Generations: Like father, like son?

It's fairly well documented that me and my old man don't get on. It's also fair to say that things are more than a little strained between us. I do have some fond memories of stories he would tell me about his youth. Somehow those stories seemed to be of lawless golden age where people did as they pleased and unruly kids got a clip round the ear. I always imagined those stories in sepia, funny the way an 8‑year‑old's mind works. My favourites were of him and his brother tearing round the farm on motorbike 2‑up, I can't remember the bike and it's not important. Two lads in their early teens terrorizing crows, cows and neighbours alike. Then, in later years, they progressed to BSAs and a Matchless. The old man preferred to ride pillion and prided himself in guaranteeing the rider could make any bend with him on the back. The stories of friends running in packs, without lids or any safety gear. Tales of opposite facing door handles catching clothing as the riders skim past and in one case actually detaching from the car and embedding itself in one hapless rider's leg!

Wind forward thirty odd years and the old man is sat on the back of my Radian 600 Import. He is trying to scrape the chin guard of his lid on the road with mad head leans on all bends! I was considering the fact that this may be an age old technique that his generation pioneered… nahh as usual he was talking rubbish and acting the fool! It was a real let down in so many ways. A childhood of anxiety and disappointment was completed with that one week of him being my pillion. That one week where the anxiety came from him risking both our lives to prove some fantasy, some delusion that he was once great at something I now love. A week spent trying to prove that not only can he still do it but, that he can beat me at my own game. It's funny how ridiculous he looked in his fifties competing with a twenty something son who would never speak with him again.

So I guess the question is, was it an inspirational experience? Do I now find myself occasionally pondering how I match up to the previous generation? Do I hope that my tales of adventure and mishap captivate my kids the way his captivated me? Not at all, not one fucking thought. The past stays behind me, I haven't got time to look back because the next truck to dodge is fast approaching on the horizon and I've got a future to forge.

The irony is that old man is not responsible for my passion for bikes. That accolade belongs to a custom bike rider who when I was 17 nodded to me as I hurtled down an anonymous lane in Surrey on an AR125 with learner plates. That single act of acknowledgement that filled me with pride and made the hairs on my arms prickle. Ironic really how I, now years later, find myself riding that custom and encouraging the learners in the way I was once encouraged.