Not today

 

If you have ever read any of my posts before you will know that this is a blog that uses cycling to lure you in, then bombards you with stuff that these days bears little resemblance to my original metier. The central message of this blog is that Death is the enemy. I was with both of my parents when they each took their last breath and both were profound experiences.

Even if you are Beric Dondarrion you die eventually. Britain's oldest person died this week, 112 apparently. See, no one is immune. But in the west, (I don't mean Somerset, or even Cornwall, you know what I mean), no-one likes to talk about the inevitability of our ending. Uncertain in timing and form it may be, but the God of Death is coming for you all.

This Sunday is designated Father's Day in the UK. An excuse to sell stuff of course, cards and cycling kit mainly. I chose mine a couple of weeks ago at the Rapha outlet store, I know it takes the surprise away, but it's more convenient and everyone is happier. Anyway, I insisted it be hidden away until the anointed time.

But commercialism aside, there is a nice side to honouring your father if you can. My Dad and I had a complicated relationship. I'm told he was intensely proud of me, but he never told me, strangely he told my wife that he was. He drank a lot. No, a lot, like you can't imagine. And yet he seemed so sober most of the time.

I remember lots of stuff all maudlin and sentimental, that believe me, you don't want to read. He was capable of great acts of kindness and charity, and also capable of some pretty nasty behaviour too. He was compulsive, I'm a watered-down version of that, he could be incredibly generous, and also worry intensely about money.

In other words, he was a human being. He helped shape my politics. Of course I argued and railed against him when I was a teenager, but I'm probably quite similar to him politically. He loathed small-mindedness of the Daily Mail variety, we agreed on that. And he hated petty incompetence. Sound familiar? Loved football too, took me to West Ham when I was seven, which I do genuinely thank him for. It's also unfashionable to appreciate it, but he provided for me, his family, through love and a strong sense of duty and obligation.

But family life was difficult, although I only realised that many years later. As a kid, I thought it was all normal, I guess everyone does. We had our ups and downs, I didn't really talk to him for about ten years, but we became close later on.

But of course he died, and although the edge has gone from the grief by now, and we had made a kind of peace by the time he died, some of the emotional impact of that complicated relationship sometimes returns to mess with my psyche. Sometimes consciously and obviously, at other points it's a more insidious and unconscious thing. That said, all of that stuff did help me to be quite resilient and good at bouncing back from tough stuff. I hope it also gave me some empathy and compassion, but you can be the judge of that.

But I think I've had enough of it now. I won't forget, but that clock is ticking, and I want to feel the rest of my life is not constrained by its past. Because one day I'll be just dust, or ashes or some such, and all this stuff will have stopped me from living.  No, really living.

Next week Steep End Down and I are off to Dartmoor for the annual classic. All thoughts of fast times are gone, my cycling form and weight are both far too poor for that, but it is an excuse to enjoy ourselves. There is no better place in England to cycle than Devon. Then in two weeks' time The Mendip Rouleur family are going to a wedding in Fermanagh, and they don't come much more fun than that. Dancing will be done. I promise.

 

Then a week later comes the ultimate in leaving do entertainment. A new chapter in my professional life is about to open. Much as I've enjoyed the last one, this one is going to be much, much better. So on 4th July, in Bristol, there will be fireworks. Wild hysterical laughter will be compulsory. Because, for now, what do we say?