Triumphs and Turbulence Read online

  It was the first time I’d ever had a specific goal that I truly considered to be achievable: a win/lose proposition in which I had a decent chance of winning. I started strongly, pushing hard down the twisting B5130 towards Aldford and the prize. After a mile it started to hurt more than it should. I’d gone off too fast. As the road climbed I knew my destination would soon be in sight and chanced a look back: Dave Lloyd was bearing down on me; it was going to be close. I let go of all thoughts of a ten-mile race, mine had just a thousand yards left to run. As the road narrowed and gently dragged up towards the curve of the bridge, I could hear the swooshing of his tyres on the road behind me. With less than a hundred yards remaining he swept past, leaned hard into the bend and pulled away into the distance.

  Having overextended myself, I struggled through the next seven miles and went slower than I had for some weeks. But what I encountered that night, triggered by that personal challenge, was unlike anything I’d experienced before. I had been scared of losing but I’d also been excited at the prospect of success. Alf Jones and his 50 pence – he still gave it to me – had started something rolling.

  CHAPTER 2

  Births, Marriages and Deaths

  Of the three routes to adolescent popularity available at my secondary school – football, fighting and success with the opposite sex – I excelled at none.

  I definitely liked the idea of getting a girlfriend, but on the rare occasions when I managed to snag one I had no idea what to do with them. Short of money and imagination, a date with me consisted of wandering around aimlessly and a series of stilted conversations: Kim Smith and Lorraine Evans, I can only apologise. Steve Carney and Neil McDonald were the Casanovas in my circle, although saying that I had a circle is overstating things a bit. I’d often tag along with them to the house parties that some parents were reckless enough to let their teenagers hold. I’d sip my contraband cider in the corner, listen to Ultravox and then make my way home.

  On the sporting front, I had absolutely no talent for or interest in football, which got me labelled as dysfunctional by my peers at Hilbre High. The same went for most other school sports. As far back as I could remember, I’d never won so much as a single ribbon in the sack race. As for fighting, there were various gangs in our school, but I didn’t belong to any of them. When beatings were being handed out I’d usually be on the receiving end, so I became very good at spotting trouble developing and removing myself from the vicinity.

  I didn’t do any better in class than I did in the playground: I was totally uninterested in almost everything. I think it was an attitude rooted at least partly in self-defence, a reaction to my undiagnosed dyslexia. The word didn’t seem to exist in the seventies and eighties, at least not in the world I was growing up in. People who couldn’t spell or write neatly were simply labelled as slow. My condition wasn’t extreme but it did make expressing my thoughts in written form painful, so I avoided it, as I tried to avoid school in general. For me it was a place that generated and then reinforced low self-esteem.

  I wasn’t the only one struggling through secondary school. In the same year at Hilbre was another lad who didn’t fit in, who seemed like me to be doing his time until he could get parole. Flouncy is the first word that springs to mind when I think of him as he was back then. I’d see him every now and again during the summer, striding bare-chested and alone along the Hoylake promenade. If you’d transposed him from that seaside setting onto a catwalk he wouldn’t have looked at all out of place.

  At school he seemed to be in every theatrical production. Regardless of whether or not he had the lead role, he was three times as loud and animated as every other cast member. At the time it was painfully embarrassing to watch, but on reflection the reason he stood out was because he was the only one really acting, like a peacock in the middle of a flock of flea-bitten pigeons.

  Standing out at our school made you one of two things, a leader or a target. He wasn’t a leader. Still, I like to think that his character-forming experiences at Hilbre High were what helped Daniel Craig develop that marvellous pout.

  For me, only two subjects relieved the tedium of the school timetable: woodwork and sociology. The former is an interest I hold to this day and it was pretty typical of my group, but sociology was perhaps a less obvious favourite for a boy in his teens. It was the beginning of another lifelong interest: human psychology.

  I can’t say I remember my time at school with fondness or made friends that I’ve kept in touch with. I couldn’t wait for it to be over and once it was I never looked back. I didn’t even go in to pick up my mediocre exam results.

