CYCLE MAGAZINE
ISSUE 08
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spin cycle magazine
SPIN
Editor James Maloney james@spincyclemag.com Picture Editor Dan Kenyon dan@spincyclemag.com Contributors Joolze Dymond Paul Francis Cooper Lauren Fryer-Taylor Jack Chevell Ali Vermilio Nick Howe Design Uniform www.uniform.net Thanks go to: Simon Wilkinson Bill Soens Mark McNally Peter Hodges & Grace Metcalf at Sweetspot Adrian Lomas Bold Street Coffee, Liverpool John Stanistreet from County Gallery, Crosby Donna Craven, from Graphical Offset, Liverpool Lesley from Moorfield Photographic, Liverpool
All information contained in Spin Cycle Magazine is for information purposes only and is, to the best of our knowledge, correct at the time of going to press. Spin Cycle Magazine cannot accept any responsibility for errors or inaccuracies that occur. Readers are advised to contact manufacturers and retailers directly with regard to the price of products/services referred to in this magazine. If you submit unsolicited material to us, you automatically grant Spin Cycle Magazine a licence to publish your submission in whole or in part in all editions of the magazine, including all licensed editions worldwide and in any physical or digital format throughout the world. Any material you submit is sent at your risk and, although every care is taken, neither Spin Cycle Magazine nor its staff, agents or subcontractors shall be liable for loss or damage. In relation to any medical queries, the advice given is in no way intended to replace professional medical care or attention by a qualified practitioner and we strongly advise all readers with health problems to consult a doctor.
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Waiting on The Hill
Relive the grandest of all Grand Departs, as the Tour de France fell in love with Yorkshire
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Vive le Tour
From the peaks of Yorkshire to the cols of France, we follow the Tour on its journey to the dreaded Tourmalet
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Jerseys of Glory II
Sticking with the ‘Le Tour’ theme, we headed over the Pennines for our latest look at the club scene
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In Front of The Pros
Adrian Lomas rides the Tour de France route a week ahead of the professionals
116 True Mark of Character Despite a catalogue setbacks, Mark McNally has turned his season round for An Post Chain Reaction
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Eddie Soens Tapes
One of Merseyside’s greatest-ever cycling coaches tells his life story in his own words
160 Follow us on twitter @SpinCycleMag
COVER: Battle of Buttertubs by James Maloney ABOVE: Waiting on The Hill by Dan Kenyon
Killer Hill
The Trough of Bowland - love it or hate it, it is bloody steep
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WAITING ON THE HILL Words DAN KENYON Photography JAMES MALONEY & DAN KENYON
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’VE always had an ambivalence towards the crowds on the hills. Lining the climbs for hours on end, in all sorts of weather, to experience perhaps 10 minutes of excitement. What is the point of all that effort? Lounging in my comfy chair at home, watching a race on TV, I’ve appreciated the colour the fans have given to the mountains and occasionally cheered as some silly twit in a man-kini gets slapped by an exasperated rider. But I don’t like crowds, so I certainly wasn’t going to join one in the UK - under the fussy control of the mighty Health and Safety Executive. The thought of being herded to-andfro by gnomes in hi-vis wasn’t appealing. Unfortunately, with Buttertubs so close to home,
James, the editor, and I had really no choice. We had to go and be part of it or regret it forever. Cycling from Sedbergh loaded down with cameras wasn’t the best idea, but it was my idea - not James’. He was almost struggling in silence with more than 16lbs of pro kit on his back, so I kept quiet about it. After 14 miles of severely rolling road - and a fair bit of bickering, as we passed lay-by after lay-by much closer to our destination than where we had actually parked - we reached the base of Buttertubs to find the verges of the lower slopes already heaving.
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ABOVE: Not quite premier seating, but some crafty landowner tried to charge £5 to sit in a field on Buttertubs RIGHT: The Tour de France attracts all kinds of characters in bizarre fancy dress
Unfortunately, with Buttertubs so close to home, James, the editor, and I had really no choice. We had to go and be part of it or regret it forever
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ABOVE: What could be more British than two fell walkers strolling up Buttertubs Pass to await the arrival of the 2014 tour de France in Yorkshire?
