LITMIR.BIZ

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velodrome. Marshall must have sensed my passion because we rode together for over an hour – more than long enough for the sensations to still be unfolding inside me late that night. Yet it was only after our ride, when he walked me round the top of the track, that I appreciated the height of the velodrome.

      Marshall explained that the steepest part of the track rises to 42½ degrees. Towards the bottom it dips down to a shallower 12½ degrees. Clutching an iron railing, I suddenly noticed how scary it looked from the top. The geometry of the design, Marshall said, helped maximize the speed of the riders. The angle of our exit from the bankings, so much sharper than our entry, explained why it felt like we were being catapulted along the straights – as if we were riding downhill.

      Alone in bed, in the dark, I closed my eyes. I saw all the piney patterns and deeper shadows of the track. I heard the distinctive sounds of the velodrome in my head and, most of all, I felt the surreal excitement of riding a fast and beautifully geometric track. I knew I’d be back, and the thought sent a thrill rippling through me. Sleep was elusive; but I didn’t mind. In my head, I was riding round and round, up and down, dreaming of the next time. I was happy in the fairground.

      No-one in the Pendleton family had ever been to university; but I resolved to break the mould. Nicola, my big sister, was always much brighter than me. I was certain she would have been suited to university life had she broken free from Dad’s pragmatic grip. But, like me, Nicky found it hard to step away from our father. Dad, in his straightforward way, did not really see the point of university. Why study some more, after all those years at school, when you could go straight into the real world and earn money in a proper job? Life would always teach you much more than university – and at least you would be paid for it at the same time. Dad’s logic was unshakeable.

      As an accountant it made sense to Max Pendleton that his eldest daughter should follow him into the same career. Nicky was intelligent and artistic; and she did not feel any compulsion to enter the dazzling world of accountancy. But it was hard for her being the eldest. Dad had only mellowed a little by the time, five years later, it was the turn of Alex and me to make our career choices.

      My sister, as Dad decreed, worked in an office and studied, at the same time, at an accountancy college. Nicky has done remarkably well and now runs her own small accountancy business – and lives a good life. But it’s easy to see Dad’s influence over her working life.

      Alex, as always, was more independent than his sisters. He decided early on that he would go to art college and become a graphic designer. Dad could see commercial merit in that choice and so there was no big drama around Alex. His future would follow a much less intense path than mine.

      By the time we were in the upper sixth, and I was taking my three A-levels in Chemistry, Biology and Geography, I knew I wanted to go to university. The idea that a track cyclist, especially a woman, might make money out of riding round in circles, was too ludicrous to consider. I needed a university education to help me forge a decent career.

      I could handle Dad by then, and convinced him that I needed to stick to my instinct when it came to choosing university over an ordinary job straight out of school. But I still tussled with wider uncertainties. I wanted to be exceptional at whatever I did – even if it drove Dad halfway round the bend when I couldn’t tell him what that work might be one day.

      It was enough for me that, in my last year of school, I was happy. After all the lonely trauma of senior school it seemed striking that I suddenly found contentment at the very end. I had my gang of girls; and we were cool enough in our own heads. I also had a boyfriend and cycling.

      My bike world remained a mystery to everyone else at school. Even though my boyfriend and my closest girls knew I had been approached by British Cycling, it was such an esoteric activity I rarely spoke about it. I liked it that way. It felt good to have something that belonged to me alone. At home, it was different. Cycling was Dad’s domain. He was fascinated by the training programmes Marshall Thomas sent through the post and, much more than me, he was excited by my prospects in the sport he loved.

      Marshall’s emotional intelligence made him very different to most men in professional cycling; and he instinctively recognized my vulnerability and always tried to reassure me. Whenever he suggested a new training routine, Marshall stressed I should only attempt anything that suited me and my schooling. If a more dogmatic coach had tried to take hold of me at seventeen, and forced his will onto me, I would have given up cycling even before I really started.

      For a guilt-stricken girl, Marshall’s compassionate and easy manner resembled the sweetest of gifts. I discovered that I loved training. I was happier than ever on my bike and it felt natural to fulfil all Marshall’s programmes.

      The order and discipline of training matched the intricately planned revision timetable I set myself – and so my last months of school flew past. I began to understand myself more clearly. My appetite for hard work, and my ambition to succeed, were obvious. The demons of teenage doubt were pushed down further as, in my exams and on my bike, I hurtled towards the future.

      Soon after I arrived in September 1999 at the University of Northumbria in Newcastle, one of my lecturers sat me down and said, as an aspiring athlete, I could only fulfil two of the three options available to me. Those possibilities consisted of obtaining a good BSc degree in Sports Science, training hard in my chosen sport and having a great social life. One objective would have to be surrendered to ensure the success of the two remaining aims. I knew he was right and, for me, it was not a difficult choice.

      I felt certain my social life would expand in later years but, back then, I was committed only to my degree and to cycling. Life at Northumbria consisted of an agreeably Spartan existence. I went to my lectures and worked hard. And, when I wasn’t studying, I tucked myself away in the gym – where, as some kind of indulgence, there was a television to watch while I pummelled my body. I didn’t have a TV in my room and so my exercise routine also offered escapism.

      Training mostly with the runners, as there were no serious cyclists at university, I made some new friends. We soon became a tight-knit group. In the gym I also learnt how to use weights – as I set about trying to build strength into my slight frame. At the same time, while I was not especially scientific, I was interested in an analytical and statistical approach to sport. Despite remaining a real chatterer, I liked the rigour of work and training. I felt both purposeful and serious in Newcastle.

      Significantly, I also felt liberated from Dad, especially the arguing and the long painful silences of my adolescence. We’d had many good moments towards the end of school – and I loved the fact that Dad bought me a toolbox for my eighteenth birthday – but it was hard to escape some of the old struggles. I was tired of Dad making me feel guilty and I wanted to shape my own decisions.

      Our relationship improved when I was living away from him. I felt less sapped by our battles, and it was good to tell him how my training was progressing. But whenever I phoned home I spoke mostly to Mum. We’d natter away easily because nothing had changed between us. Mum was less concerned with my training schedule than hearing about what I was eating and wearing, who I was hanging out with, and when next I planned a trip down south to see them again. It was only at the end of our long and breezy conversations that Mum would invariably shout out: ‘Max, do you want to say hello to Lou?’

      Dad would come on the line but it was noticeable that we hardly spoke about anything but cycling. The bike remained our only real connection. I didn’t believe him but Dad seemed more certain than ever that I was on my way to becoming a world champion.

      Mum, of course, was an unchanging source of comfort and common sense. She always would tell me that I could only do my best. It was very simple advice, but the wisest set of words anyone ever gave to me.

      Her dad, my old granddad Alf, straddled the difference between my parents. He was much more passionate than Mum about sport, and he loved hearing how well I was doing on the track, but his way of boosting me was more humorous than Dad. For years Granddad had been telling me that I should strut around and tell everyone to call me ‘Champ’ – as they had better get used to me being a champion. I just smiled and said, ‘Granddad – no!’ He would then regale me with another story of how he used to

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