Wednesday, 23 October 2024

Book review: Inside Cycling...stories of a lifetime by Michael Breckon

The author in dark glasses in the car behind the Eddy Merckx break in the 1971 Paris-Roubaix.

 

INSIDE CYCLING, by Michael Breckon, is a weighty tome, a gem packed with stories from the last seven decades, a personal history of every facet of the sport, from local to international level, told by a man involved in the thick of it all his life.

This review is a but an attempt to provide a glimpse of what is in store for the reader.

The front cover bears witness to how well connected Breckon became in the sport.  For here he is in this shot of the 1971 Paris-Roubaix, in the dark glasses standing up through the roof of the car immediately behind a breakaway group including Eddy Merckx, Felice Gimondi and Jan Janssen.

Inspired by the exploits of Tom Simpson the star of the 60s, and also by Brian Robinson, first Briton to win a stage of the Tour, Breckon, then a young hopeful,  also took himself off racing to that hot bed of cycling, Brittany.

An avid time triallist, he was a member of the Yorkshire Road Club winning team in the 1958 British Best All Rounder competition. And he achieved 15th place in the 1961 BBAR.
His devotes a chapter to the famous Bath Road 100-mile trial and  the legendary Ray Booty who made that classic his own.
He devotes another chapter to the women's trialling, with tributes to three of the best women riders of the time.

In the early sixties he emigrated to Canada, staying for 20 years in the cycling mad Province of French-speaking Quebec. During this time he played a key role in the sport’s development there, including contributing to organising of 1974 World Championships in Montreal and the 1976 Olympic Games, as well as the Montreal Six-Day.  

Be it as racing cyclist, journalist, Television and radio commentator,   organiser, or upon his return to England to take up a new post of marketing executive for Raleigh -  a major sponsor at the highest level -  Breckon’s stories take the reader with him.

It’s a seamless journey and you cannot fail to be caught up by his enthusiasm, his sense of history, his delight in recalling great moments in the sports development, of the legendary deeds of the great riders of the past – and the modern era, it must be said.


Like every good story teller,  he makes you feel as if you were there, too, brushing shoulders with the stars, or as a spectator at the road or trackside.

The 19 chapters include his first visit to see the finish of the Tour de France in 1957. He has a profile of French hero Jacques Anquetil; also of Arthur Metcalfe, the only man to win Britain’s Best All Rounder t time trial titles and road r ace title in the same year.

From the highs to the lows, there is a detailed account recalling his first-hand and shocking experience of the terror attack at the 1972 Munich Olympics, when he was manager of the Canadian team.

No book on cycling would be complete without acknowledging the sports doping history, and this mill stone around cycling’s  neck is deserving of a chapter, too.

He recalls the 1974 Montreal World Championships in which he played a major role in organising.

There are stories of the great British riders, including twice Tour of Britain winner Bill Bradley. Fittingly the final chapter is reserved for a personal tribute to legendary Brian Robinson who was a great influence on the young Breckon.

For Robinson’s stage wins in the Tour during the 1950s can be said to have paved the way for British successes in Le Tour in the New Millennium by Bradley Wiggins, Chris Froome and Geraint Thomas.

Copies of Inside Cycling are available from the author. Contact by email:

michaelbreckon36@gmail.co Price £10 + postage and packaging £4.95 = £14.95. Total.

Author's note: Photographs illustrating chapters of the book are available on a website gallery, exclusive to purchasers. To keep costs down, no photos are included in the book itself, other than the cover shot.


 

 

Sunday, 13 October 2024

An ode damning the health service

 

THIS from a recent British Medical Journal, reported also in the newspapers.

“The complete lack of specialist care in England for patients with severe myalgic encephalomyelitis (ME or chronic fatigue syndrome) could cause deaths in future unless urgent action is taken, a coroner has warned.

“The hard hitting prevention of future deaths (PFD) report by assistant coroner Deborah Archer on the death of Maeve Boothby O’Neill, 27, also highlighted the lack of research funding, training, and guidelines on treating the condition.”

The truth is that ME and other conditions such as EDS (Hypermobility Ehlers Danlos Syndrome)

are not widely understood by doctors who shrug and say: “Nothing to be done”.

That’s my family’s experience. It came as complete sur prise to me. Until that moment I had faith in the health service.  No longer, especially in respect of chronic illness.

And so to my latest Blog, which refrains from peppering this piece with the profane remarks it deserved.   






Rant!!!!!

AN ODE DAMNING HEALTH PROVIDERS

Who’s that going up and down the stairs?

Who’s that going up and down the stairs?

It’s the carers.

