The Flying Scotsman E-Book

Graeme Obree

• Herausgeber: Birlinn
• Kategorie: Sachliteratur, Reportagen, Biografien
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2014

Seitenzahl: 611

Beschreibung

On 17 July 1993, Graeme Obree stunned the international world when he emerged from obscurity to smash Francesco Moser's World Hour Record. The Flying Scotsman is Graeme Obree's searing autobiography, from his tough upbringing in Ayrshire where he found escape on the roads, to his head-to-head duals with Chris Boardman and becoming a major star on the European circuit. Obree created massive controversy in the professional cycling world with his unique riding style and his pioneering construction techniques - famously using washing-machine parts to complete the building of his 'Old Faithful'. Yet all his sporting success was achieved in the shadow of manic depression and suicidal despair. His life continues to have its ups and downs as Obree brings his amazing life story up to date as he continues to astound the world with his creative genius and sporting prowess.

Leseprobe

Flying SCOTSMAN

This edition published in 2014 by Arena Sport, an imprint of Birlinn Ltd West Newington House 10 Newington Road Edinburgh eh9 1qswww.arenasportbooks.co.uk

Copyright © Graeme Obree, 2003, 2014 Foreword Copyright © Chris Hoy, 2010

Permission has been sought for the use of extracts from L’Equipe

The moral right of Graeme Obree to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form without the express written permission of the publisher.

eBook ISBN: 9780857901064 ISBN: 9781909715110

British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

To

Anne, all my family who have supported me, and, equally, to all those volunteers who selflessly give their time and without whom amateur sport would not exist.

contents

list of illustrations

foreword

one: my early years

two: coming of age

three: cosmos cycles era

four: isolation and depression

five: spain and beyond

six: the chaotic years

seven: business as usual

eight: onwards and upwards

nine: the big test

ten: making it a double

eleven: the power of the rainbow

twelve: it’s take-back time

thirteen: losing my grip

fourteen: here comes superman!

fifteen: search for olympic gold

sixteen: darkness and dawn

seventeen: looking back: a book, a film and a beastie

appendix: extracts from L’Equipe

list of illustrations

Me aged nine.

My brother, Gordon, and me on our brand-new bikes in the summer of 1980.

Wallacehill club, 1981. The two men who influenced me most: Billy ‘show the b*****ds’ McFarlane on the right with bike, and Jimmy ‘get the miles in’ Train in the second row from front, right.

The Scottish 25-miles championship, 1987. I risked riding a single gear but, on the day, it blew a gale. Dave Hannah won in 56 minutes 11 seconds and I came second, 41 seconds behind.

Attacking the hour record at Meadowbank in 1989. Spot the spectators.

Jimmy Train enjoys a celebratory cuppa after I break the British hour record at Meadowbank in 1989.

Spring 1993 at Irvine Cycles – my workshop would never be this tidy. The goggles offered protection from the brightness of the jacket.

May 1993 – the chips are down and it’s time to get even.

Ewan teaching me to play guitar.

Big brother Gordon, Ewan and me. I’m the one with the feather in his cap. I build frames better than I hang pictures.

Richard from Specialized – one of the few who never lost faith.

Me and Junior squad at Forti in 1993. ‘I brought you a beautiful plate, darling.’

August 1993. Chris and I receive awards for our hour record successes, four weeks before our big head-to-head at the world championships.

On my way to the gold medal and a world record in the men’s four-kilometre individual pursuit in Hamar, Norway, on 19 August 1993. AP Photo

The French sports paper L’Equipe thought my achievement was incredible and they gave me their front page, and their second page, and their third page!

On the other hand, the British tabloid press would not take me seriously. This piece, from the News of the World, was entitled, ‘I’m on Wash Cycle’ and ended by saying that I was certain to reclaim my world hour record ‘… on Hotpoints.’

Celebrating the hour record at Bordeaux in 1994.

Here I am, World Pursuit Champion in 1995, in a space-age kit and demonstrating my ‘Superman’ position.

A graphic from The Times in April 1995 illustrates the different riding positions. The governing body said if I used clip-on bar extensions they would be happy. Not!

From left to right – Sandy Gilchrist, me, Doug Dailey and Yvonne McGregor in Colombia.

Ewan and Jamie providing extra pedal power, in summer 1996.

What does an author have to do to get peace and quiet? I worked on my manuscript whilst recuperating in hospital.

The Beastie.

Spring 2014.

foreword

Geniusnoun 1. ‘an exceptionally intelligent person or one with exceptional skill in a particular area of activity’.

Some might say that the word ‘genius’ is used far too often these days, diluting its real meaning and therefore its impact. But when it is applied in reference to Graeme Obree, you can be sure it hasn’t been chosen hastily.

Graeme is a genius in the true sense of the word. His uncanny ability to tackle problems from an angle that no one else could have thought of makes him a one-off. An original. He sees the world in a different way to us mere mortals and comes up with ideas and solutions which make you laugh, shake your head and say, ‘Why didn’t I think of that?!’

Unfortunately, as history has so frequently shown us, with genius often comes torment. In this book, Graeme very openly discusses his life and the struggles he has faced and continues to face every day. This only serves to endear him further to those who have followed his career, to realise that in spite of his demons and without huge financial backing, he has managed to change the face of his sport and bring joy to countless fans around the globe.

