Although still a shameful thing I attribute it to the fact that my father was always behind the lens of a camera and not in front of it. In fact, being the reserved and private person that he was it was inevitable that he would shy away from having his picture taken in a family group or where there was any possibility of it making its way into the local paper, for example.
The few pictures that I do have are understandably very precious to me. There is a common theme in all of them and that is something to do with the sport of cycling.
My favourite is of us both leaning against the safety barriers of a town centre race on a friday evening in summer.
I am on duty as a Marshall at the event and my father has made his way through to the inner part of the course to seek out the best vantage point for the duration of the 30 laps plus five minutes. Although the circuit is noisy with the tannoy system and the applause laden murmur of an appreciative viewing public we have found time to talk about all things cycling.
It is our common interest, one instilled in me by him from his own adventures as a youth and young adult. His heyday was in the post war years when the bicycle was a combination of the transport of choice for the masses and an enforced necessity for the austere times.
On the rare occasions that he felt sufficiently at ease to speak freely of his exploits there would be a mischievous glint in his eye and a boyish expression would take over his world weary brow. There were, to me, fantastical tales of overseas bike rides to Holland and France when still in his teenage years. This coincided with the exchange rate in favour of the Pound Sterling over the guilder and franc which allowed the week or so excursion abroad to resemble that of a visit by a tycoon.
I was encouraged in my cycling in that there was always a succession of bikes available in the house to meet every age group and ability. They were all maintained in pristine working condition even though the paintwork had certainly seen better times. I bought my first serious bike, an ice white 12 speed racer using wages from a seasonal farm job. He advised me on the best make and model. On this cycle I took part in my first amateur race . My father was driver, trainer and mechanic all in one, never critical but just pleased that I was getting as much out of the sport as he obviously had.
We would also trail around the country watching top competitive races featuring the best home grown riders and the few, but increasingly common events where the European and global stars would take part. This, in the space of a few months, took us to the Wincanton Classic in Newcastle, The Leeds Classic and a good few regional cities where we could see fast and furious circuit racing.
Inevitably we would drift apart in our respective roles of father and son through my work pressures and his early retirement but for three weeks every year we would be reunited in our love of cycling with the daily broadcasts of live action and the evening highlights on Channel 4 and latterly the ITV network of the epic Tour de France. The outcome of the daily stages would be analysed and summarised in a telephone call or if I was able to call in at the house we would engage in long conversations over what had taken place. This would build over the 20 plus stages until the finale of the stage into Paris and the frantic bunch sprint for that honour.
He always appreciated the talents of each of the top riders but did not witness the British Victories of Wiggins and Froome in the following years. I found myself watching these great wins on my own with a very heavy heart and sorely missing the great mutual joy and thrill of what should have been a common experiences.
These feelings are very much in the forefront of my emotions today, July 24th 2016 which marks the fifth anniversary of his passing. I am watching the final stage of this years Tour de France with my own son, William, himself a keen cyclist and therefore carrying on the family affinity for the sport.
In 2014 I was a volunteer Tour Maker on the race itself on Stage 2 from York to Sheffield which was an opportunity that I never expected to have in my lifetime. I did feel and very much so, the spirit of my father with me as I patrolled up and down the crowd line.
He would have loved the whole experience.
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