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Mums and kids with picnics, old folk in beige walking gear with flasks and umbrellas, jolly Charlies and Sallys with their golden retrievers and overnourished families flopped in the verge on the first bend after the longest, steepest walk they’d ever experienced without a café at the end of it. Amid all that, there were lots of lots of cyclists weaving through those walking - tackling the climb before the race came through. A sign charged £5 for the pleasure to go through a gate, policed by the farmer’s wife in hi-vis, onto a steep field, where you could literally look down upon the race just as adequately as those who hadn’t spend a fiver. Being British, the field was empty and instead everyone was finding their own spaces in the wide verges on the roadside. Further up was the bowl, a curious amphitheatre of small bolus on either side of the road already covered in roosting fans. With smoke curling from barbecue trays, it looked like some Kurdish refugee camp. I half expected Michael Buerk to appear at any moment, grave faced, microphone in hand and start quietly describing the scene. “Thousands are here,” he would whisper. “Some on bikes and some with children and even pets. Waiting for entertainment of any kind.”
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ABOVE: Fans pick their spot and gets comfy with hours still left before the pro peloton arrives LEFT: The Yorkshire Dales in all its glory - with an added touch of support for Froome
Moving on up there was a small group of Manchester Wheelers, sprawled on the grass by the first cattle grid already into their second lagers of the morning. One of them rolled a handmade ciggie as we talked. “I did a 600 km audax the other week and thought at the end ‘I deserve a fag’, so I smoked three rollies back-to-back.” That’s Northern ride recovery for you. Up at the KOM, there was still more hill ahead and what seemed to be another group of perhaps 200 fans half-a-mile further up towards the summit - so on I went. When I got there, I felt like Doug McClure discovering ‘The Lost Tribe of Buttertubs’.
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These were the fans who wanted to avoid the throng yet still stand as a group and be able to wave the peloton off as they crested the final part of Buttertubs. This was also the final summit camp for the fancy dress brigade blokes in Breton sweaters, berets and onions, a guy in a tiger suit all toasty in the chilly wind. There was the Sheffield version of Bez from The Happy Mondays. Every British Road race seems to have a ‘Bez’ in the crowds - skinny and bendy with the hollow-cheeked look of the podium pill popper and sporting a ‘mad for it’ beanie. Bez’s mate was sporting a white paper boiler suit covered in King of the Mountain red dots. His outfit clashed a little with the
“I did a 600 km audax the other week and thought at the end ‘I deserve a fag’, so I smoked three rollies back-to-back.” That’s Northern ride recovery for you
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ABOVE: Go on, admit it - if you climbed a Tour de France hill surrounded by hundreds of people, you’d want a video clip of the moment too, wouldn’t you?
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LEFT: Finally, the moment arrives when grown adults jump hysterically at the roadside in order to grab some free tat from the publicity caravan amid the strange French technopop. We’re not quite sure what this young Eddie Merckx look-a-like driving a giant Festina watch has to do with the Tour, but it was fun. Pity he didn’t give out free watches
kids in banana costumes. All of them gave nods of approval at the arrival of the crazy in the fairy dress with Union Jack face paint and matching Wellingtons. Now the party could finally begin. We then waited. And waited some more. Then the fun started. People had been cycling to the summit all morning, but now the crowd had grown and there was a collective need to practice for the peloton. We couldn’t see who was approaching - yet the cry
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at the irony of the scene was completely normal. That entertained us for an hour. One rider rode down and came back again, but was jeered and cheered in equal measure for ‘milking it.’ By the time the first motorcade officials arrived, a large onion was being tossed up high from one side of the road to the other. The eyes of the gendarmes on motorbikes followed the onion as it arched over their heads.
