After a long discussion it was decided that Pete Keen and I would cut our losses and fly home, leaving Harry and Pete Woodworth – who’d found himself volunteered once again – to see what could be salvaged. A meeting was scheduled for the following day at the velodrome for all interested parties: us, Corima, the local council, the French Cycling Federation and the organisers of the Tour de France. Late that evening, realising that he and Harry were going to be at a serious linguistic disadvantage, Pete went to the reception desk of our small hotel and asked if they knew anyone who could act as translator at short notice. Luckily, they did.
The meeting was due to start at 10 a.m. but when Harry, Pete and their new colleague Muriel arrived in the conference room at 9.30 it was already full of babbling people. Pete asked Muriel to stay and listen while he slid out. Twenty minutes later, she emerged to explain what she thought was going on. It turned out that there were more agendas in play in that small room than at the average EU summit.
The Tour organisers were annoyed that someone was trying to capitalise on their event coming to town and worried we might steal their thunder on what would likely be a quiet, transitional stage. The French Cycling Federation, who had their headquarters at the velodrome, were offended because no one had officially informed them that this prestigious record attempt was taking place in their back yard. Corima had a foot in both camps. It would clearly be good for business to have me set a new world record on one of their machines. But since they were also bidding to land a major contract with the Tour de France, under no circumstances did they want to do anything that might upset the race organisers. The only group unequivocally on our side were the representatives of the local council. They could see nothing but good in having a high profile event staged in their city.
Pete Woodworth took all the information on board and over the next couple of hours tried to find a way through the competing interests towards a solution. The national federation officials were encouraged to see past their initial indignation to the benefits of having a world record set on their home track; it could only add to the international prestige of the velodrome. They came around to the idea and sided with the council. Together they convinced the Tour de France executives that the record attempt could be made to work in their favour too. As long as it was staged at the right time of day on 23 July it could be an added attraction to the race rather than competing with it. It might spice up a dull stage and pull in extra media coverage. Corima, who had started out very upset with Pete for jeopardising their commercial chances, never got off the fence, but they were relieved when it all finally seemed to be settled.
It was a watershed moment, for me and for the enterprise as a whole. Pete took over formally as project manager for the hour record and Harry focused on running the Kodak team back in the UK.
Between these stressful forays to France I was still racing at home, although every event was ridden in service of the greater goal. Using a fixed-wheel bike, the position carefully mimicking that of my hour machine, I set a new national 25-mile mark of 45:57. Riding in the same position on a geared road bike, I broke the record for the Isle of Man mountain time trial. With the Kodak team, I took my second victory in the Pro-Am Tour of Lancashire, organised by mild-mannered clubman and future UCI President Brian Cookson.
As if setting up a racing team, dealing with a new, post-Olympic life and taking on the biggest record in the sport weren’t enough to be going on with, Sally told me she was pregnant again. For the previous two announcements of impending births I’d failed miserably as a partner, showing my own shock and worry rather than simply being supportive. At my third attempt I was, sadly, true to form. I was struggling to cope with all the new responsibilities and demands yet at the same time seemed unable to stop myself taking on more. It was as if there were two of me: the larger part of my character just wanting to run away with the family and live on the Isle of Skye, subsistence farming; the smaller, yet somehow more powerful voice saying, ‘Yes, yes, you’re right – but you’re going to do this anyway.’
The evening before I was due to head to France for the record attempt, Sally, my mother, Ed, Harriet and I walked across the fields over the railway lines in Hoylake. They played on the grass, I lay on my back and stared blankly up at the sky. I felt utterly removed from what was going on around me, like a spectator in my own life. If someone had driven up in a car at that moment, thrown open the door and said, ‘Come on, lets escape,’ I’d have climbed in without hesitation.
In the absence of a mystery vehicle arriving to save me from myself, I had one of Mick Jagger’s tour vans. Quite late in the process we’d decided to change tack. Instead of training at home and travelling to Bordeaux just a few days in advance of the attempt, I was going to head out for a full fortnight’s preparation at the track with Pete Keen, who’d asked for extra time off from his lecturing duties.
