Keepers of the flame: three generations of heroes carrying the torch for jumping

This is not a conversation for the Snowflake Generation. The risk-averse and the easily offended tend not to gravitate towards National Hunt racing at the best of times, even in these days of soft fences and back protectors, sobriety in the workplace and health and safety; cast them back to the days of cork helmets and concrete posts, the feudal system and a stiff port and brandy in the weighing room . . . well, let's just say it was a different age and leave it at that.

Peter Scudamore and his son Tom come from generations of ever-increasing softness, if the old-timers are to be believed. Peter, all long hair and flared trousers at the time, was apparently so soft that his first employer, the notoriously unforgiving trainer Willie Stephenson, told him he would never make a jockey and should be an estate agent instead. Eight jockeys' titles, 1,678 winners, countless broken bones and undeclared concussions later, the driven, unstoppable, hard-as-nails 'Scu' found himself wondering if young Tom could really be a Scudamore if he was prepared to give up what turned out to be a winning ride on the strength of what turned out to be a dislocated shoulder. The lad's 1,000th winner maybe convinced Dad his doubts were unfounded.

Peter's father Michael, meanwhile, was from another generation entirely. Emerging from the turmoil of the Second World War, they were raised to graft hard and expect nothing on a plate. Sympathy and praise were in short supply from parents whose attitude towards teenage self-indulgence had been hardened by six years of fending off Nazis. They turned out tough and uncomplaining and of the belief that a pastime like jump racing, as well as the time and freedom to engage in it, were to be enjoyed with gusto rather than with reverence.