A large onion was being tossed up high from one side of the road to the other. The eyes of the gendarmes on motorbikes followed the onion as it arched over their heads would go up ‘here’s another’. One hundred yards down the road, the cow bells would start and the screams of ‘allez!’ began. Like a gaggle of pop fans surging towards the stage door eager to catch a glimpse of their idol, the crowd would surge inwards before the rider would break through pursued by a gaggle of fancy dressed crazies. A group of kids hunched over their handle bars with massive grins on their faces, a slightly paunched bloke on his first road bike and even a bearded tourer, who ground his way upwards wearing a fixed grimace, trying to pretend that riding through thousands of screaming spectators applauding his effort while simultaneously laughing
Radios crackled ‘Attention onion tossing by rosbifs on ze Buttertubs’. Next were the official red cars, complete with their cargo of thin, tanned French dignitaries and round, ruddy-faced Yorkshire councillors. The shocked expressions on the faces of both suggested that the Great British Public might have already become a little too excited on day one of three. Meanwhile, the following caravan went down with the crowds as it always has. Happy and increasingly delirious incredulity at the weird tackiness of it all: two quaffed French men in googles driving long Chitty Chitty Bang Bang style cars shaped like Festina watches; a
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Carrefour lorry with scary lifelike dummies and platters of what seemed like real meat winddrying in the Yorkshire air; giant pop bottles and a convertible sporting a massive Bic lighter. Alas, the biggest cheers went up for the Haribo and McCain floats. Up went a cry of ‘Chippppsss’ until we realised they were tossing out home herb growing kits into the air, rather than hot crinkle cuts. By the time the circus passed, the shock value of surrealism was all but dead and, by this point, had David Cameron come by, dressed as Superman perched upon a motorised ostrich, barely an eyebrow would have been raised. Back to silence before a broad Halifax voice shouted “There’s the helicopter”. But it was just the news helicopter fly-by for the evening news report. It hovered low over the moor to film us booing and waving in frustration. More French officials and local police vehicles came through and ran the gauntlet of the temporary owners of Buttertubs. Those that rolled down their windows for high fives were cheered. Those that kept their windows shut and stared ahead were jeered. With the only genuine bobby two miles down the road, the crowd surrounding me were definitely in charge and, had we turned rogue, only an air-strike could
have scattered us. Finally, after four hours, with the vin rouge running out for the fake Frencies and the kids around beginning to tire of standing in a hillside with nothing much happening, the TV helicopters suddenly appeared for real. And then Jens Voigt came up the hill at a fair old lick, all sweaty and urgent, as if being chased by a pack of wolves. We all went crazy. Of course, it had to be ‘The
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ABOVE: Wellies, Union Jacks and chalk scribblings on a hill in Yorkshire - it could only be the Grand Depart
Jensie’. No-one else would have felt so right that day. Stage One of his last tour and Jens Voigt was off the front, aiming for his last jersey in a grand tour. For a brief moment in time, British people dressed as French people, animals, fairies, tigers, King Tut and God-onlyknows-what cheered a German on a bicycle racing over a hill in Yorkshire. And it wasn’t raining. It was perfect.
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The inevitable bagpipe player down the road at the bowl must have given Voigt extra impetus, as it took a good three minutes for the chasers to reach us and then the peloton proper came through in a block of colour - impossibly tight on the narrow road. Whooooosh. The crowd parted. The riders passed. The team cars then passed with the occasional lazy wave from a DS. Suddenly, it was suddenly all over - like that
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BELOW: There isn’t anything that says ‘Welcome to Yorkshire’ more than two blokes dressed as the stereotype Frenchmen - complete with onions, stripy jumpers, berets and cans of Stella Artois. Sacrebleu
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BELOW: P roof that even aliens wouldn’t miss the Tour coming to Yorkshire, the Government have been trying to track down this life-form from the planet KoM even since he landed on Buttertubs
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ABOVE: Youngsters got a taste of the Tour de France for themselves, as the huge crowds cheered each of them on as they climbs up the mighty Buttertubs
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moment at your first house party when you were 14. There you were, snogging the person you’d fancied all term at last when the living room overhead light went on, the music went off and someone’s dad was telling you all that it was time to go home. On Buttertubs, it was still shaping up for a golden afternoon, as the crowds began to melt away. Some were coming up, but most were going down. The strangest party we’d ever been to was over. “Only connect,” said EM Forster. Sometimes events in life are for sharing en masse. Yet, the thing
about gathering on a hillside that I hadn’t realised was that the hills are as big a part of the event as watching riders climb it. We were cycle fans. We weren’t all dressed in matching replica team shirts with a season ticket and a stadium seat waiting to be entertained. We weren’t even strolling down our front path to passively watch riders glide past our gate or waiting behind barriers somewhere. We’d driven, walked or cycled from miles around to climb a wild arena - a hill in the middle of nowhere. We’d ascended
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ABOVE: There is nothing more annoying when trying to climb up a steep hill on a bike loaded with panniers than a drunk bloke dressed up as a Frenchman decides to run behind you shouting in slurred speech ‘Alleeezzssshh, alleeezzsssh’
Buttertubs beyond the reach of the authorities and bureaucracy. CCTV, hi-vis, our jobs and mortgages, none of it mattered on that hillside. It was as if the miasma of life’s worries had all been below us in the valley, banished for a few hours. We’d become pagans, out in the wild waiting for a moment of magic, gathered to watch our gods come past. Who remembers what they doing on the July 5 back in 1999? Let alone 2005 or even 2013? If you weren’t getting married or standing at a hospital bed for a
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reason - good or bad - you may be hard pressed to say what you were doing, for sure. If you were one of the thousands that took to the high ground of Yorkshire on July 5 or 6, 2014, you now have a memory that’s become one of your life’s markers. Like Voyager leaving the solar system, no matter how fast your life seems to speed away from those dates in time, you can always say ‘I was there’. And being British, you can of course also proudly add ‘...and it was free’.