  Built just outside Liverpool in the 1960s while Britain was having its love affair with concrete, Kirkby Stadium was a tatty, well-used establishment. Habitually windy, spitting with rain and five degrees colder than its surroundings, it seemed to have its own microclimate. With its peeling paint and broken fencing it might not have looked like a world-class facility, but without it I would never have been an Olympic champion. It was there, in the spring of 1984, that I was first introduced to track racing.

  Having started out in my dad’s cycling club, the Birkenhead Victoria CC, I had now jumped ship and joined my mum’s. The North Wirral Velo had a growing contingent of members my age and as I found myself spending more time both riding and racing with them, it seemed like the logical move. One of their regular activities was track racing, over the Mersey in Kirkby, and I was encouraged to have a go. I needed a fixed-wheel bike for that and mine was a Keith Boardman special. On a visit to the local tip, my dad spotted an old frame in a skip, took it home, sprayed it Kingfisher blue and built it up.

  It was a typically chilly Kirkby evening when I lined up to ride it in my first track race, a handicap event. The riders – all ages and genders – were spaced around the bumpy asphalt circuit according to their ability, as defined by John Mallinson, one of the track league’s regular organisers. Each person was to be pushed off by a helper when the whistle blew. My helper was more help than most: Bob Memery was a keen cyclist and family friend. He was also the winner of five British weightlifting titles in the 13-stone class and still incredibly muscular in middle age. He was in high demand as a pusher-off.

  When the whistle blew Bob launched me down the straight like an Exocet and it was a good half a lap before I even had to pedal. Thanks to Bob’s overdeveloped right arm and John’s generous handicap, I won my first ever race on the cracked surface of the Kirkby track. All through that summer and well into the autumn Wednesday night became firmly established as track night.

  As is often the case with grassroots events, it was only made possible because of the commitment of a group of characters who, without knowing or seeking recognition for it, became a small but important part of many people’s lives. John and Doreen Mallinson did everything from setting the race programme to pushing riders off. Doreen – always called Alf for reasons I never discovered – handed out numbers, smiles and encouragement to everyone. Chief adjudicator was commissaire ‘Ginger’ Hewitt, working from a set of rules known only to himself: he frowned a lot and sometimes lost his temper, but every week there he was, doing his bit to keep it all going.

  On the coaching side – whether people wanted it or not – was Fag-Ash Bert, often seen crouching beside the track making pedalling motions with his fingers to the riders as they sped past. No one had the nerve to ask him why he did it so we never found out what wisdom he was trying to impart. John Geddis, an Olympic medallist himself at the 1956 Games in Melbourne, was always in charge of the PA and took the time to learn all the riders’ names, especially the young ones, for his colourful and terribly partisan commentary.

  Just a handful of individuals presiding over a low-key activity on the outskirts of Liverpool, helping people take their first steps in the sport. What they didn’t realise was that they were the true pioneers of the Olympic success to come, quietly preparing the ground for Britain’s cycling revolution.

  In August 1984, the region
al track championships were held at Kirkby – it was the only track in the region. Although I was 15 and racing as a juvenile, I fought my way to the final of the senior pursuit, where I found myself up against international roadman, Alan Gornall. It was my first big track event and to match the occasion my blue skip special had been replaced by one of Dave Lloyd’s old frames, provided by my first ever coach, Eddie Soens.

  My dad had overseen my introduction to cycle racing and been the early source of coaching guidance, but by the end of 1983 he felt he’d done all he could. The better I’d become at cycling in those first two and a half years, the more winning had started to mean to me. Although neither I nor anyone around me could see it building, I was already heading towards a classic early-achiever crisis. For someone struggling to fit in at school, even small successes were disproportionately important and my sense of self-worth was becoming heavily reliant on my results. Winning and losing, even at that fledgling stage, was linked to enormous swings between euphoria and despair. In one event towards the end of 1983 I’d climbed off mid-race for no other reason than I thought I was going to lose. My dad, who had sensed that something wasn’t right, decided to ask his old coach if he’d consider taking me on.