Graeme has been an inspiration and a hero to me since I first became interested in track cycling, and his sheer determination and commitment have left a lasting impression; it became the model to which I aspired to emulate. Although we rode in entirely different disciplines, his message was universal: give 100 per cent every time you sling your leg over the crossbar, whether it be a cold winter training session or the final of the Olympic Games. We were room mates at the 1997 World Championships, and it was there that I first got to know Graeme and hear some of the stories that are in the following pages. I remember thinking at the time that it would make an incredible book, and so I was delighted when I heard that he was going to put pen to paper and get it published.

His story is one which has been told and re-told on countless club runs over the years and has already been passed onto a new generation of young cyclists who were too young to see his historic performances. This is the story straight from the horse’s mouth and one which can’t fail to move and inspire.

Chris Hoy August 2010

one: my early years

My childhood is far more influential in my present than a childhood ought to be, so that is where my story begins.

I was born in Nuneaton, Warwickshire on September 11, 1965 and came to Scotland shortly afterwards. My parents, John and Marcie, came from Scotland – Ayrshire to be more accurate – and were in Warwickshire because of my father’s posting as a police officer. I was their second son and there were only 15 months between Gordon and me.

My father’s posting in Scotland was in Prestwick, Ayrshire and it is there that I have my earliest memories. We moved from Prestwick to Kilmarnock when I was four years old. It was there that I first felt different from the other children – we were police. I cannot remember very much because I was so young, but our bogie was set on fire and our tortoise got the chop too.

I have clear memories of Kilmarnock in incidents. My first introduction to the school system was in the form of punishment for a window broken by a stone which left my brother’s hand. It was not a deliberate act but an accident in the playground, which was just by our house. It annoyed me that the punishment could not be joint and my first impression of school was, for me, the correct one, as time would prove.

I also quite vividly remember the day my brother and I learned to ride our bikes at the same moment. It was Uncle Stuart who pushed us off at the top of the brae, side-by-side, with the prophetic words ‘Mind the corner at the bottom!’ It was white-knuckle stuff and we might have been scuffed a bit, but from that moment on we could ride.

We were not there long before we moved to Newmilns, which was a small town set in a valley, but there the story was no different. Newmilns was parochial enough to single you out, but large enough to be nasty with it, to compound matters we were not only ‘police’, we were also newcomers.

It was a terrible combination and from day one at school we were ‘the filth’. Part of the problem was the fact that my father’s posting was in the valley itself, so the enmity towards him was passed down to the local children from their parents and from them to us. We were outsiders the entire time we were there, which was eleven years.

The enmity towards us manifested itself in three ways – name calling, ostracism and violence. Even my sister Yvonne, five years my junior, was not excluded from the party but the violence was mainly reserved for Gordon and me. It seemed that rarely a week would go by without my being strapped for fights I never asked to be in. In fact I was doing my utmost to avoid them, but seeing as I was a common denominator, I was seen as a troublemaker by Mr Gillespie, the headmaster.

This set the pattern for my whole school life and clowning around became habitual as a means of trying to be accepted. When I think back on my school days I can only remember feeling sadness and loneliness. The violence does not stand out so much, although there was plenty of it and some of it quite extreme. Being head-butted from the crowd or roughed up was common enough to lose its shock factor and, apart from the worst incidents, I do not think that the violence itself left a large impression on me emotionally.

Avoiding violence, and the fear of violence, there were worse forms of victimisation: those that were intangible. When it came to physical violence though, I thought of it and perceived it as two different sensations after a while. Being kicked about the head was so different from being kicked about the body.

Ironic as it may seem, in the midst of it, violence has a beauty and excitement that nothing else can generate. Sometimes, even though it was nothing more than extreme physical harm, I could almost be disappointed when it ended. At times the most extreme violence, especially to the head, brought an orgasm of fear, excitement, panic and adrenaline.

Nonetheless, I always slipped back to my mode of violence avoidance.

For me there was also a much, much more hurtful thing called social exclusion. Because of being the ‘newcomer’ and ‘the filth’ as well as feeling I was the odd one out in the family, I was desperate to be accepted into the periphery of my peer group. I was the tag-along child on a good day, but when I was seven an event happened that mired what hope I had into the ground.

My memory of it starts at the point of arrival at school, where there were three double-decker buses decked with streamers and balloons sitting in the schoolyard on a beautiful, sunny, summer morning. The engines are turning over and all the children are getting on board – the whole of primary three are going to Millport, a small town on a small island a mile or two off the Ayrshire coast. It is a beautiful scene, except for one problem – I’m not going.

I cannot recall the given reason for my non-participation, but it made no difference to the material fact that I was there beside Mrs Jamieson and Mr Gillespie, waving goodbye to my peer group. It was the ‘belt first and ask questions later’ headmaster, Mr Gillespie, who cruelly made me stand and wave at the laughing and pointing classmates at the back windows of the departing buses.

Next I was escorted to another class by Mrs Jamieson, who only seemed to teach the three ‘D’s – Discipline, Discipline, Discipline. I was taken to a fourth-year class, where I was placed at the front of the class like a prize example of unworthiness. I don’t mean in the front row, but at the very front like a pulpit to a congregation. There I sat, in my own island of abject sorrow, staring at the blue sky through the side window. Every second of every minute I could feel the mockery of sixty eyes burn into the back of me as I shielded my face from its glare, and every second of every minute I felt the weight of tears bursting behind my eyes. I refused to cry – I could not cry – because I knew that the wolves behind me would devour my emotions and leave me as good as dead inside.

