THE FIRST time I rode on the back of a taxi bike we passed — on Upper Thames Street — the detritus, if that’s the word, of a motorcycle accident. There was a bike, on its side, in the road; there was an ambulance. Nothing else. Still, it wasn't a heartening sight.

I later learnt that my driver, Ceri Mort, the managing director of Virgin Limobikes, went back to his office and announced: “I guess that’s the last time we'll hear from her.”

I’m very glad to say he was wrong. I am not glad to say that there's now a chance — thanks to a clause in a Transport for London initiative which says a vehicle for private hire should have four wheels — that my preferred mode of transport may be outlawed, come March. Why? Because it is — hold your breath! stop press! — more dangerous than riding in a taxi.

Ken? I know. Really, I do. Cross my heart and hope to die (okay, maybe that’s not the right way to phrase it in the circumstances), I am aware of the increased risk and am willing to accept it — for the speed, for the fun, for the privilege of riding with Ceri, Kenny, Russ, Damien, Rhys, Danny, Tim and Pete: all hail the considerate and charming chauffeurs who make up the Virgin fleet (they’re my boys, but I'll stand up too for Addison Lee Taxi Bikes, Passenger Bikes and the easy riders of London Executive). Shouldn’t that decision be up to me?

Here we go again. Conkers too dangerous for the playground. Webcams in Santa’s grotto in case of allegations of sexual abuse. When I was in Manhattan over Christmas I passed what used to be a terrifically smoke-filled bar on Amsterdam Avenue — now lacking both atmosphere (of every kind) and any kind of crowd at all. The owner had put a sign in the window: “If people wanted smoke-free bars, greedy entrepreneurs would have opened them years ago.”

I’m not in favour of dicing with death. I’m not even a smoker. Of course, if you got rid of all the risks in life, you could live a lot longer . . . or it might just feel that way.

I’m a grown-up, thanks, and I climb on the back of my bike with my helmet on and my eyes wide open. There is no such thing as safety, even if you never leave the four walls of your room.

Lay off, Ken. Or better still: call Ceri and take a ride. You might just find you're a convert, too.