‘Windmills of my mind’
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Here goes.-
When
British riders won all three Grand Tours in one year.
HOW did we get here? I often reflect upon this, now
I am now longer a roving reporter for Cycling Weekly. How did this sport
survive scandals and upheavals across the decades to become the leading cycling
nation in the world?
It really is – to use a tired cliché – rags to
riches story. And one which every bike
rider in the land took pride in and it still takes some getting used to.
Despite their image tarnished following doping
investigations this past decade, with accusations of sexism and bullying, British
Cycling’s stock rose again with home riders Grand Tour domination in 2018. The unique treble in winning all three grand
tours – the Giro d’Italia, Le Tour de France and the Vuelta a Espana.
With three different riders!
No one saw that coming, did they? All three Grand Tours won by one nation!
This
was a
stunning and unique feat no other country has achieved and one which, despite
the still simmering scandals embroiling Team Sky and British Cycling, puts them
among the world’s top cycling nations.
The history makers: Chris Froome in the Giro;
Geraint Thomas in Le Tour; and Simon Yates, the Vuelta.
The marriage of success to failure
Our cyclists are celebrated multi-Olympic and World champions. Three of
them have won the Tour de France – Bradley Wiggins once –Knighted for his
efforts - and Chris Froome four times, plus Geraint Thomas once.
Honours fell like confetti on British Cycling’s riders and top
officials.
Yet despite this celebration of our elite riders, the prospect remains
remote that the roads will ever be made safer for cyclists, be they sporting
cyclists or the tens of thousands of ordinary cyclists, too. The roads will
remain as inhospitable to cyclists as ever.
The glaring failure of the Olympic 2012 legacy
No one had a bad thing to say about the London 2012
Olympic Games.
I enjoyed them immensely, especially the road
cycling witnessed in the flesh, but I had to make do with watching the track
from my armchair – all tickets sold out!
Even the man who built the banked track, Ron Webb,
failed to get a ticket!
But afterwards, post Games; there has been one
glaring failure in the delivery of the Olympic Legacy in the Queen Elizabeth
Velopark. Mountain bike racing, an integral part of the original Eastway
circuit ripped out to build the Games Village, never made it back. Mountain
bike riding did, let’s be clear, but on a track too narrow to allow racing.
MTB racing was “designed out” when the circuit they
put back afterwards was deemed unsuitable for competition!
When an
Olympic hero phoned me!
At 426pm,
as I was having a coffee and meatball Panini at Café Ritazza, my mobile rang.
“Hi,” I answered.
“Keith, it’s Chris.”
It was Chris
Hoy, the most famous Olympic champion in the UK that year, 2008.
What a player. The MAN called me back!
Earlier that afternoon I had hoped to collar him at the Manchester Velodrome,
but he simply did not have the time to speak with me. “Give me your number,
I’ll call you later,” he said.
I was
impressed. An Olympic hero phoning me? He had been in great demand by TV and
for dinners and shows since he had wowed us the Beijing Games.
We didn’t have a good line. In one ear, booming station announcements. In the
other, our greatest Olympian.
It was a hasty
interview, not one of my best. Just a couple of minutes to see what he was
doing next.
Is he riding the Revolution? (track meeting)
“Yes.”
In the last four months, taken up with public appearances and TV interviews and
shows followed by a much needed holiday, did he get to ride his bike?
“Wednesday was the first time on the track. I took my road bike with me on
holiday to Thailand, so did a little road riding there.”
Chris, let’s talk about your second gold medal of the Games, in the team sprint
when you whacked the French.
That gap which you let open as Staff screamed away on the opening lap of the
team sprint final, was that a problem? How much harder did you have to ride to
pull that back?
His answer got tangled up with an announcement for a train to Crewe. I think he
said he held it, then accelerated to close it at the last moment, so when
Kenny, the man in front, swung up for Hoy to come through, Hoy was already
travelling at a higher speed.
How many public appearances has Hoy made since Beijing?
“Phew. Don’t know. I’ve had one day off,” he laughed.
“The open-top bus ride in Edinburgh was probably the best – the Castle, Royal
Mile. There were 500,000 people turned out. It was amazing.”
And they he had
to end his call. What a player. What a nice man. I was so taken aback I almost
missed my train.
Hinault
versus LeMond...1986
Stage 18, Briancon-L’Alpe D’Heuz, 162.5 km.
My story in Cycling Weekly began:
“This was one of the greatest days in Tour history
as Bernard Hinault tried to take back the yellow jersey he regarded as his own,
from his own team-mate, Greg LeMond!
“Like two prize fighters the pair went in search of
the truth over the terrifyingly high Col du Galibier, where the snows never
melt and ice lines the roadside. Then over the Col du Telegraph, the Col de la
Croix de Fer, and finally up the famous 22-hairpin climb of L’Alpe d’Huez, to
complete the alpine “circle of death”.
On the descent off the Galibier, Hinault had dived
into the attack, and his prey, he said, was Zimmerman. But as far I was concerned, he might lose
LeMond as well! Hinault plunged to a 20-second lead before LeMond seemingly
unaware of the danger, reacted after the prompt from Cabestany.
LeMond took off, taking Cabestany with him, and, of
course, their big rival Zimmerman and they all joined Hinault.
Rendezvous
at first light
Discovering the magic of the early morning TT
This was early 1960s.
It’s very quiet. Not a sound. The sun has risen and
is edging above the eastern horizon, shafts of piercing light chasing away the
last of the night.
The two teenagers, recent recruits to the Merseyside
Wheelers, are to meet with club mate George Corfe, to ride out to their first
club “25”, at Lydiate, a few miles out of town.
It’s 5am
Sunday, and they wait as arranged, at the junction of Queens Drive and Derby
Lane, in Liverpool. Silence.
Oh, but there is a just a tiny sound. A light breeze sends fallen leaves and
newspapers rustling and tumbling across the empty wide dual-carriageway.
Otherwise, absolutely still. No traffic. They whisper so as not to disturb
sleeping sparrows awaiting the coming morning
glory. Nor the sleeping families in
nearby houses.
They look way back down the road, in the direction
from which George will come, to where the wide, empty road bends out of sight
400 yards away.
He’s coming!
They know it. Can’t yet see him but they hear him, or rather they hear
something they had never heard before. It was a sound destined to make them
slaves to their new calling.
It is the faint hum of expensive lightweight
tubulars singing on the smooth tarmac. Music!
The distant figure of a racing man hoves into view,
alone on the wide, still empty road. He
rides fixed wheel. His bike gleams. It is shod with the best silk racing tubulars. The sunlight flashes off polished stainless
steel spokes.
The pair push off as he nears; begin rolling in the
direction they must go. He glides
silently alongside, eases back just a bit, sits up and turns to his young
friends, “Orright?” smiles George.
“Nice morning. Fast times today – we hope”.
This was my introduction to the secret world of
the early morning club time trial.