At the end of the next day I had to endure the sight of my tormentors’ return; I felt dead inside anyhow. At that point I felt like ‘the other boy’ at home, and at school as I was ‘the filth’, but now I knew I was worthless and detestable. It was not until the next morning, when my tormentors started teasing and laughing at me, that the full impact struck my seven-year-old head to such effect that it inspired my childhood dream that everything I knew would be annihilated by a nuclear holocaust. For others it was the great fear of the era, but for me it became a day-to-day hope to cling onto.

I can remember the exact spot where I stood when the blow came and at that moment the world ended for me. It was of my doing. I could not live and be part of the world around me any more – it was too sad and painful. From that moment I was no longer here, and I was no longer that little boy. No, I was merely an observer behind his eyes and anything that hurt the little boy did not hurt me, because I only witnessed what happened to the boy.

These are truly the saddest days of my life by a long way and I lived in my self-imposed protective prison for more or less most of my school life. Beyond that my childhood left me with an isolationist and insular personality as well as a real and subconscious fear of social situations.

One other incident that stands out, though, in my memory from childhood is my brother and me being taken at knife-point when we were nine and ten. We were walking down a backstreet in the town when we were set upon by three older boys and taken at knifepoint into a derelict house. There my brother was urinated on while I could do nothing to help. We were taken into the basement, where other things happened. One of those was being made to touch each other’s genitals at knifepoint while being threatened that they’d hurt the other brother if we refused to do it and vice versa.

The incident was taken to the authorities and when it came up in court I was too young to give evidence, and my brother fainted in the dock. In the end, it made no difference as the assailants were effectively let off.

What scant regard Gordon and I had for ‘justice’ was gone and nothing else of this kind in the future would ever be reported.

Gordon and I never spoke about the matter to other people or to each other from then on and it was consigned to history and our memories.

As far as my primary school years are concerned it was a teacher called Myrtle McKay who gave me a lifeline, by letting me be part of something. She taught music.

She ran a recorder class in her own time after school hours, and she encouraged me to get involved. I was interested in music, but at the start I was more interested in walking home on a near-deserted footpath after school time.

My initial motive never waned, but my interest in the recorder soon overcame it. After a while I had a small part in the band, but more importantly Mrs McKay took time – her own time – to speak to me like a person. I will always remember her as a kind and warm-hearted person who provided an oasis of hope in a desert of despair.

One incident I should mention, as I am famous for cycling, is my first serious bike accident when I was about nine or ten. Gordon and I were racing down the main street when we touched wheels. I went straight over the handlebars and ended up with my front tooth totally embedded in my bottom lip. The remaining stump had to be removed and now I only have one front tooth. Luckily, the other teeth moved round and closed the gap so that only the keenest of eye can spot the deficit. Strangely, the whole thing was remarkably painless, despite the broken tooth and copious amounts of blood.

Gordon and I did a lot of cycling about as boys. It always seemed a safer way to travel than on foot, and it gave us freedom to go wherever we wanted. We would go to the far end of town on bike, but very rarely on foot. In fact, there was a shop at the far end of town which I never realised was there until I was about eleven.

Newmilns is basically a one-street town with a few side-streets branching off, so it was long and narrow, following the course of the river Irvine that runs through the valley. Because it is in a valley, there is no avoiding hills if you cycle anywhere but the main road. You can climb to about a thousand feet on either side, which we often did and we would seem to take it in turns to fall off on the descents.

We started venturing further and further, and by our early teens, we could cover up to 60 miles in a day. We were not cyclists by any manner of means – we were just boys on bikes, clothed in padded jackets and trainers. The funny thing was that Gordon always seemed hardier than me in terms of his endurance of adversity, especially cold and wet weather. I can honestly say that I have no recollection of him complaining about anything ever, and I suppose in our daily lives we were used to adversity.

Cycling trips were not really my brother’s thing – just something to do. He was a radio amateur and buried himself in electronics from a very young age, so the more involved he got in that the less cycling he was into. I had also gotten into cycling through forests and on rough paths, which my bike wasn’t really built for. In the ’70s, it was seen as a bit immature for a boy of my age to romp along dirt paths on bikes – but it was fun. The forests nearby had good drop-offs, and I always liked to challenge myself to see how big a slope I could handle without spilling it. I always felt much safer by bike because I could easily cycle away rather than be set upon. I would rarely go to the forest by foot, as I would have to run the gauntlet of the open street first.

I always preferred rainy days, as almost nobody would be out and about. Sometimes, though, during the summer holidays, I would brave the 200 yards along the main road to a stream which ran underneath the road. I could cross the road through the tunnel, and this led to a field that led uphill to the open and deserted countryside. I would simply hide there and come back in time for dinner. That way, I would avoid my parents’ comments about being a couch potato and that I should go out and play – which is the impression I gave when I returned.

I used to love climbing trees, especially really hard ones with no branches at the bottom. I always felt safe in trees. There were a couple of trees which I climbed all the time and they were two of my favourite places. One was so high above ground that I could see right down the valley all the way to the coast, which was about 17 miles away, and I would spend hours up there, just watching the world go by. It seems a strange thing to talk about trees in an autobiography, but they were a bigger part of my life than friends, and I was quite dismayed when one of them was chopped down.

