Reach for The Sky

I will miss chatting with my Father this afternoon about the outcome, whatever the outcome may be, of this years Tour de France which has its final stage into Paris.

Cycling was a common interest between us. Some of the longest and most interesting and informative conversations I had with him were about cycling which was remarkable given his naturally reserved and shy nature. In his youth he had been on his own cycle tours through Europe including Holland and France showing great independence and resourcefullness for someone so young. My childhood years, as depicted on the earliest of photographs, were conducted for a large part on two wheels, initially with stabilisers but soon without any assistance.

There was always a ready supply of the next bike as the current one was rapidly outgrown. Any bike maintenance from a puncture to a major overhaul or rebuild was no problem for him. A second hand bike could be fully roadworthy within minutes of being purchased , smooth, well oiled and noise free apart from the revolution of the pedals and the taut friction of rubber on the road. My schoolfriends would also find their bikes had been fully and efficiently serviced if they happened to leave them lying anywhere within our house or garden. Our riding position was always scrutinised for perfect saddle height and the ability to still touch the ground with more than just tippee-toes.

I  revelled in his recounting of bike stories when they were pestered out of him  and in particular the mention of the old trusty manufacturers of the post war period, Jack Taylor, Claude Butler and many bespoke builders who were no longer in business.

I was understandably over brimming with excitement when a couple of years ago I found a Freddie Grubb frame in an attic and persuaded the Trustees of an Estate to sell it to me. It was earmarked as a gift for Father, who had always admired the man and the machine. He promptly stripped down and revamped the frame ready for the road with reverence and respect for the pedigree. 

Father was willingly commandeered to drive me to some of my first competitive races and I can recall clearly his expression of pride and not a little bit of shock and surprise on the sole occasion of my winning a race, albeit not the main one of that day in that place but I rode hard and well and finished some minutes ahead of the rest. It was on local roads and with the reasonably attended event concluding in my home town. That afternoon I took my youngest brother and some of his friends out to the Army Transport Museum but had not accounted for my exertions in victory and could hardly walk and fulfill my voluntary supervision role.

Father saw me on my first time trial race, on a thirty seven and a half mile hilly circuit and I dedicated a respectable 20th position to him for his support.. He would also be witness to my poor preparation and motivation when, in  more than one event I would not even make it to the start line due to a mechanical fault, my own fault mostly, or I would give up without really trying if, on even the first lap, I felt nauseous  but without persisting and catching that second wind after which I could usually compete pretty well.

We travelled some distances to watch the best Professional races in the UK and I fondly remember a long weekend and overnight stay in Newcastle to see the Wincanton Classic at which I managed to pat the great Sean Kelly on the back as he rode through the crowds to take up his place on the finish line podium. I rashly arranged to meet Father at the Cow and Calf Rocks on top of Ilkley Moor to see the maginificent sight of the full Leeds Classic field go by at the start of the race before going into the city to see the final circuits. I had set off on my bike from Hull at 5am to ride to the rendezvous but it was a very ambitious thing to do given the torrential rain and driving winds that hampered anyone heading in a westerly direction. Father and my youngest brother passed me in the car, just at the Leeds Ring Road, with a cheery wave to which I returned a damp grimace and attempted to conceal the pain and demoralisation I was feeling from my efforts. I actually missed the race ascent of the steep hill out of Ilkley and had to admit defeat by having to dismount and push my bike up the hill, the first time a climb had  got the better of me anywhere and ever. My mobile support team had waited anxiously and patiently for me long after the hillside had been vacated by the large throng of enthusiastic cycling fans.

In later years when cycling was sidelined in deference to earning a living I was able to put back something in the sport and for 17 years supported and sponsored a local cycle racing team. Our family name featured on the brightly coloured jerseys which could be easily spotted amongst traffic and in mass start road races and Father would let me know when he had seen one of the squad out training or provide me with the results if I had missed them in Cycling Weekly Magazine or in the smallprint of the daily papers.

The weekend of top class racing in Beverley in July each year was something we watched together from the streetside or I would look out for and wave at both my parents as they stood on the edge of the Westwood pasture to watch the big main race pass on which I would have a driving role.

Father did not get to see last years racing as he died suddenly just a week before the event. The organisers were kind enough to accept, from the family, a cash prize for an intermediate sprint during the race in his memory and the name of Donald Thomson reverberated around the crowded Market Place many times that summer evening.

I have just watched the Tour finish in Paris with a British winner for the first time. I feel a great void in not being able to just pick up the phone and compare notes with the person who started me off on my bike all those years ago, correcting my tendency to wobble and setting me off for a lifetime of a love of cycling.