LITMIR.BIZ

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pretty town of Aigle, and it took me years to heal the wound. Even now, a decade later, it’s hard for me to return there in my head. It’s a place and a time of tangled darkness and, slowly, I need to unravel it in an attempt to understand why and how everything happened.

      At the far end of Lake Geneva, just eight miles southeast of Montreux, and twelve miles further from Lausanne, it took a funicular train forty minutes to travel up the alpine cliff, leading from Aigle at the base of the Alps to an idyllic setting in the mountains. I was smitten by the way the shimmering water was made to look deeper and more mysterious by the steepling trees and mountains overhead. Absorbing the view at the top, I remembered that Aigle means ‘eagle’ in French.

      At that spectacular retreat above Aigle, the International Cycling Union’s sprint academy was run by Frédéric Magné. An inspirational Frenchman who had won seven World Championships on the track, Fred Magné’s most recent gold medal, and his third in the keirin, came in 2000. Two years on, in November 2002, when I left England for Switzerland, Fred had swapped success on the track for a life of coaching sprint cyclists from around the world.

      The departure of Martin Barras had filled me with relief – but it left all the sprinters at the Manchester Velodrome without a coach. Jason Queally, Chris Hoy and Craig MacLean shrugged off the loss. Quick-thinking and sure of their ability, they knew they could manage together until another specialist coach was appointed.

      I had just turned twenty-two and, without any other woman sprinters on the team, I followed a lonelier path into the unknown. And then, out of nowhere, salvation was offered to me in the Swiss Alps.

      Two months earlier, in late September 2002, at my first World Championships, in Copenhagen, a birthday cake began the transformation. On 24 September, the day I turned twenty-two, the lights in the restaurant of our team hotel dimmed after the evening meal. A beautiful chocolate cake was then brought to my table while everyone broke into spontaneous song. ‘Happy birthday to you,’ they sang, ‘happy birthday, dear Vicky, happy birthday to you …’

      Those twelve sweetly familiar words sounded strangely resonant. Rather than being clichéd or twee, they were rich and warm. As the whole squad boomed out, just for me, I felt as if I belonged. It had taken six months but, finally, I was part of the team. All my uncertainty melted away in the candlelight. I blew out all twenty-two little flames as the boys whooped. They even threw in a few more hip-hip-hoorays for me.

      I knew, then, that I was on my way to Switzerland – less in farewell to the team than with the certainty that I would eventually return to Manchester as an improved cyclist after a year of being trained by Magné. The opportunity arose unexpectedly, and I heard about it soon after I ended up in an ambulance racing towards a German hospital. I had just been knocked out, literally, during the European Under-23 Track Championships.

      In the sprint, against Tamilla Abassova, the Russian rider, I was sent crashing head-first into the wooden track. She turned her wheel right into mine in the midst of our race and down I went. I heard later that a doctor was on the brink of trying to resuscitate me when I opened my eyes and tried to move. But I only became fully conscious in the ambulance – where a kindly German paramedic, a large man with soft eyes, had soothed me while I moaned ‘Where am I? Where am I?’ over and over again.

      Abassova powered her way to the European sprint title and my sore head was eased by the consoling words of Heiko Salzwedel, our team manager. He revealed that, before my accident, he had discussed my potential with Fred Magné. Heiko, Peter Keen and Shane Sutton were determined to push me on and, in Fred and his new sprint school, they identified a way forward. Fred recognized my raw talent and he agreed to their request. British cycling would pay for me to work with Fred – and the option was thrilling.

      A chance to commit myself fully to the track encouraged me to believe my future might be shaped by cycling. My subsequent selection for the World Championships, topped off by birthday wishes the day before competition began, boosted me even more. I was on my way.

      In the Worlds, however, I lost in the first heat to Svetlana Grankovskaya; and I wasn’t exactly mortified when Kerrie Meares was beaten in the final by Natallia Tsylinskaya, a multiple world champion from Belarus.

      The men, meanwhile, won three gold medals. Chris Hoy became world champion in the kilo – and then, with Craig MacLean and Jamie Staff, he helped GB win the team sprint. Chris Newton also won the points race in magnificent style. Australia, as usual, headed the table with thirteen medals. Great Britain finished second, with a tally of five. We were eight medals down on the Aussies but, significantly, they had won just one more gold.

      There was a gathering sense that British cycling was closing the gap. Our men looked increasingly imposing; and, even if I cut a stick-like figure amongst the hulking women from Eastern Europe and Australia, I was determined to become fitter and faster. I was now an accepted member of the national team and about to embark on a life-changing adventure in Switzerland.

      In November 2002, I arrived in Geneva with Ross Edgar, from the men’s sprint squad. Ross was lovely company and it helped that he had already spent a sustained period at Fred’s school. It was also obvious that Fred, who met us at the airport, loved Ross. He might have been born in England but Ross’s mum was French and his dad was a Scot. Ross chose to represent his father’s country – and in that year’s Commonwealth Games he had won the team sprint with Hoy and MacLean. But Fred was most enamoured by Ross’s French heritage and his capacity for hard work.

      At the academy, Ross had lowered his personal best for the 200m from 10.7 to 10.1 seconds. He had been a full-time rider before joining Fred but Ross had since grafted discipline onto his training. He told me it was important I showed the same application. I relished such seriousness. There would be no danger of me giving anything less than my very best to the academy.

      Ross, in his laidback style, didn’t fuss over me. Later, when we went out together for a while, he admitted wryly that he might have done more to help me settle in Aigle. But Fred was charming and the regimented routine occupied most of our time. I soon learnt that, for example, we had to line up in a queue early every Wednesday so we could collect our clean sheets. We’d make our beds by 7am sharp.

      Based in a hotel, which we shared with an international hotel school, the UCI cyclists lived in a series of rooms that stretched down a long corridor. The numbers fluctuated but, generally, there were between twelve and fifteen riders working under Fred. In contrast, almost two hundred students were registered on a course of hotel management and hospitality. We lived a different life to the aspiring hoteliers.

      Every morning we caught a 7:30am train to our language lessons. We studied French while the other nationalities, including the Chinese girls, Li Na and Guo Shuang, were taught English. As we had to walk to the station, and did not dare miss the train, we set off early from the hotel, grabbing a quick breakfast on our way out. Snow had already fallen in November. I learnt quickly to rug up warmly, pull on my snow boots and make the slow trudge to the station. On the train we would vegetate for forty minutes, dozing or staring out of the window at the beautifully snowy landscape that flashed past in a blur.

      At least Swiss French was spoken more slowly. I found it much simpler than ordinary French, which I had studied at school, and in the ninety-minute lessons our teachers concentrated on our conversational skills. I became braver the more I spoke in class. We were pushed hard to talk and I loved that rigorous cultural start to our day.

      By 10 o’clock we were deep in a gruelling session of training, either on the track or in the gym. We were driven relentlessly and lunch came as some relief. The time-bound rituals then demanded that we would all take a communal sleep together after lunch. In the Salle de Repose, a large room in which Fred had ensured that mattresses were laid on the floor in the stark style of a Japanese dormitory, we were all expected to sleep like babies. I found it difficult when there were some loud snorers in the room and, even when I did fall asleep, I always felt terrible when we were woken at 2.30. It was like I had been shot with a tranquillizer gun. By 3pm, feeling jaded, we’d be back on our bikes. Each weekday was the same; and then every Saturday morning we all took a two-hour ride on the road.

      Even here there were strict regulations. On the road you

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