At secondary school, I had no real interest in academic achievement, although my best subjects were maths and physics. Mrs Monaghan asked me if I would represent the school in a maths competition, but I instantly refused, as I had spent most of my life either being invisible or a clown to other kids. I did not actually think why I refused at the time – I just refused.

Ironically, my worst subjects at secondary school were metalwork and physical education (sports). This might seem strange, as I built my own bike and won the world championships a few years later, but the truth of the matter is that metalwork was the ultimate place of physical danger. Not only were my fellow pupils armed with lumps of metal and sharp tools, we were usually completely unsupervised for entire classes.

I used to dread metalwork so much that it seemed to me like going into the gladiators’ arena. I believe I spent most of these classes with my back to a workbench and a sharp implement at hand. In four years of metalwork, I produced a grand total of a trowel and half of a plant-holder bracket. I could have knocked out the same in my father’s shed in half a day.

In sport I also liked to keep out of the way, but, to be honest, I really was pretty poor at most sports except climbing and the long jump. I was always last or nearly last to be picked. Team sports were the worst. We almost always ended up with football and it was always, without deviation, the same select group of boys who were given the honour of selecting teams and deciding who plays where. If it was football, then I knew the routine off pat – I would get picked last or second-last, and I would play in defence. In four years, there was no exception to this. Not once. At least I was not the worst, as the boy whom I competed with for last-picking spent his entire secondary school years in goals for the crime of being effeminate.

As I went through secondary school at Loudoun Academy, the situation improved slightly as the rowdier element tended to be in lower-grade classes. Loudoun Academy is situated about a mile from Galston, which is about the same size as Newmilns, at about 5,000 population, and is two miles further down the valley towards the coast. It was common practice for the majority of the school population to stream down to Galston during lunch break.

I would never indulge in this practice for the sake of avoiding trouble, but a mate from class persuaded me to visit his house on the lunch break. After a couple of times, an incident happened which changed my mind. Three thugs recognised me and must have been waiting for my return. One of them had an axe, with which he threatened me and my friend, so my friend had no choice but to stand aside while the other two kicked the absolute crap out of me. I can remember the physical struggle to make it back to school. The beating was noticeable enough that one teacher did ask me what had happened, and after I told him, he pointed out that I should have hit them back. This further undermined my faith in authority and establishment, and even my parents will be unaware of this incident until they read the brief for this book.

I think I became even more withdrawn at secondary school, to the extent that I never had a single friend at my house for the time that I was there. I had already been taken to a child psychologist at primary school, but it was at secondary school that suicide seemed like a tempting idea. The language lab window was the biggest drop, and onto concrete, and at these times it was that window which seemed to be the passage to freedom. Ironically, having the ‘big get-out’ in the back of my mind gave me the flippancy to carry on regardless.

Luckily, cycling at that time was becoming more and more a vehicle of freedom and escapism for me, and it was a classmate, Gordon Graham, who suggested I come along to Wallacehill Cycling Club in Kilmarnock, the main town in the area. It is a town of about 50,000 people and is seven miles from our old house in Newmilns.

It was January or February of 1981, and I’m not sure if Gordon actually believed I would show on a cold winter’s night. Gordon was a member already, as was his father, Gus. I was completely apprehensive about walking into a club of strange people. I went for it anyway, but I was right to be apprehensive. As soon as I opened the door and walked in, there was complete silence from what had been busy chitchat. Everyone turned around and stared for a moment, and I froze and panicked at the same time. It was Jimmy Train who broke the silence, and said to come in. I remember being relieved that Gordon was there that night, as it meant I was not completely among strangers.

I was clad in black boots, jeans and a parka jacket. My bike was a racing-style bike with five gears, that my brother and I both had bought for us by our parents. It became apparent quite quickly that, in real cycling terms, I was a complete amateur. I met a few members of the club that night, but it was obvious that Jimmy Train was the leader. He seemed to be the stereotypical opposite of what one would expect as the elder statesman of a cycling club. He was dressed in old jeans and a jacket, smoked almost continuously, and he instantly reminded me of Popeye. Despite his idiosyncrasies, it did not take me long to realise that Jimmy Train was not only a source of wisdom – most of it moulded from a previous era – but also an honest and straight-to-the-point type of person.

The journey home was a taster of the way that beginners are treated in cycling clubs – or certainly at that time in Britain. There were three other boys who lived in the valley – my classmate Gordon, Tony Williamson and Alex Currie. The whole idea was to humble the beginner and test him out by trying to drop him. I might have been a complete amateur, but I had learned enough by cycling with my brother to know that the easiest place to be is right behind someone else’s back wheel. So when the pace went up and up, I was glued to the last wheel by the skin of my teeth. I bid them goodnight as we passed my house in a way that would hide my exhaustion, and then crawled slowly into the house.

My metamorphosis from rank amateur to champion would be driven along by many rides of this nature, where trying to outdo each other was par for the course. The starting point was the club run on Sundays. Beginner or not, it was obligatory to become part of the through-and-off system, where side-by-side, two riders would take it in turns to provide the slipstreaming at the front of the group for the others behind.

At the start, I was physically unable to ride very far at the pace before being ‘dropped’, but every week I would cycle back alone and pretty soon my fitness and staying power grew to the point where I could hack it. Also, I was starting to use better clothing and footwear, and I managed to improve my bike slightly with toe clips and the like.