  Often compared to the legendary Liverpool football manager Bill Shankly, Eddie Soens was one of the greatest British cycling coaches of all time and had helped his riders win more UK, world and Olympic titles than any other domestic coach. But it wasn’t just cycling: he’d also enjoyed success in a variety of other sports from boxing with world light heavyweight champion John Conteh, to distance-running with double Boston Marathon winner, Geoff Smith.

  A short, stocky man with an almost permanent scowl, Eddie spoke in brusque, staccato statements. His no-nonsense demeanour was intimidating and gave him tremendous presence. Praise from Eddie carried a lot of weight. That was my 15-year-old impression. Only years later did I flesh out that view and remember the accom­panying twinkle in his eye, the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth as he delivered a lot of those declarations, which showed that under it all he was a warm-hearted man.

  Eddie’s style was perhaps forged during his time in the army where he had been a regimental sergeant major during some of the most ferocious fighting in Burma. If you can get men to run into gunfire, everything else is probably a walk in the park. His strength gave him absolute credibility, and believing in him made people believe in themselves: if Eddie said you could do it, you had faith that you could. For a kid who was low in self-esteem this was an amazing boost.

  So it was Eddie behind me, holding the bike he’d supplied me with, as I lined up on that gloomy late summer evening for my first ever pursuit final, mirrored by the figure of Alan Gornall in the opposite straight. The whistle blew, Eddie pushed me off and I bounced down the track towards the bend, my new bike noticeably lighter than my original machine. The near dark made it a surreal, dreamlike experience, increasing the sense of speed as I powered round the bottom of the track. The noise made by the handful of spectators seemed to be absorbed by the night. I was aware only of the sound of my own breathing, the instructions being shouted by Eddie each time I entered the home straight, and the figure of Fag-Ash Bert crouched at the edge of the track making his pedalling motions. When I crossed the line for the final time, the whistle blew a full two seconds before Alan Gornall reached his own station in the back straight. I had won. There might only have been about 30 people present but it felt like winning a world title.

  On the road, I was already starting to win national honours. The previous month I had taken the under-16 10-mile time trial title and then broken the national juvenile record for 25 miles, with a time of 52.09. That performance made me favourite for the junior national 25-mile championship, contested on home turf, just outside Chester, the following week. But I crumbled under the weight of expectation – my own as well as everyone else’s – and didn’t even make the podium.

  In late 1984, I switched clubs again, from the North Wirral Velo to the all-conquering Manchester Wheelers, a club Eddie had strong links with. The following June, Eddie took me to Leicester’s Saffron Lane velodrome to try out for the national junior team. The GB head coach Geoff Cooke had organised the event to scout new talent and it was open to anyone who thought they could make the grade. It was the first time I’d ridden on a wooden track and after the relaxed geometry of Kirkby the severity of the bankings was daunting. For now, though, we weren’t expected to climb the boards, just cover 3000 m around the bottom as fast as we could, a task I completed six seconds quicker than anyone else.

  I was deeply content on the way back up the M6. The National Championships were just a few weeks away and I hadn’t just shown that I was faster than any of the competition, I’d done it on the track where the event was going to be held. I thought I was heading for my first junior track title. I wasn’t.

  It seemed that every time it looked as though I had the measure of the opposition, someone appeared to pip me at the post. In 1982, my nemesis had been local time-trialling ace Lee Proctor. A year later, once I’d managed to claw my way past him, it was Guy Sylvester who had kept me off the top step of the podium. In July 1985, just in time for the National Championships, 17-year-old Colin Sturgess and his family returned to the UK after living in South Africa. Colin proceeded to power his way to the junior pursuit title, relegating me to the silver medal position. Again.

