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company, he was serious about cycling. Max Pendleton was twenty-four; Pauline Viney was twenty-two. They were married within six months of meeting. Max and Pauline Pendleton, of course, went on a cycling honeymoon. There is a photograph of my mother in a family photo album which shows her having a break on top of a hill somewhere. She looks red and very puffed. I could relate to the exhausted look of Mum in that photograph. I knew better than anyone what it was like to go for a long ride with Dad. He never slowed down for anyone.

      It felt as if the only way I could hold Dad’s attention was if I did what he liked to do most – ride a bike. Alex was a boy and, even if he had once been a very sick little boy, it seemed as if Dad went riding more with my brother than me. At St Mary’s Primary School in Stotfold I wrote a poem about my dad. It was heartfelt. The poem began with a line which said, ‘My dad’s got dark brown hair and he’s good at DIY.’ It wasn’t very punchy but in the last line I wrote, more yearningly, that I wished Dad took me out on my bike as often as he did with Alex.

      Max Pendleton was still a name, and a rider, to strike fear into the hearts of amateur cyclists across England. He was a winner. I remember going to track meetings with Dad when I’d hear other riders groan out loud and say, ‘Oh no, I can’t believe he’s here.’ They all knew that Max Pendleton would clean up. He’d win, pick up the prize money and go home.

      Tough and aggressive, Dad was always the rider who attacked when everyone else was suffering. He would wait as long as it took for everyone else to start to wilt and then, showing no mercy, he would turn on the burners. I thought my dad was incredible.

      Max Pendleton was good enough to make the black-and-white cover of Cycling Weekly – because he had been successful at national championship level. It made me proud to be his daughter. Secretly, I wanted to impress people like Max Pendleton did. I wanted to be really good at something; even if I didn’t know then what that ‘something’ might be or even how I might turn that feeling into words.

      Something unusual began to take shape on a grass track in Fordham, a small village near Colchester in Essex. Alex and I stood next to our shiny new race bikes. We fiddled awkwardly with our helmets. It felt like a big block of polystyrene, covered by stretchy red, white and blue fabric, had been shoved on top of our heads. We looked ludicrous, and we knew it. We had just turned nine.

      Nicola, who was fourteen, called her helmet a piss-pot. We all thought that was hysterical – and it took Nicky’s mind off cycling because she was far more interested in music. Nicky would have been happier performing a solo in the school orchestra, a challenge that would have scared me half to death. I felt safer on my bike, even with a massive piss-pot sliding off my head.

      Dad never wore a helmet. He always rode hard and free. But we couldn’t escape the piss-pots. That year, in 1989, it had just been made legally binding for children to wear helmets in a race.

      The Pendleton twins had their photo taken before our first-ever race in Fordham. Alex and I felt even more ridiculous, posing alongside our bikes. Our skinny arms stuck out of our baggy jumpers and our tiny legs looked strangely white beneath our black shorts. We were the only riders in the junior race that day. It was enough for me. I just wanted to beat Alex. Nothing else really mattered.

      I felt amazingly close to Alex but I found it infuriating that, just because he was a boy, he was naturally stronger and faster than me. He was also much less fearful than me and had ridden his BMX far longer and more daringly than I had done on my bike. Years earlier, long before I felt confident enough to do so, Alex had asked for his stabilizers to be removed. I was more worried that I would fall off and hurt myself.

      Alex was just better and braver than me. It wasn’t fair; and I was always trying to prove that I finally could match my twin for speed, endurance, efficiency, courage, tidiness, you name it. We all had the urge to beat each other. Even Nicola, when it came to war over Monopoly, was determined to win. It got very messy during board games. But, on our bikes, it was different. Alex still wanted to win but he was not as obsessed as me. He usually beat me but, on those rare occasions when I won while we were racing for fun at home, Alex just shrugged it off. I was much more like Dad. It felt important that I rode faster than Alex.

      No more than thirty spectators stood around the track in Fordham. Most of them knew Dad and they must have been amused that his twins were the only two riders in the children’s race.

      A Pendleton vs V Pendleton. A twin brother versus his twin sister. A boy against a girl.

      I held the handlebars tight as we waited for the gun. The piss-pot felt heavy and unsteady on my head but I stared straight down the length of the grassy track. I could sense Alex at my side. He knew how much I wanted to beat him and so neither of us uttered a word.

      Alex got away quicker than me, as usual, and he picked up speed down the long straight. I pedalled as fast as I could but the track was bumpy. Every time we hit another little mound of earth my helmet wobbled and slid down over my eyes. By the time I was about to take the first corner I was blinded by the piss-pot. I had to take a hand off the steering wheel and push the helmet back up my forehead. Alex had done the same. Our helmets were more likely to kill us than save us.

      In between the bumps and the blinding moments I struggled to keep up with Alex in our one-lap race. Four hundred meters were just not long enough for me to haul my brother in – especially not with a piss-pot on my head. He won our first proper race. It was one-up to Alex, one for the boys.

      I didn’t cry. I knew I’d be better next time. I would beat Alex one day in a proper race.

      Dad was a man of achievement. He made things happen, often with his hands or the sheer force of his will. Dad might have made me feel bad some of the time but, still, I placed him high on a pedestal I built in my mind. I loved the fact that he was so practical and that he knew so much about everything. When he and Mum decided we needed to build an extension to the house, Dad did it himself. He learnt all he needed about the electrics and the plumbing; and he set about his work with drive and precision.

      I liked helping Dad, and so I would pile up bricks in the wheelbarrow and move them to exactly where they were needed. Dad was cheerful. He even let me lay some of the bricks as he built our solid new extension. He taught me a lot and I could soon identify and hand him a jubilee clip. I was that sort of girl.

      When Dad was in a good mood, no-one else in the whole wide world came close to being as much fun as him. I loved the fact that Dad still made us laugh uncontrollably and squeal when he took us out to fly our kites. We had many great days with Dad.

      He could also be kind. Sometimes, when we were in the car, and driving to school or a race, and I felt nervous, Dad would lean across and squeeze my hand. He didn’t waste words but so much was packed into that gesture it felt as if he had steeled me for the trial ahead. At primary school, I hated being in the embarrassing group given extra maths and reading work while the rest of the class went off to assembly. But Dad always thought I was smart. And he knew I worked hard. Dad thought I would be alright because life was less about books and studying than living and learning out in the real world.

      He and Mum took us on some wonderful holidays – with our bikes of course – to the Peak District and the Lake District. We also went cycling abroad, to stunningly beautiful places like the Pyrenees, and stayed in youth hostels where we met some intriguing people. Dad was happy that, through cycling, we were opening our minds. He also concentrated on his own distinct way of educating us.

      It meant that, in the car, we had some traumatic clashes – usually over a map. Dad was fanatical about maps. He thought we should all learn how to read a map. And so, whenever we went somewhere new, and it was just me and Dad in the car, I would be the designated map-reader.

      ‘Where are you taking us?’ Dad would finally ask when my confused directions gave way to puzzled silence.

      ‘I don’t know where we are,’ I would admit.

      ‘Well, Victoria,’ Dad would reply, sighing with strained patience, ‘look at the map.’

      ‘I don’t understand the map,’ I’d say.

      ‘It’s all there –

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