The winter rides were dying out in March, as a lot of the riders were either riding competitively or helping others to organise events. As luck would have it, I had become friendly with Gordon Stead and John Stewart. Gordon was a year older than me, and had been in ‘proper’ cycling a lot longer. John was in his early twenties, but was not as fit as Gordon or me. We started going on rides together while most of the club was involved in racing, and sometimes we covered remarkable distances.

This suited me fine because my original reason for joining a club was the idea that I could get involved in touring trips, and Gordon and John were both into that, especially youth hostelling. Gordon had also introduced me to a guy called Alistair Gow, who lived on the opposite side of Glasgow, about 30 miles away. To me, at that time, Alistair Gow was an absolute guru in cycling terms. His whole house was steeped in cycling and the attic was nothing short of an Aladdin’s cave to someone like me.

Alistair was into long-distance, high-speed touring and some of those rides were like races. I was only fifteen, Gordon sixteen, and sometimes we would cycle to Alistair’s, before setting off on a long ride and on our return his dear old mum would make us onion soup and dinner and then, after a bit of cycling gossip, we would set about the 30 miles back home. One time, I remember drinking a can of cold baked beans and being so exhausted I had to walk part of the moor road to Newmilns, reaching home at about 1 a.m., with school the next day.

It wasn’t long, though, before I had been talked into riding a time trial. I think it was about May of that year, and I had managed to persuade my parents that my sixteenth birthday had come early, and they bought me a proper racing bike with alloy wheels and components and state-of-the-art twelve-speed gears. It was a Peugeot from Billy Bilsland’s shop in Glasgow. It rode like a dream compared to my other bike, and I suppose I was curious to see what I could do, but nervous at the same time.

My first race was a 10-mile time trial on the open road, and I made a bit of a gaffe with the timekeepers. I thought the finish was directly opposite the start. I was halfway through getting changed, when someone told me the finish timekeeper was 200 yards down the road, and my official time for my first race was 32 minutes and a handful of seconds – second last. My team mate, John Stewart, saved me from last place.

I did not ride many races that year. Touring and long rides were still what I wanted to do. As luck would have it though, on one ride through Glasgow, Gordon Stead and I met a boy who tried to sell an old frame to us. We followed him to the backstreets and it turned out to be an old Cinelli pre-war track frame. It needed a lot of work and there were no forks, but it was a classic, so I settled on a price of £8. It needed components as well as work, but Gordon gave me a pair of 1950s track wheels that were badly buckled. It took me ages to get them straight, but it was a good lesson in wheel mechanics that would get me started in bigger things.

Gordon Stead and I had also gone to the Girvan three-day race at Easter, which the Wallacehill CC used to organise, and we camped down the coast. We got up early – long before the race start time, so that we could hang about the team mechanics at work preparing the bikes for the top riders. Many of our heroes that we had only read about in the magazines were riding with the professional teams, and we had the good fortune to bump into the late Len Malvern, who was delighted to let us watch him at work, and even answered our every naïve question.

Len was working for the KP Crisps team, which included Tony Doyle, Dudley Hayton and Phil Bayton (The Engine). He said he would see us the next morning, and he didn’t have to ask us twice. The next morning, our lesson in the art continued, and we could not believe our luck as we got to watch and ask questions of one of the country’s top mechanics.

All in all, my knowledge was increasing at an amazing rate, and I soon mastered the art of building wheels from scratch – a skill that most cyclists simply do not need to possess. The result was a lot of customising of my racing bike, and the Cinelli track bike was starting to take shape with old and second-hand components.

The few races that I rode that year were on the pre-war Cinelli. There was not much point in riding gears in time trials as a juvenile, because the gear restriction meant that even with gears, the biggest available is the one I would use all the time anyway. The problem I had was tyres, or, more specifically, tubular tyres. The track wheels were for tubular tyres, and decent ones were quite expensive, at a time when I had bottomed out on cash.

Luckily, a few riders in the club used them, and when they inevitably punctured the effort needed to repair them meant that I could have the old ones if I thought I could do anything with them. Tubular tyres have a bonded base tape, followed by tight stitching, followed by a light inner lining. One has to unpick all this without damaging the tyre, patch the super-thin tube, and then sew it all back up and re-bond the base tape. The effort I put in, in relation to the money saved, made it worth it and it allowed me to race on the Cinelli.

I mainly rode in the club’s own confined events which were 10 miles, and I could see my times getting quicker and quicker. Only a few times in the season did I ride open 10- and 25-mile Time Trials, but the aggregate of the best times at those distances was enough to win the Ayrshire schoolboy championship. It was one of my appearances at a club ‘10’ that caused me to gain the reputation of a bit of a grubber. Gordon Stead and I had gone out to do some ‘rough stuff’ as it was known before mountain bikes were invented. We had headed over the moors from Rankinson to Dalmellington, which is a barely rideable dirt path. It was quite a long round trip, and when we got back both we and our bikes were filthy. Gordon was starving and tired and decided to miss the club ‘10’, but I still had a handful of food in my back pocket and decided to go directly to the ‘10’.

It was old Jimmy Train who told me off about not having respect for my best equipment, and pointed out that if this had been an open event, I would have been disqualified from starting, as well as bringing down the reputation of the club. I had already known by then why Jimmy was so respected – he always gave his honest opinion, irrespective of how it might be received. Not only that, but Jimmy organised and timed the club events, and he would be there, whatever the weather. I suppose that was one reason I was keen to show up every time.

