When Ron Haslam's mother was on her deathbed he told her the kindest lie. “Mam,” he said as he held her hand. “I've decided to stop racing.” It was a falsehood designed to let her rest in peace. The truth was different and so continued a remarkable story of a motorcycling dynasty comprising guns, severed fingers and midnight escapes from hospitals.

Haslam now understands the mental anguish that he inflicted on his mother because his own son, Leon, is a leading contender in the British Superbike Championship with HM Plant Honda. The family tree continues to be written in blood, sweat and tears. “The scariest thing about racing is watching your son do it,” Haslam, who has barely altered from his 80s pomp, said. “You stand on the pitwall and count the seconds. You've tasted the dangers and you dread them. I've been called a terrible parent because of his injuries - virtually accused of child abuse - but I can't stop him.”

There are many father and son tag-teams in sport. Often the father veers towards pushy parent syndrome and may even be living out unfulfilled fantasies. The Haslams are different in that both Ron and Leon have ridden at the very top. No Briton has ridden in more grands prix than Ron, who won three world titles, while Leon is the youngest rider to have competed in the elite 500c class.

The anxiety Haslam suffers is informed by a turbulent past. His childhood hinted at the problems ahead when his father chased his brothers into the tiny pantry of their home in Langley Mill, Derbyshire, and fired a rifle through the door. Matters came to a head when Haslam's father tried to kill his mother with a carving knife. She escaped through a bedroom window and spent the night hiding in a neighbour's outside toilet. That was the last straw and Haslam's brothers threw their father out, whereupon he emptied all the furniture into the street and stood laughing by the side of a flaming bonfire.

Racing was a release but Haslam was not even the best in the family. His elder brother, Phil, beat Barry Sheene on occasion and attracted widespread plaudits. Then he crashed at the Oliver's Mount circuit in Scarborough. “He was slowing with a problem and was clipped by a rider,” Haslam said. “That sent him into a steel bridge support and back across the track. Steve Machin was a friend but he couldn't miss him. He died by the side of the track.

“That hit us all like a steam hammer. He'd been three feet from safety but he wasn't coming back.” That was racing in the dark ages of the Seventies when safety was an afterthought and deaths commonplace. Two weeks later Machin was killed in a crash at Cadwell Park, in Lincolnshire. It was the risk they all took, the cool calculated madness of the motorcycle rider, the suspension of all fear.

Ron replaced Phil in the Pharaoh Yamaha team and rose through the ranks until he was snapped up by Honda's GP team for his first full season in 1983, partnering the brilliant Freddie Spencer. He made the podium in his first two races and the future seemed assured. The following year, Haslam went to watch his brother, Babe, race his sidecar at Assen in the Netherlands. “I remember him coming in after practice and saying the brakes didn't seem right, but he went back out and was doing well,” Haslam said. As he would later do with his son, he stood on the pitwall with a stopwatch and counted the seconds. “They didn't come round and then I saw the flags out on the circuit. I jumped over the fence and ran to where the marshals were gathering. I got there at the same time as the ambulance. I saw Babe and ran up to him but turned away. I knew instantly.”

Babe's neck had been broken and he had died instantly. “Mam was completely broken down by that,” Haslam said. “I think the worst part was she knew I was still racing, I'd just started in GPs and my whole career was stretching out in front of her.” Haslam could not give up, even after his lie, and raced against the likes of Spencer, Eddie Lawson, Kenny Roberts and Wayne Gardner. The risk did not go away and in his last GP season he had a finger removed with a set of wire clippers. He came back to race in Britain in 1991, but a 170mph crash convinced him to quit. He tried his hand at deer farming, set up a race school and then devoted his attention to “The Pocket Rocket”.

Leon is only 25 but has raced in the 125cc, 250cc and 500cc world championships. He has also been through his own mill, almost losing a leg at the age of 11. “The doctors had a real go at us after that crash in Ireland,” Ron Haslam said. “They made us feel like scum. One of them said, 'Do you want him to kill himself?' Luckily from my days being injured I knew the top orthopaedic surgeon in England. We rang him and he told us to get Leon home because he was still in excruciating pain. We dashed out of the hospital to an air ambulance. The surgeon I knew said, 'If you'd waited until the morning, the leg would have had to come off'. I tried to make Leon quit by saying I couldn't afford it any more, but he said he'd stop crashing and practise less to keep the cost down. That shamed me. I realised he wanted it so much. I didn't feel guilty about the crash but I felt terrible about doubting him.”

Leon still lives in the annexe at the family farm in Derbyshire. His father says he does not give his son compliments because he wants him to be the best. He knows interfering dads are anathema to racing teams so tries to keep his distance. There may even be more to come. If Leon becomes a parent he says he will let his children go the same way. “You just need to be sure your love of speed is worth the broken bones coming your way,” Leon said.

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