Something in the number seemed familiar and horrible. Moved by an uncontrollable impulse, I sprang into a side street and ran until I fell exhausted in a country lane.

Once he was over the hump of the hill, he let the cycle glide. He slowed down on Rose Lane, found the house number, which he had memorized, and rang the bell.

That it has seemingly endless, overlapping multi-lane highways versus a tiny number of bike lanes.