The club ‘10’s were the only specific training I did for racing. I still considered long rides and touring to be what cycling was all about, and one popular destination that I had been initiated into was Wanlockhead Youth Hostel. It was high in the Leadhills, and the village sat at over 1,400 feet, so any ride there would culminate in the seven-mile climb of the Mennock Pass. The hostel itself was very basic, in that there were no showers, central heating or hot running water. The dorms were cold and damp for the same reason. This was a perfect situation, as it meant that general public types did not come very often. In those days it was a cycling youth hostel and the only place of warmth was in the kitchen with the huge wood-burning stove giving out such heat that you could peel off your damp clothes and dry out. Such was the popularity of Wanlockhead to cyclists that it was rare to go there and not meet other cyclists that you knew already and the kitchen was the centre of activity.

Mrs Young was the warden and had outlived her name by several decades. She would always moan to us about people sneaking in way past the 11 o’clock deadline and we would always sympathise with her. All the while, we knew the kitchen window had a broken latch and that after a good session at the British Legion Club just 200 yards away there would be a port of entry even if the door was locked – which it always was by the wee small hours, our normal arrival time.

At fifteen, drinking seemed to come to me naturally. Wanlockhead about April or May that year was my initiation to alcohol and from the first pint I felt an inner compulsion to drink more and more until complete intoxication was achieved – and then I usually wanted to argue with everybody.

Mrs Young was no walkover, though, and when it came to doing a duty in the morning, as was youth hostelling tradition, she usually reserved the best ones for the worst offenders. One time I had to weed and rake the driveway and car park, which took me about two hours with a hangover. Most of the guys wouldn’t mind doing physical stuff because Mrs Young was about 80 and she looked after the hostel on her own. Some folk even stayed more than one night and did woodwork and the like – but no one ever sorted the kitchen window!

With so many other trips and racing, the Wanlockhead experience was not a regular feature, thankfully, but I was lucky to have experienced it as part of Scottish cycling culture at that time. Still being at school and sitting my O-grade exams meant that I did not have much spare time after cycling.

The summer holidays were coming up and then I would have loads of time to tour and race, but I had to decide whether to leave school or stay on for Highers. I did not have any job lined up and as unemployment had risen to three million the hopelessness and futility of job seeking was common knowledge. Not only that, but I was fifteen and on paper it seemed more sensible to stay on for fifth year as I would only be sixteen when I left. I was always the youngest in the class because of the intake birthday cut-off system.

I absolutely hated school for all the reasons I mentioned earlier, but things were not as bad as before as the scum were leaving at the first opportunity. I decided that it was the only real option and it would give me a better chance of a job or college. I did not have any real vision at all of what I might want to do, and really I was just drifting along with the tide.

During the summer holidays I did loads of cycling with Gordon Stead and John Stewart. We even went on a two-week tour of Scotland, but had to come back after a week, when John could not hack it any more. We were camping and roughing it all the way. I also had the great opportunity to go along with the Scottish Health Race, which was being organised by George Miller, an organising member of the Wallacehill CC. It was not a free ride – I had to help route and de-route the race with direction arrows – but it was a good insight into the involvement of running a large event.

A lot of the season was spent either going to distant youth hostels or doing long rides. Meeting up with Alistair was common practice and when this happened we would have both pace and distance to deal with. Sometimes there would be a good group of us, if some of the guys from the Glasgow area came along. It was better if there was a group because it meant that there were more bodies to put some effort into a head wind and it also meant that there was always a good wheel to hang on to during a bad patch.

If there was a group then it also opened up the possibility of pranks taking place. My favourite was the ‘tin trick’: it was an almost certainty that in a group of cyclists there would exist at least one tin of Ambrosia Creamed Rice. I used to get a tin myself and swap labels with a tin of chopped tomatoes, and switch them whenever I found a victim. The look of disgust made it all worthwhile.

This was not a one-sided affair, and on one occasion I went to mount my bike only to discover that my cranks were at 90 degrees to each other. This requires a special tool, and everybody flatly denied having such a thing in their possession.

On another occasion, I was last to leave Wanlockhead Youth Hostel after a particularly long duty to find my bike sitting ready for me. I jumped straight on it, and it was only when I arrived home exhausted after a 90-mile round trip that I discovered a huge boulder in my saddlebag.

That season went on though, and in the end I won Ayrshire schoolboy best all-rounder on the strength of two reasonable rides, one of them on the day before my sixteenth birthday. I probably would have tied it up earlier in a 25-mile time trial if I had not glanced across the road and seen Alex Currie riding in a knotted handkerchief instead of a crash helmet. I never recovered from the loss of seriousness and finished with a slower time than I had hoped for.

There were time trials on the road, and there is not much to say about them, but the race that stands out in my memory that season was not a TT and was anything but ordinary.

It was the Three Peaks Cycle Cross, held in Derbyshire. Gordon Stead suggested riding it, and having a wild and adventurous (probably best described as reckless) streak, I instantly thought it was a radically good idea. He explained from the start that it was the world’s longest and toughest cyclo-cross (29 miles and three of England’s highest peaks), and that we would have to prepare for it a bit.

The rules were quite clear that only experienced riders of over sixteen were allowed to compete. I was lucky on this score, as my sixteenth birthday was a week or so before the event. All competitors were obliged to carry a survival bag and a proper whistle.

