LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

paranoid about looking paranoid. The boys, of course, were all lovely when we did meet up for dinner and I calmed myself down. It was much better than sitting alone in my room, obsessing about the coming races.

      There was little serenity in the Brno Velodrome. Whenever I saw another female sprinter I thought of Martin Barras. The women all had meaty thighs and big behinds. Their upper bodies were squat and powerful and their haircuts, for the most part, appeared equally severe. Mullets were still cool in sprint cycling. The Russian women, in particular, looked brutally strong. Martin would have loved to have exchanged me for one of them.

      It soon emerged that my lack of physicality mattered far less than my hapless tactical knowledge. I realized how unprepared I was for the strategic minefield of the individual sprint. Unlike in the pursuit, where riders start at opposite ends of the track, two sprinters begin from the same point in a three-lap race. I was still learning the intricacies of the sprint.

      Luck of the draw dictates which cyclist is drawn for the role of the lead-out rider – with the second sprinter having the potential advantage of, at high speed, expending less effort if they manage to use the draft behind the first rider to reduce the physical toll. On the last lap they can zip out of the trailing slipstream and, with gathering momentum, rocket past the lead-out rider. The element of surprise is vital to any attack.

      Lead-out riders were far from helpless; even if the need to constantly look over their shoulders, to monitor the sprinter following them, suggested vulnerability. In their own way, the lead sprinter could dictate the slow pace of the first two laps and settle on the line of the ride. The first sprinter often will lead the trailing rider up the steep bank where they can pin them against the barrier and so force the second cyclist to overtake and assume the lead-out role. Some riders are brilliant at bringing their bikes to a complete halt on the curved bank by standing up and balancing with both feet motionless on the pedals and their front wheel at an angle. If they can hold this position, a ‘track stand’ or ‘standstill’, long enough, the second rider will be forced to start pedalling again and take over the lead role. But the first rider can also outwit his or her rival by accelerating earlier than expected and opening up a sufficiently wide margin to deny the second cyclist a chance to benefit from racing in the slipstream.

      The old cliché of a cat toying with a mouse felt especially vivid and true as I watched the cruel psychology of the sprint in Brno. I definitely fell into the mouse-trap and my defeat was swift and almost merciful. There wasn’t even time for me to confront the tortuous tactical struggle. I got so confused in the slow ride around the track before the flying last lap and a half that I actually lost count. I even asked myself, at one bemused point, ‘Is this lap two or lap three?’ I was that bad.

      I was finally classified a lowly eighth – both in the sprint and the 500m time trial. Unlike Bradley Wiggins, it did not seem like I was on my way to becoming a promising young maverick on the track. I just looked like a lost young girl, who hadn’t quite mastered the art of counting to three.

      During my final year at university I reached an understanding with Phil Hayes, my tutor, and Marshall Thomas that I would spend one week out of every month training in Manchester. It would keep me in touch with the track as I tried to qualify for the Commonwealth Games in the summer of 2002. Supported by my university’s Elite Athlete programme, and by Sport Newcastle, I could just about afford my train tickets to and from Manchester.

      I often struggled to Newcastle station, as I lived a kilometre away in the city, with the frame of my track bike over my shoulder, a wheel in one hand and my bag in the other. Taking my bike apart meant I wouldn’t be charged extra for it on the train – and I just had to worry about racing down the platform in Manchester shouting ‘’scuse me, ’scuse me, can I have my bike!’ as it would be stored in the far carriage. I always worried about losing it as, without a sponsor, I was responsible for all my own equipment. To that end I also supplied my own tools. As a way of reducing the weight, my dad had sawn down a spanner and made it so small the velodrome mechanics joked that it looked as if I worked on my wheels with a tea spoon. It was all part of my canny plan to travel light and cheap.

      At Manchester Piccadilly I would walk another kilometre to the bus station. It sometimes felt like hard work, especially when it was cold and rainy, as I trudged down the road with my bike and heavy bag. I would then have to wait for a blue bus because it only charged 50p for a fare to Clayton. The two other different coloured buses cost £1.15 – and my saved 65p would go towards my tea that evening.

      From Clayton it was only a short walk to the crack house on Ilk Street. We rather lovingly called it the ‘crack house’ because there was not much glamour or luxury about a place where you could stay for £10 a night. It belonged to the parents of Peter Jacques, a former sprint cyclist, and it was an open house for all cyclists affiliated to the national team. You could walk across the street and reach the velodrome through the back entrance, and for your ten quid you knew the house would be stocked with cereal, milk, butter and pasta. There was also a little corner shop where you could buy a jar of pesto or a loaf of bread.

      The accommodation in Ilk Street was just as basic – as befitting one of only three houses on the road that had yet to be demolished. There were six bunk-beds in a large room and another all on its own in a very small room. I always opted for the small room. Sometimes the front door opened and a guy I had never seen before appeared. I couldn’t really ask if he was a cyclist because I wondered if I should have already recognized him. And, to make myself feel just a little safer at night, I would wedge a chair underneath the door handle in my bedroom at the back of the slightly scary crack house.

      On 13 May 2002, I handed in my final assignment at the University of Northumbria. I was on course to graduate later that year with a 2:1 in my BSc Honours degree. My student life had flashed past in a sprinter’s blur. The following morning I left Newcastle for Manchester, to begin a journey that would consume the next ten years and three months of my life.

      Martin Barras, much to my relief, had taken his leave of British Cycling and returned to Australia where I knew he would be much happier working with the strapping Meares sisters, Kerrie and Anna, than a lightweight girly like me. There would be further changes as Marshall Thomas was moving out of cycling and into photography. Peter Keen remained at the helm of British Cycling, at least for a short while longer. The introduction of lottery funding also enabled him to recruit Dave Brailsford, who had been a key adviser in obtaining that injection of public money, as the new programme director of British Cycling.

      Dave was young and enthusiastic, with a degree in Sports Science just like me, and full of certainty that the country’s elite cyclists were just waiting to be galvanized. He believed in ‘the science of human excellence’ and in finding ways to allow riders to unleash the very best in themselves. Dave spoke in smooth sentences which sounded like they had been inspired by the books on management that he had read. In later years, words like ‘the aggregation of marginal gains’, which sounded so bizarre when you first heard them, would become seamless catchphrases that defined the attention to detail paid by the leaders of British Cycling. Dave and Peter were convinced that if every single facet of a cyclist’s performance was improved by even a couple of percentage points, the combined impact would transform the rider into a world-beating winner. It made such perfect sense that you wondered why no-one else had thought of it before Dave.

      He carried the personal disappointment of not having achieved success as a road cyclist – and this just intensified Dave’s determination to succeed in a managerial role. Slowly, the evolution of British Cycling gathered pace. Further impetus was added by Manchester’s hosting of the 2002 Commonwealth Games.

      I was selected to ride for England in the Games – my first senior international competition. Peter and Dave also confirmed I would be moved on from the England Potential Plan if I based myself in Manchester and committed myself to cycling. There would not be much money at first – but enough to pay for the monthly rent of a room and my living expenses while allowing a little pocket money. More significantly, I could train full-time and prepare myself for a life in professional cycling.

      The Commonwealths were an unexpected prelude to those long-term plans. It was not the easiest of experiences as the only other girl I really knew on the British squad was Denise Hampson.

Скачать книгу