It’s the carers.

Who is that behind the closed bedroom door?

Who is that behind the closed bedroom door?

It’s their daughter.

It’s their daughter.

Room bound many years

They thought it was ME to begin with. It may still be ME.  But it is certainly EDS – a faulty gene causing weak connective tissue – the stuff that  holds muscles, bones, holds all organs together - making movement painful and sometimes impossible;  no known cure.

POTS – (Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia) sudden movement causes surge in heart rate and corresponding drop in blood pressure resulting in giddiness.

It’s their daughter.

Who is also considered to be autistic.

Praise be for Kings College Hospital, London.

Praise be for Royal Orthopaedic Hospital, Stanmore.

For their thorough and exhaustive tests

For their diagnosis of POTS and EDS.

Cursed be Surrey and Borders Partnership  mental health services.

For turning down her doctor’s referral.

Damn your eyes.

Cursed be the NHS at large, for choosing to remain largely ignorant of these conditions, in some cases doctors disputing them; and for their failure to press GPs to automatically provide rudimentary health checks which would also boost morale.

Instead, they say “nothing to be done” - when there is much that can be done to manage symptoms. 

Who is that going up and down the stairs?

Who is that going up and down the stairs?

It’s the carers.

It’s the carers.

Carrying food, medicine, vitamins, water…morning, noon, late into the night.

It’s the carers.

Carrying Complan, carrot juice, heat wraps.

It’s the carers.

It’s the carers

Drawing the curtains

Raising the blinds.

Emptying the commode.

It’s the carers.

It’s the carers.

Taking care of the one lying in bed up upstairs.

Morning, noon and late into each and every night – for over 5 years now.

To sit with her at bedtime.

In her confusion.

Holding hands.

Their daughter.

Their daughter.

In her drawer, the university degree, key to a different life.

It’s their daughter.

It’s their daughter.

Lying still in her bed wearing sound deadening headphones,

in a silent room in a house which must remain quiet, the TV muted or sound turned off.

In the early years, over two decades ago, our doctor surmised it was “ME”, saying to the 12 year-old: Nothing to be done!

He said that to a child!  A life sentence.

He could have offered to look up a specialist for us to refer to. He did nothing. We had to do our own research and we discovered a world of self-help, about how to manage symptoms, how to oblige the school to arrange home education.

He simply shrugged. 

This doctor died recently. I held back from adding something to the book of condolences in the surgery. Didn’t want to offend his family.

More recently another doctor, from the same stable, angrily told us that having to mute the TV

 was ridiculous. You should not put up with that. (This guy, I may yet swing for him, as the saying going).

So no friends to visit, unable to do so for many  years:

No visitors to the house. No social contact. Never goes out. No Christmas. No holidays for many years, no meals out for years and years.

Plagued by sensory issues; sight – people move too fast; sound – too loud, clink of plates deafening; her anxieties - off the scale.

Once a vibrant personality, now speaks little, subdued. Beaten down.

It’s their daughter.

It’s their daughter.

thousands like her.

Thousands like her.

Isolated…disregarded…off the NHS radar.

Who’s that going up and down stairs?

Who’s that going up and down the stairs?

Not the doctor.

Not the doctor.

Who’s that ill behind the door?

Who’s that ill behind the door?

Five years and counting

No one they care about.

No one they care for.

To those in the NHS who either do nothing, or do very little to help, who never seek to ask how this is impacting upon the family brought to breaking point – damn your eyes.

To the Mental Health services – damn your eyes.

 

As for carers...

Every waking hour of every day for the last five years we have been on constant alert, for the ‘ding’ of a text from our daughter’s mobile!

“Caregiver burnout is a state of profound mental and physical exhaustion, especially common in parents of autistic children. It arises when the constant demands of caregiving—managing meltdowns, sensory overloads, and advocating for support—drain their energy. Over time, neglecting their own needs leaves caregivers emotionally overwhelmed and trapped in guilt and frustration, which diminishes their ability to provide care and affects their mental health, relationships, and overall quality of life.— (Tony Attwood, Clinical Psychologist).

*The rhyming and repetitive nature of this piece draws for its inspiration two comic sources; ironically!:

The song by the Ukulele Orchestra of Great Britain, which ran thus: “What’s that coming over the hill? What’s that coming over the hill? It’s the monster. It’s the monster”;  repeating itself.

And secondly, to Private Eye who, in 1972, gave away a spoof record – a priceless political satire - purporting to be that of Prime Minister Ted Heath singing about the Miners’ strike; “Oh the miners want more pay, damn their eyes; the miners want more pay, damn their eyes.”