Obviously I had to make sure my bike was up to the job as well. We had to think about gearing, and how to get them low enough to climb the steepest parts of tracks before losing traction. And that was another problem point too. The tyres would have to be the knobbly sort to get the best grip. This might seem a bit obvious to some readers from the perspective of the twenty-first century but, at that time, it was all ‘niche’. Even knobbly tyres were hard to get hold of, and were quite expensive because they were only made for cyclo-cross.

We had to think about carrying food and drinks on ourselves and our bikes as the length of the race meant that most riders just could not complete the event without sustenance. I obtained an ancient handlebar-mounted wire bottle-cage, which could hold a water bottle, from my grandfather John, who had cycled quite a bit in his younger days. If you see an old picture from the 1950s Tour de France riders, you will see the sort of thing I am talking about.

We would put sugar and glucose into our drinks, as well as carrying food in our pockets for the sake of energy on the day. We had every single angle covered, even punctures, as we each had pumps and a spare inner tube with us. I reckoned that loads of dextrose tablets and Kendal Mint Cake would be just the thing on the day. We had the whole thing organised like the D-Day landings. We even used the compulsory survival bags to make a shoulder pad on the inside of the frame triangle to stop the top bar digging right into our backs when shouldering the bike on mountain slopes. Everything was ready. We had received our entries for the race, and we booked up the local youth hostel for the night before, so that we could look at some of the course the evening before the race.

I had seen some pictures of Gordon’s race the previous year in beautiful sunshine and on country tracks. Gordon had said that the pictures were a little bit misleading as most of the race was over real mountains, and that when you turn off the track after a couple of miles in the race, a huge mountain just appears in front of you and is so steep that you have to grab lumps of grass in front of you with your bike on your back.

As it turned out, this year’s race would not be bathed in sunshine. In fact, it was the worst weekend on record for the race and was one of the worst weekends on record at the Met Office for rainfall. It was flooded everywhere, and not just in Yorkshire. Our local river burst its banks and washed away the bowling green, and when we were driving down with Gordon’s father Tom, we saw flooding all around. It just did not stop raining.

We gave the pre-race recce a miss, and the next morning it was still pouring down. We were late leaving the youth hostel and, as I remember it, the reason was a last-minute mechanical problem with one of the bikes. The result was that we were a little short of preparation time at the next race start, and some of the riders were starting to line up as we got into the changing room. It was a mad dash to get ready.

We decided we would go as we were – shorts, T-shirt and short-sleeved cycling jersey over the top and a skipped hat over our cycling hats (the old strap type). We slapped ‘Red Hot’ massage cream on our legs, as was the tradition (and still is in cycling) in cold weather events. It doesn’t actually keep you warm – all it does is irritate the skin and gives the impression of warmth. I grabbed handfuls of dextrose tablets and a large mint cake and put them into my pockets, and put my number on. Once we got into it, we would be warm. We were ready. But what we missed whilst being late in the changing room, was a severe weather warning of driving sleet or snow on the higher ground.

We joined the back of the assembled throng (about 200 riders) just in time to start. It started incredibly fast, along narrow tarmac roads. It was still lashing down with rain and all the wheels around me were spraying up muddy water, so I was racing along, just squinting out of screwed-up eyes so as not to be blinded by the spray.

I was racing well and was starting to move up the field, when I was treated to my first experience of bad sportsman-ship. We were on an uphill section of road, when a hand came across and flicked my bar-end gear lever. I went straight into top gear and came to a standstill. The thing that shocked me most was that the perpetrator had ‘RAF CC’ on his jersey – a club I would have least expected to have members like this.

I got going again pretty quickly, and was warming up nicely when I turned a corner and saw a huge mountain in front of me. It was like a stairway to heaven, with distant figures disappearing into the low cloud. As soon as I bounced across the cattle grid onto rough track, my water bottle bounced out of my ’50s holder. I stopped to pick it up and it happened again within yards. In the heat of the race, and not wanting to lose valuable time, I just left it there.

When I put my bike on my back and started to climb the first mountain, I almost caught up with Gordon ahead of me. Less than halfway up, I was starting to get really tired, my output was going down and down and I was really starting to suffer. At this point, I saw a figure coming down the mountainside through the mist. As he got closer, we realised it was Jim Frew, now a good friend of mine, from our own club. I have rarely heard Jim swear, either before or since, but on this occasion, he was cursing the race and its insanity. After a bit of shouting and teasing, we convinced him to turn around and carry on.

Gordon and Jim disappeared into the mist as I got slower and slower and colder and colder. At the top half of the mountain, it was more sleet than rain, and windy with it. Almost the entire field had passed me now, and it was the best I could do to carry on, as I was shivering with cold. Just as I thought it couldn’t get any worse, my skip hat blew off from my crash hat, off the edge of the mountain, and disappeared into the low cloud.

Things were getting worse as I reached the summit of the first mountain. Mountain rescue members were at the checkpoint on the summit, and I made a point of trying to look warm and not shiver as I passed, so that I would not be withdrawn from the race. It seemed as though I heated up a little on the descent of the mountain, which was just a trail of mud, knee-deep in places. All I could think about was getting warmer.

As I approached the second mountain, my body was almost numb and I was so weak I could hardly turn a pedal or lift my bike. I had to hold the bike in the bend of my elbow because my hands were now so numb I could not hold it tight enough to lift it. As I started to climb, I couldn’t take normal steps, so I just started edging my bike up the mountain. I reached for my food in my back pockets, but all that remained of it was a line of syrupy sludge at the bottom. I carried on at a snail’s pace, upwards into the mist, but I only got so far when I just could not continue. I felt numb and almost drunk with exhaustion and cold, and I could only see in black and white and in tunnel vision. I looked around and couldn’t see anything except wilderness in the mist – not even the path I was supposed to be on. At this point, I thought, ‘I am going to die. I must carry on.’