At one of my dinners with Alan Dunn, I’d explained how the extended stay meant more equipment to carry and he’d offered us the use of a Transit van belonging to Jagger’s company, Marathon Music. Pete Keen and my Velo teammate Paul Jennings, who was coming along to help out, volunteered to drive it over to France.
*
The weather was perfect and the landing was soft on my flight to Bordeaux, but I was too caught up in worry about what was to come to read the clear skies as any kind of good omen. I was met by Pete Woodworth, who’d already been on site for a few days to ensure that everything was in place and working smoothly. With him was Muriel – our life-saving eavesdropper was now a full member of the team.
On our previous, problem-filled trip, Phil O’Connor had done what all lost cycling pilgrims do when they’re in trouble, he’d popped into the local bike shop to ask for help. The owner of this one, Jacques Suire, had been incredibly helpful and all but adopted us. After a series of calls, Monsieur Suire had arranged for us to stay at the Centre d’Accueil et de Promotion: a little used hotel facility for conferences and exhibitions. It was basic but perfectly adequate for our needs and just 3 km from the track.
It was a haggard Pete Keen who arrived at our new base later that night after what had been an eventful journey. At Dover, he and Paul had been pulled over by customs officials and asked for the van’s documents. They had none. They were asked if the vehicle belonged to them.
‘You’re not going to believe this,’ Paul beamed as he leaned across from the passenger seat, ‘but it’s actually Mick Jagger’s.’ How he thought that would help, I’m not entirely sure. Luckily, one of the customs officers was a cyclist and knew about the record attempt. The cavity search team was stood down. One ferry crossing later, they were in France and on their way. Billowing more smoke than the Trotters’ three-wheeler, it became clear the van was nearing the end of what had been a hard life. About 200 km from Bordeaux it began to sound worryingly asthmatic and Pete had to nurse the ailing machine along at a maximum speed of 60 kph for the last few hours. After pulling to a halt in the hotel car park, he didn’t so much kill the engine as turn off the life-support. It was the last journey the burgundy Transit ever made.
That night, while unloading, Paul found a pair of old Y-fronts under the seats and, thinking quickly, wrote the initials M.J. on the waistband before throwing them back in the van. Later he ‘discovered’ the underwear and for several days, had us all convinced they belonged to the rock star. OK, he had me convinced. The unlikelihood of Mick Jagger initialling his Y-fronts didn’t occur to me, much less the chances of him wearing M&S own-brand. I was preoccupied.
The one piece of kit Pete and Paul hadn’t brought with them was the bike. That had arrived the day after we did, direct from Corima. They had spent the weeks since our last trip making final adjustments, most importantly reworking the tri-bar set-up to accommodate the extreme position I’d adopted for the event. We had no way to measure how aerodynamic it was but it was certainly elegant.
On 16 July, while finishing up the day’s session at the track, we got word from the Vikingskipe
t Velodrome in Norway that Graeme Obree had failed in his attempt on the record by more than 400 m. To that point we’d been forced to base all our work on beating a mark we knew might suddenly be revised upwards. His attempt had been a cloud hanging over us and we were hugely relieved at the news. That night I even had a beer.
The next day I thought I’d misheard when someone told me Obree had made a second attempt and this time he’d gone 445 metres further than Moser – a turnaround of nearly a kilometre in less than 24 hours. The new world record hour distance was 51.596 km. I was bitterly disappointed. A year earlier we’d dreamed of surpassing the mark of an Italian legend, now I’d have to pull my tripes out to beat a bloke from Scotland on a homemade bike. The prize had undeniably lost some of its lustre. Not only that, but I was going to have to work harder and ride further to claim it. Still, the pace we’d settled on for our attempt was 53 kph – enough to take the record by over 1400 metres. We were rattled but still confident.
