Peter Procter; 1930 – 2024 – a few words on one of the nicest people in sport
I learned yesterday, 16th August 2024, of the passing of Peter Procter. Peter was one of the nicest people in sport and, it’s no exaggeration to say, one of the nicest people I have met in many, many years. I met Peter, and his wife, Shirley, at their home in Appletreewick, Wharfedale, in March of this year. I had tracked him down when researching my book about his good friend, Roy James. Peter had competed against Roy in motorsport in the early 1960s and they struck up a friendship by post when Roy was in jail for his part in the great train robbery. I was wary about contacting and meeting people from Roy’s life for two reasons – one was that I was uncomfortable with the criminal element, and two was that I worried people would want me to tell their story about Roy, when my book has a much broader theme. In the end I met some right ‘characters’, but Peter was neither remotely criminal, nor insistent on me describing his dear friend in any language other than my own. I wrote a letter to Peter, guessing at his home address, and soon after had an email and phone call and an invitation to visit him at home.
The weather was appalling when my partner and I visited in March of ’24 and the house takes some finding. On opening the door he said not to take my filthy boots off as I was only carrying Yorkshire mud on my boots. I took him a Pork Pie, made in the village where I live – it might seem random but I wanted to thank him for his time and what do you gift a man who has lived such a long and exciting life? We had a cuppa and talked for ages. I’m writing this post quite quickly, and from memory (my notes are in the office).. Peter grew up in Bradford, then moved to Alne Hall with his parents, who both sadly died quite young. He moved back to Bradford and worked as a builder. It’s worth pointing out that Peter was rather modest and his description of work as a builder, leading to some architectural work, probably underplays his abilities. It also points to the hard graft he put in. In 1951 he became a champion cyclist and, around the same time, he told me he walked past an Aston Martin dealership in Bradford and a kindly salesman let him loose in a car he was admiring through the window. Peter worked hard and saved and eventually bought the Aston (my notes explain the timing and which model, again, apologies they’re not to hand right now). He also fell out with the UK cycling competition management over lack of selection when he was clearly at the top of his game. He and two others were winning everything and were overlooked.
Cyclings loss was motorsports gain. Peter did a trackday with the Aston and quickly got the bug for car racing. He met Roy James in the early ’60s when at (I think) Goodwood, Peter was baulked by Roy on track and they had a bit of a barney in the paddock. Nothing physical, Peter just told him he was “a bloody idiot” or similar. Soon after James committed the great train robbery and went to jail, and Peter went from single seaters to saloon car racing. In ’66, Peter was hit from behind at Goodwood and in the resultant crash suffered 65% burns. It’s a miracle that he survived. He struck up a correspondence with Roy James and they rekindled a friendship. I naïvely asked Peter why his letters were typed, when Roy’s were handwritten, and he explained that his hands were so burned that he couldn’t hold a pen. His medical team included those who had helped WW2 pilots recover and that, plus the support from his wife Shirley, meant that he recovered and returned to racing. As I sat in his living room, he teased Shirley that she was a ‘champ chaser’. Their love and affection was incredible, as a couple I had only just met, I loved spending time sat with them, so happy and full of beans.
Peter explained that he’d had lung cancer for something like ten years, and had had either a stroke or heart attack a year or two before, and had still been riding a bicycle he made himself in the 1950s, up and down the Yorkshire Dales, until quite recently. He had also regularly driven down to a holiday home in Portugal until fairly recently too. This sort of stuff is hard enough when you’re young and fit, but for a man in his ’90s it is a mark of his strength and determination to live a full life. I told him his photo was hanging in a local pub where we’d stayed on the way up, he was genuinely flattered. He showed me his little office with trophies, paintings and photos and I regret not taking more pictures. He was so generous with his time and personal life that taking pictures felt intrusive, somehow. I honestly thought he’d live forever. As he lay in hospital with his burns, in the ’60s, and Roy was in high-security jail, they swapped tales of hope and gossip on F1 and football. In later life Roy and his family holidayed with Peter’s. I did not meet Roy but from my knowledge of him, he was the polar opposite of Peter is so many ways, yet they were clearly very close friends. Peter and I last swapped emails in June this year. I was anxious that he’d not like my book on his friend and yet he was seemingly delighted with the work, even though I’ve written the story chronologically backwards. A snippet of our correspondence as below;
“You got everything that I know about Roy “Bang-on”, but so much in the book that I did not know, also. >snip< Your sense of humour shines throughout the book and makes added interesting reading. Roy became a very good friend, but he was also a little b….r. It takes all kind to make a world.”
I love that he wouldn’t spell bugger in full, so as not to offend. Such a gentleman. Peter has (I think) five sons and probably a scrum of brilliant Grandkids. On the off-chance they read this post someday I pass my sincere condolences. I am genuinely deeply upset at Peter’s passing, I hope he is remembered as one of the nicest people in motorsport, cycling, and the wider community.
Rest in peace, Peter Procter.