It was very misty now, and with the driving sleet I was starting to think about survival. I had seen an advert on TV depicting a man staggering through deep snow with hypothermia, and a voice booming something about, ‘He wants to stop but he must go on.’ I was way past shivering, and I really thought I might die.

I was starting to think of my other option of climbing into my orange survival bag – if I could remove it with my numb hands – and blowing my whistle. I had overcome both pride and the voice saying that I must go on, and decided that I had to use my survival bag.

Just as I was trying in vain to dislodge my survival bag, I saw the outline of a figure in the mist. I left the bike and stumbled towards the figure as quickly as I could manage, which was painfully slow. When I got there, I could not believe my luck. It was a race helper, and he had a flask in his hand. I was so hungry and cold that the first thing I tried to do was ask for a drink of whatever it contained, but my lips were as frozen as my hands, and it came out like a drunken mumble. He gave me a woolly hat and sent me off the mountain. He explained that I was only a few miles from the race HQ, and from here, it was mostly downhill.

I can remember standing on top of my clothes in the shower block for hours, trying to heat up. I went back through the shivers again, and that was when I really started to feel cold again. On the journey home, I had excruciating leg and arm cramps as a reward for my efforts. At the time, rather than put the whole effort down as a waste of time, its usefulness was embodied by my peer group as ‘character-building’. The annoying thing about it was that I did not even get a certificate for completing the course in less than five hours.

That was the end of my season, in terms of racing, but now it was time to get involved in club rides and trips to youth hostels. I had just turned sixteen, and was back at school with no sense of direction or ambition. One thing that was certain was that cycling had become a way of life, and I had learned so much in just one season – most of it the hard way. I kept myself in reasonably good shape over the winter, with youth hostel trips and club rides, so when spring came, I was still pretty fit and ready to go.

two: coming of age

Like most sports, cycling is divided into age categories, and in the season of 1982, when I was competing as a junior, this meant I could use a bigger gear than I could as a schoolboy. Even so, this was pretty small by modern standards, and juniors would have to pedal pretty fast to achieve good results. I was still more of a ‘pleasure and touring’ cyclist than an out-and-out racer, but I was keen to have a go at time trials and also some road racing. Being a junior meant that I could compete in bunch races on the road, as opposed to parks or industrial estates. Other than the ill-fated Three Peaks cyclo-cross the September before, I had not ridden any bunch races, so I was keen to get involved, and the racing machine my parents had bought me for my birthday was ideal for the job.

I used this bike in the first time-trial I rode that season. It was an evening 25-miler, and the weather was fine. I still did not train specifically for racing, but I was reasonably fit. I never took events as seriously as I might have done, until on this one I was passed by a veteran (over forty), before the turn in the out-and-back course. Jim Cameron was his name, and he was favourite to win the race. When he passed, I let him gain a considerable distance, and, keeping him in sight, I tried to ride at his pace. Having found my legs, I decided to lay on my pace, and eventually passed him again. He caught me again and I dropped back an appropriate distance. It wasn’t as hard as I thought, but my presence some way behind seemed to annoy him, and he kept looking round. He complained to the commissaire (cycling’s equivalent of an umpire) and I was told to slow and let an even bigger gap open, which I did. I finished with a personal-best time and was in line for a prize. At the readout, I was accused of cheating by Tommy Bruce the commissaire. He said he knew that I could not go that fast on my own, and that I was disqualified. I was really brassed off with the time trial scene after that, and I did not enter any for a long time after this injustice. However my love of cycling prevented me from being lost to the sport at that time, as well as a few times in the future.

I was still at school at this time, studying for my Highers. Cycling seemed so much more important and I never took school as seriously as I should have. Before I left school, my father and I had visited Commercial Components in Newmilns, and we arranged for me to begin an apprenticeship in tool-making as soon as my Highers were finished. The results of the Highers were of no importance to the boss, and this was another major factor in my losing interest in them. While I was studying I was still doing quite a lot of mileage, and I still planned to compete when I could.

From a young age, I was always made to feel – perhaps not intentionally – that I was stupid and Gordon was clever. It never occurred to me to go to college or university, and by this time (after the ‘outcast’ childhood, the ostracism and the friendless isolation), it was not a matter of ‘Can I?’ It was simply a fact in my mind that I was not cut out for it. In other words, academic study was just that – academic.

I started at Commercial Components the day after I left school, but one race I did ride that year, despite the constraints of weekend work, was a junior race at Bellahouston Park in Glasgow. I cannot remember if it was before or after the time trial debacle, but it certainly got me into trouble and this time it was all of my own doing. It was a circuit race with tight corners and narrow park lanes. In preparing my bike for the event, I had to change the rear tyre. I had left it until the night before, and the tyres I was using were tubulars (tyres that have the inner tubes sewn on directly and have to be glued onto the rim of the wheel). As it turned out, I had no glue left and Gordon Stead had none either. Tubular glue never really hardens, and Gordon reckoned that the old layers of glue would maybe be enough to glue it on, but it would be taking a chance. I reckoned if I pumped the tyre up really hard, it would be fine. In junior races, the bikes have to be checked for gear size and general mechanical safety.