Kevin Ash was among the world's very best bike journalists From the office, we rode up the M11 to Chelmsford. "Just a little spin," Kevin assured me, grinning. Suffice to say, with one arm locked around Kevin for acceleration, as instructed, and the other braced against the fuel tank in front of him for deceleration, I was in an equal mixture of pleasure and pain for the entire journey. On the way back, I'd lost all the strength in my arms. Kevin, being a big, gentle bear of a man, tenderly offered to take my full body weight for braking. Grateful, I wrapped my arms around him and slumped, happy and exhausted, on my little pillion perch, all the way home. I've never felt so safe and excited, or so sure that I'd like to get my bike licence. Kevin duly helped me arrange an intensive course with Harley-Davidson at its centre in Wales; I crashed and stumbled my way through it, with endless emails and texts from Kevin encouraging me on, and to my own amazement passed. I then consulted Kevin on a series of rooky-friendly bikes, and, on his advice, started with the bike I'd learned on - a Harley Sportster 883R, followed by a BMW F800 ST and a Kawasaki ER-6f. I remember my first crash - I'd just picked up the Harley, gleaming in the winter sun and full of petrol, from Warr's dealership on the King's Road, and set off home for Christmas via the Blackwall Tunnel sliproad where, one minute I was barrelling along, the next I was skidding on my side, away from the bike, at about 30mph. I picked myself up and examined the road behind me, where a diesel patch lay glistening, an evil rainbow puddle on the road. I sat sorrowfully on the railings, and called Kevin, my two-wheeling guru. Full of concern for me, and not the bike, he generously said it could have happened to anyone. Not, one suspects, to Kevin, who had that great biker's ability to read the road ahead as if he'd already travelled it. He could be on the most technically demanding bike, but still note that, five cars ahead, the driver of a white van was glancing in his rear-view mirror and therefore probably about to make a U-turn. He always said to me, "Erin, if you make a mistake as a biker, it's your fault." He'd never dream of passing on the blame to other motorists, the weather or diesel spills - an experienced biker should be prepared and alert for everything. And he was, even to the extent of grabbing my ankles as they sailed up past his ears one evening during the Le Mans 24 Hours, a few years ago. We'd gone together on a Harley press trip down to the race. I was riding pillion on his bike and was a little the worse for wear as we travelled back to the hotel for a few hours' kip. So relaxed was I in his company, that I, erm, sort of nodded off/passed out at about 70mph on the autoroute. As I reclined, somnambulatory, backwards, my feet rose majestically skywards. Kevin, with right hand on the bars, grabbed my left boot firmly, and shook me awake. He laughed, and I sobered up. We don't yet know precisely what happened in South Africa this week, but I do know for certain that it's something that no biker would have been able to get themselves out of in time, if Kevin couldn't avoid it. There was no finer biker, and he has left an industry in mourning: the rest of the world launch of the R1200GS has been postponed, despite it being a year in the planning and the model being the world's best-selling bike. Then again, Kevin was among the world's very best bike journalists. Our thoughts are with his wife Caroline, and three daughters, Laurien, aged 20, Kirsten, aged 18, and Ingrid, aged 10. Above all else, he was an extremely proud dad.