In the spring of 1981, Gary Nixon had been retired from racing for several years, but there were some things about being Gary Nixon that retirement could not change.

One was that Barry Sheene still wore a Gary Nixon T-shirt underneath his leathers when he raced.

Sheene had almost grown up admiring Nixon, the hard-as-nails American who had won two AMA Grand National Championships and raced just about anything with two wheels. By the time Nixon retired, their positions had reversed. Sheene was the two-time 500cc World Champion, international celebrity and hero to millions, Nixon included.

For three and a half years Sheene had been trying to get Nixon to visit him in England. Nixon always had an excuse, usually money.

Finally Sheene removed that excuse.

“I know Freddy Laker,” he told Nixon. “All you have to do is get to New York and I’ll take care of everything else.” Laker owned an airline at the time.

Nixon found a World Airways flight from Baltimore instead and paid his own way.

He landed at Gatwick at seven in the morning and found Sheene waiting for him. Somehow Barry collected Nixon before he had even cleared customs, which was Nixon’s first indication that traveling with Barry Sheene in England was going to be different from traveling with anybody else.

Sheene lived less than two miles from Gatwick on six acres in a place called Manor House. Calling it a house was inadequate. Parts of the place dated to the 11th century and, after centuries of additions, it had 32 rooms. Sheene had remodeled the interior after buying it.

He handed Nixon some money.

“Here is the money for your air fare.”

Nixon refused. Sheene insisted. They went back and forth three times.

Nixon finally let him win.

There were hazards to Manor House. Upstairs were a couple of doorways barely five feet high, remnants of an age when Englishmen were apparently much shorter. Nixon hit them enough times that after a couple of days he learned when to duck.

There wasn't much time to recover from jet lag. Sheene had airplanes, helicopters, interviews, races and a seemingly endless procession of people coming and going.

Soon after Nixon arrived, Sheene took him up in his helicopter to check on his twin-engine Cessna. Then there was another helicopter, a rented Jet Ranger at $800 an hour, which wouldn't start. They substituted another machine fitted with pontoons.

This was apparently an ordinary Wednesday in the life of Barry Sheene.

The following day Sheene had to take a test for his Hughes 500 helicopter license. Racer Steve Parrish came along. Nixon was supposed to go, too, but Sheene decided the helicopter didn't feel right with the extra weight aboard and left him behind.

Nixon subsequently learned what he'd missed.

Without warning Parrish, the instructor shut off the engine and ordered Sheene to perform a dead-stick landing. Parrish, sitting in back, suddenly understood what the examination involved.

After Sheene completed three autorotation landings and passed, Nixon decided he hadn't missed anything after all.

“Hearing Stevros describe the maneuvers, I’m kind of glad I wasn’t with them.”

Life at Manor House settled into a rhythm: airplanes, motorcycles, racers, enormous meals prepared by Sheene's girlfriend Stephanie, Sambuca and conversations that regularly lasted until three in the morning.

Sheene's fame followed him everywhere.

At a grocery store, customers lined up for autographs while Nixon packed the groceries. Sheene finally wrote a check at the register.

The clerk, who had just watched Barry Sheene autograph everything put in front of him, asked him for identification.

Nixon nearly fell over.

They stopped at a liquor store for Sambuca. Again Sheene signed autographs. Then he handed over his credit card.

The store insisted on running a credit check.

Nixon nearly fell over again.

Sheene's new Yamaha XS1100 provided another lesson.

The motorcycle had one mile on its odometer when Nixon climbed aboard the back. Sheene found a straight road and promptly ran it to 120 mph.

At the first roundabout Nixon tried moving around like his host, intending to “do the Barry Sheene” and hang off.

He nearly fell off the motorcycle.

At a gas stop Nixon complained that Sheene was scaring the hell out of him on roads he'd never seen.

“Trust me, Nickers,” Sheene said.

Then came the suggestion:

“Let’s do a wheelie!”

Nixon wrapped both arms around Sheene and told him not to flip the damn thing. Sheene lofted the Yamaha anyway.

Nixon soon discovered an effective speed-control system. If he squeezed Sheene's chest hard enough, Barry couldn't breathe and rolled off the throttle.

From then on, whenever Nixon spotted a danger sign or roundabout, he squeezed.

Sheene shut off.

There was another side to Sheene that Nixon watched with fascination. Before an upcoming trip through Hong Kong, Japan, Spain and Malaysia, Barry spent two solid days in his office arranging his life by telephone. Nixon would walk in and find him speaking Spanish to someone in Spain, then calling Japan, then Michelin in France and speaking French, then talking in Italian to someone in Italy.

“His phone bill must be something else,” Nixon concluded.

Even the transportation between appointments could become an adventure. Returning by helicopter from Mallory Park one day, Nixon noticed the fuel getting low.

Sheene tried an Air Force base. They wouldn't sell him fuel.

Nixon asked where the reserve switch was.

There wasn't one.

Then how much warning did you get before running out?

Sheene pointed to a little red light. When that came on, he explained, it was accompanied by silence.

They landed with the gauge indicating 20 gallons remained.

When they filled the helicopter, it took all but 11.

“That was close enough for me.”

Eventually they returned to Mallory Park for the Race of the Year. Sheene's works Yamaha 500 was already in Japan, leaving him to race a Yamaha 750 against the lighter factory 500s of Randy Mamola, Graeme Crosby and Kork Ballington.

For Nixon, it was one of the best road races he'd seen in years.

Afterward he found Sheene inside the motorhome simultaneously changing clothes, signing autographs and giving an interview.

That, perhaps more than the Rolls-Royce, airplanes, helicopters and 32-room medieval house, explained what Nixon admired about him.

Barry Sheene was a superstar, but underneath all of it he remained a motorcycle racer.

Near the end of Nixon's stay, Sheene and Stephanie flew him by helicopter to the town where his in-laws lived. Someone had given them permission to land on a cricket field provided they didn't land on the wicket.

Nixon had no idea what a cricket wicket was.

They found the field anyway and put the helicopter down without destroying British sporting tradition.

Then it was time for Gary Nixon to say goodbye to the man who had once considered him a hero.

The feeling had become mutual.

Nixon returned to America having been flown around England, frightened on motorcycles, nearly stranded in helicopters, overfed, underslept and treated, as he put it, “like a king.”

It had been, Nixon said, “the best time I had had in a long, long time.”