  Although I was deeply disappointed, Nationals week wasn’t over yet. Despite being new to the track and still a junior, Eddie had made sure I was included in the Manchester Wheelers team pursuit line-up. It was a decision that annoyed the star of the team, Darryl Webster, who had wanted his brothers Martin and Alex to ride alongside him. I’d be replacing Alex. In our qualifying ride my inexperience showed and although we got through to the final it had been ragged. Darryl climbed off and immediately raged at Eddie, pointing towards me, screaming ‘He is useless!’ Darryl was the rider who had usurped the great Dave Lloyd as the UK’s time-trialling supremo and I’d followed his career in Cycling Weekly ever since I’d started riding myself – I even had pictures of him on my wall – so his outburst was deeply upsetting and embarrassing.

  What happened next was something of a blur. Eddie went to sit on a pile of mats under the bridge that led from the track centre. I had no idea then that it wasn’t thoughts of the race that occupied him but his own health. Feeling unwell, he was escorted away from the riders’ area and a short time later out of our view, into an ambulance. We were told that he was just being taken to hospital for checks.

  Absorbed in my teenage self, my concern was fleeting and my thoughts quickly turned back to the pending final. Determined not to be the weak link, I gave it everything. I closed on the wheel in front to get maximum shelter and matched Darryl turn for turn. We won the national title, my first at senior level. But Eddie hadn’t been there to see it.

  In the few hours between him leaving the track and the end of the day’s racing, Eddie’s wife Mima had travelled down to Leicester to be with him. When I phoned the hospital to see how he was, she took the call. Mima was a wonderful, warm and gentle person with a resolutely positive outlook on life. She told me that Eddie had suffered a ‘small heart attack’ but was OK, then in true Mima style switched the conversation back to me and the day’s sporting events: ‘I’ve just left Eddie and he saw the highlights on the TV. He said, “Did you see Chris, wasn’t he great?”’ High praise from the man whose approval meant as much to me then as my own father’s.

  Reassured, we made the long trip home and, as tradition dictated, went straight to my Nan’s house to show her my winner’s sash. While we were there the phone went and my mother answered it, returning to the small backroom a few seconds later pale and in tears. Eddie had suffered a second – this time massive – heart attack and passed away. I was devastated and had no idea how to deal with it. I learned later that those words of praise for me that Mima had conveyed were Eddie’s last. I felt guilty, as if I’d somehow wasted
the last few days of his life.

  We’d known each other less than two years but I’d become highly dependent on Eddie, not just for training advice but for validation. His powerful style had made it all too easy to accept that someone else had the answers; his praise was enough to let me know when I’d done well. All I had to do was follow instructions and trust in his expertise. Without Eddie, I was utterly directionless. I’d achieved a modest amount of success, shown potential, but I had no idea how to move it on.

  Despite being only 16, I was selected to represent Great Britain at the 1985 Senior Track World Championships in Italy the following month. After Eddie’s death I was glad to get away. My performance at the championships could best be described as modest, but the trip was not without interest. The British Cycling Federation had brought along a prototype bike to see if it met with the approval of the UCI. It didn’t, as things turned out, but it met with mine.

  It was unlike any bike I’d ever seen. No frame tubes, just a triangle of carbon fibre. The streamlined forks and wing-shaped handlebars had been machined from a single piece of aluminium. It weighed a ton. It was sitting unattended in the track centre on a training day, so I decided to have a go. Despite its heft and the fact that it was a bit too big for me, once it got going it felt noticeably quicker than the bike I was competing on. It was my first ride on one of Mike Burrows’s carbon fibre creations.

  In the 1980s, Assos was by far the most prestigious and expensive clothing brand for cyclists: the stitching impeccable and the form-fitting cut light years ahead of any other manufacturer. The Swiss-made garments could be relied on to last for years, by those who could afford them. I couldn’t and neither could any of my mates, but when I joined the Manchester Wheelers I was given two full sets of Assos kit. I had other clothing for everyday use but only two pairs of the precious shorts. One of these pairs would do more than keep me comfortable and let me pose on rides with my friends: they would change my life.