his broken body.

The last I heard he was slowly recovering. But I would imagine that the healing process for an individual in his late 40s is probably longer than that of a younger person, so this man would definitely not be on his feet for quite a time.

All in all, a cautionary tale. Especially for men of a certain age - such as myself - who have recently taken a notion to once more riding the highways and byways of old England on two wheels.

Midlife crisis affects males in a number of ways. Some squeeze into ever-tighter trousers, trim the hair in their nostrils, and visit the sort of nightclub that caters for the more mature, discerning punter.

Others hang on grimly in rock bands churning out I Take What I Want, Sweet Home Alabama or Red House ad infinitum, always careful to wear that shirt outside the white slacks so that the results of an increasingly inefficient metabolism will be less apparent.

For them, time has been trapped in a bottle labelled 1974 with the cork well and truly jammed tight shut.

The first two scenarios don't really apply. I'm resigned never to having snake hips again. And as far as the hooter hair is concerned, well, I could always plait it, take it up and cover the bald area. So, as you can see, we had better give Chicago Rock a miss.

As for the guitar, I'm happy just to plunk about with friends. Many moons ago, I had, like most lads of the baby-boomer generation, fantasised about pop stardom. That was in the days when you actually had to be proficient on an instrument to win fame. Yes, incredible, I know.

Such a contrast to the desperate attempts of today's wannabes who, by the looks of it, practise their art either in the bath or clutching a brush and mouthing at the mirror. Anyway, along with thousands of others, it was not meant to be. Fickle fame never pointed her finger in my direction.

That just leaves the third scenario - motorbikes. Oh yes... the whiff of that faint, blue-coloured exhaust smoke, the wind in your face. The smell of hot oil, stewed in the sump after a long ride. Throttle in your right hand, clutch held in the left. The wind in your face and the bugs splattered on the visor.

Yes. I want that again. In a way, it's like meeting an old friend from years ago. Will it work? Can the friendship be taken up where it was left off? Will it still feel the same...

Until a few years ago, a two-wheeled beast was always nearby if I was in the vicinity. Like many lads of my generation, a motorcycle or scooter had been bought, begged or borrowed upon reaching the magical age of 16. In those days, nobody would have bought a car at least until they had reached 21.

And what would have been the point? Where was the sheer, naked excitement of being trapped in a glorified tin can? No, if you wanted to make friends, influence people and impress the girls, then you needed two wheels.

If you were mod, then the preferred steed was a Lambretta li 150. I had a TV 175 with racks, tank aerial, fur-covered seat and numerous headlamps. However, the deluxe model was the GT 200.

Beginners settled for a Vespa - I believe that its cubic capacity was 125 or even as low as 100. Then there was the NSU Prima which, although a trifle sluggish going up hills, served well as a starter scooter.

To be honest, I'd changed sides quite early on. Being a country boy, I followed the other lads and plumped for a motorbike upon coming of age.

This was a Triumph Tiger Club, a throaty beast that gave good value and road authority for its mere 250cc. This vision of blue, black and trademark red flash on the fuel tank was the envy of all until I buckled the forks after hitting a tree on a sharp bend.

I then inherited my father's NSU Prima and became a mod. He had ridden this machine to and from work for five years. I wrecked it in five weeks. The TV 175 followed and this lasted an amazing two years - but by then, the mod craze had finished, and so I returned to bikes.

Going against the advice of my late, bike-mad Uncle Norman - he hated all things Japanese and with good reason - I started riding Hondas and Suzukis. As the years wore on, they gradually grew smaller and smaller, almost reaching moped level. My last machine was a 125cc model that did its job, but certainly started to wobble if the wind was in the wrong direction.

Well, you will have guessed by now that those old fires of motorcycling desire have been rekindled. Once again, the open road is calling one of its sons homeward. I have begun, ever so slowly, and with commendable caution, to examine the possibility of buying a bike again.

Oh dear, just to mouth these words makes me catch my breath. It quickens the heartbeat, like catching sight of an old love on a railway station, an enchanting vision who vanishes almost as soon as she is seen. Truly, the romance of motorbikes is indeed a rare thing.

So, that is the manifestation of my midlife crisis and I freely plead guilty.

At the moment, the plan is on hold - it all depends on a life insurance policy maturing and yielding enough filthy lucre to enable me to purchase the item in question.

Surely, such an aspiration must be preferable to shoe-horning into a pair of figure-hugging hipsters, re-acquainting myself with the chords of All Right Now or even worse - doing both. No, keep it within limits, Phillpott - save up for that bike and travel over the hills and far away as you did in the summer of your younger days..

But just make sure of one thing. Take it easy this time, no more bat-out-of-hell routines. No more nine lives, the needle's almost on empty.

For the evidence is all around of what can happen to middle-aged men who think they are as immortal as they were when all the world was young.