On 23 July 1993, with nearly a hundred of the world’s press, 20 or so friends and a handful of local enthusiasts there to bear witness, I stepped out on to the boards of the Bordeaux velodrome. It was hot, much hotter than we’d planned for, a problem not helped by the velodrome management who’d turned on all of the arc lights for the TV cameras. In fact, conditions in general weren’t ideal. As well as the heat, humidity was close to 80 per cent.
Five minutes earlier, Pete Keen had doused my clothing with a rapidly evaporating mixture of 50 per cent water and 50 per cent ethyl alcohol – a trick we’d developed for Barcelona to keep me cool. This wasn’t a 4000 m Olympic pursuit so the benefit wouldn’t last the distance, but it would at least help with the high temperatures for the first few minutes of the effort. We just needed to ensure no one smoked near me.
Our new French friend, Jacques Suire, had turned out to be not just a friendly local bike-shop owner but also a UCI commissaire. He was holding the Corima as I settled into the saddle, raised my head and looked down the straight into the first bend. It was the highest pressure moment I had yet experienced on a bike, harder even than the Olympic final where losing would still have earned me a silver medal. Here, failure would send me home with nothing. Less than nothing, I’d be in debt.
The small crowd was silent which made me oddly self-conscious. I could see Sally’s dad Barrie, Kodak team sponsor Bill Warren, Harry Middleton and several members of the Velo. In there with them were people who’d never seen a bike race before, let alone something as unusual as this. Two representatives from Reebok, another sponsor, had turned up a few days earlier and were clearly out of their element. One had asked me how long the record attempt would take.
‘When you’re ready,’ someone said.
No countdown, no gun, just silence. As if you could ever be ready for this. I fleetingly registered this unique and perverse aspect of a record attempt. Despite knowing what is about to happen, that this will be the most unpleasant experience of your life, the decision as to exactly when the suffering starts is up to you. I remember the voice in my head. ‘You’ve got to go. Go on. Any moment now. You’ve got to go. Move.’ At two minutes past ten in the morning, I moved and the spell was broken.
An instant later, I am out of the saddle, straining, pulling up with all my strength to get the big gear turning. Into the back straight, leaning forward, pumping the bars, trying to get as high a cadence as I can before the G-force of the second bend pushes me back into the saddle.
There’s no pain at all, I’m full of adrenalin and fear. What I need to settle me down is to come out of the second bend into the home straight and see Pete Keen’s little board showing white numbers on a black background, the side of the board we use to show ‘up on schedule’ information. But there’s no number, just a horizontal dash. No loss, no gain. OK, how do I take that? Is the glass half-full or half-empty? I’m not reassured but I know I should do nothing about it.
This is the most dangerous part of a record attempt, when the body is flooded with natural painkillers and the invoice for all the effort has not yet fallen due. In the anxiety of the moment it’s all too easy to overextend yourself, a trap many hour contenders have fallen into. In his 1972 attempt Eddy Merckx set off at an incredible pace, covering the first kilometre in under 1:10, faster than many of the world’s best pursuiters during a 4000 m race. He paid dearly for that and I’m convinced he’d have travelled well over 50 km if he’d just stayed calm for the first few.
It’s like being at the controls of a racing motorboat that has a hole in the prow and water pouring through it. The faster you drive the boat, the quicker the water comes in. There is a speed at which the rate of ingress and your ability to bail water are perfectly matched. This is aerobic threshold and it’s what the hour record is all about: as long as I can balance the amount of lactic acid my effort is producing with my body’s ability to process it, I’ll be OK.
Barely five minutes in, the cooling effects of the alcohol spray have worn off and the hot, humid conditions of Bordeaux begin to take their toll. Sweat is already running into my eyes, dripping from my nose and splashing onto the top tube. Encased in a close-fitting black aerodynamic shell, my head might as well be inside a pressure cooker. It’s funny: ‘overcooking it’ is a term we often use for going too hard – now it’s threatening to become literal.
