‘Windmills of my mind’

 For this blog I have cherry-picked a number of short stories from “Pedals turned in Anger” – my unpublished ramblings.

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.