I’ve done several long training sessions in the last two weeks so I know the danger, I’m extremely cautious. But being cautious is also a danger. The velodrome scoreboard is showing my time against Obree’s at every major split. I’m not supposed to be looking at it – it’s a distraction from our schedule – but I glance up and see that I’m one second behind him for the first 5 km. At least I have history on my side. In every time trial we’ve ridden together, he’s started quickly and faded slightly towards the end
At 10 km, I’m struggling to stay on 53 km pace but the scoreboard says I’ve got my nose in front of Graeme by two seconds. It’s nothing, I know I have to start squeezing my speed up. But this heat. It’s not legs, lungs or heart dictating the pace now, it’s the heat.
I push on. Half distance – a huge psychological barrier. But physically I’m really starting to suffer. My eyes are blurring with sweat and the strain of holding this extreme position, effectively forcing myself to look ‘upwards’ against 2Gs of force in each banking. I’m struggling to hold the black line at the bottom of the track. I’m getting seriously concerned about passing out.
Pete Keen ditches the 53 km schedule now – along with his boards: he’s run out of numbers big enough to show how far off the pace I am. He steps back through several well-rehearsed trackside positions to settle on one representing a speed of 52.3 kph, the slowest he has. It’s a speed that seems to hold me on the thin line between maximum effort and unconsciousness.
Each time I come into the home straight I can see my average speed dropping on the trackside monitor and Pete stepping back from his mark. Pete abandons schedules. He shouts to me that his position either side of the finish line will now indicate how far up or down I am on Graeme Obree. He takes up a position in positive territory.
Struggling desperately with the temperature now. I dare to push harder, gaining confidence the closer I come to the end. Twenty minutes to go, 15 minutes. From 15 minutes to 10 takes at least six months. Muscles are starting to cramp, lower back screaming, sound fading in and out, I’m a punch drunk boxer on the ropes. Then 10 to go, the final barrier. Now I believe I can make it. I’m going to beat Obree’s distance with seconds to spare, just got to hang on.
Five minutes. Head pounding, right eye closed with sweat. No longer able to see the average speed as I zip past the screen.
Three minutes. I let go of pacing and start to push for home. Let the water start pouring into the boat – the beach is in sight. I just need to reach it before I sink.
Suddenly I’m speeding past blurry people jumping up and down. I’m past Obree’s distance and into new territory, a place no one has been before. And I’ve
still got nearly a minute to run, to add to the distance to make it as hard as possible for the next brave idiot. Now I’m being flagged down, people are walking on to the track. It’s over.
I ground to a halt in an unnecessarily frenzied press scrum in which my helmet disappeared never to be seen again. I’d done 52 km 674 metres – two and a half laps of the track further than anyone had ever cycled in one hour. I’d imagined a sense of elation, of satisfaction and joy at having achieved something special, but the overwhelming sensation was one of relief. Film crews, sponsors, friends, everyone had invested in this attempt, in me, and I hadn’t let them down.
Our new best friends, the organisers of the Tour de France, seemed as delighted as anyone. They invited us across the road to attend the finish of that day’s stage and presented the whole hour record entourage with VIP passes. Paul Jennings and Dave O’Brien, who’d come out to act as mechanic, brandished theirs like Wayne and Garth from Wayne’s World, determined to see just how far they could get. It seemed the passes really were access-all-areas, as they waltzed by the final security guard and found themselves standing on the finishing straight looking at an oncoming mass of sprinting riders.
I was asked to pose on the podium with the yellow jersey wearer, Spain’s Miguel Indurain, who was heading for his third straight Tour de France victory. ‘Why not?’ I thought. ‘I’ll never have the chance to do this again.’
CHAPTER 6
Turning Pro
For the second summer in a row I’d achieved a dream and woken up the following morning with no idea of what came next. As with the Olympics, Sally and I hadn’t dared to plan beyond the hour attempt in case it didn’t come off. Now that it had, Pete Woodworth persuaded us to stay on in Bordeaux for a few days after the madness had died down and the Tour circus had moved on.
Triumphs and Turbulence Page 8