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ABOVE: The crowds gather either side of Buttertubs were so vast that we had to run this photo across two pages - it’s like a cycling version of ‘Where’s Wally?’
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dirty pretty things
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LEFT & BELOW: In what would be his final Grand Tour, Jens Voigt typically broke away from the main peloton to race ahead during a daring solo breakaway up Buttertubs - much to the delight of the hundreds of spectators gathered along the roadside in Yorkshire
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ABOVE: The so-called ‘Battle of Buttertubs’ - this photo went viral after it was retweeted by Contador, Cancellara and Team Sky’s ‘Mr Cool’ Bernie Eisel
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BELOW: Blink and chances are you’ll miss the riders racing past during the Tour.
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BELOW: T he loveable Jens Voigt is given a warm welcome as he battles up the final stretch of Buttertubs Pass
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BELOW: After hours of waiting, the Tour had been and gone - yet that didn’t stop people smiling all the way back down the hill
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BELOW: It took more than an hour to get off Buttertubs - probably because everyone was still enjoying themselves a bit too much or starring at all the wonderful and wacky costumes
GO ON YOU KNOW THAT
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Words & Photography JOOLZE DYMOND
pro rider
VIVE LE TOUR
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vive le tour
REATHTAKING. It’s probably the only word I can use to describe the day that the world’s biggest and best cycle race, Le Tour de France, came to Yorkshire. Came to my hometown. Paid a fleeting visit to God’s Own County. That will be imprinted on my memory for a long, long time. It was a spectacle that I’ve never seen before. A number of races have come near, including the 2012 Tour of Britain with a triumphant Bradley Wiggins, who was fresh from his historic win of the Tour. Others include the World CX champs, most years, with spectators crushed in eager to cheer on their champions. But this - this was a on a scale of it’s very own.
I was fortunate to be working on the Tour, which meant I had an amazing view and experience as I chased the race across the land. As we left Leeds, both my moto pilot and myself were close to tears of emotion at the volume of support the race was to receive. Leeds, itself, was tightly packed as we expected. But this didn’t ease as we left the centre and wound our way through the streets and villages lining the Tour. Greeted by yellow bikes, bunting festooned highways and byways, the whole of Yorkshire and beyond had come to support the greatest
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PREVIOUS: Holmes Moss did the nation proud when the Tour came to Yorkshire ABOVE: Brits and their sense of humour, eh? Or should that be ‘hummoouuuur’ in a Joey Barton-esque accent? RIGHT: Road not-so-less travelled for these Tour de France legends whose names graced the asphalt in Yorkshire
Both my moto pilot and myself were close to tears of emotion at the volume of support the race was to receive. Leeds, itself, was tightly packed as we expected
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ABOVE: F lags of all styles and colours added a festival atmosphere during the Tour’s visit to Yorkshire RIGHT: Crowds gather eagerly either side of the road in Harrogate waiting to catch the first glimpse of the Tour de France
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PREVIOUS: Shadow of support as crowds stand at the roadside ABOVE: Perrig Quemeneur grits his teeth, opens up his jersey and battles on during Stage 13 LEFT: Alberto Contador takes in his surroundings while racing through Sheffield
sports spectacle in the world. Champions past and present gracing UK soil, cheered in their exploits, almost swallowed whole by amazing crowds on virtually every summit along the way. Breathtaking. Having grown up on a diet of Tour de France highlights on TV, I was even more delighted to be given the chance to pursue my quarry across the pond, into
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France itself, birthplace of this amazing show of strength and endurance against all odds. How would it shape up to the spectacle that Yorkshire laid on? The starts and finishes were virtual identikits of every stage. A technical village for VIPs to mingle and rub shoulders with past winners, while partaking in local delicacies. Meanwhile, eager spectators thronged around
Champions past and present gracing UK soil, cheered in their exploits, almost swallowed whole by amazing crowds on virtually every summit along the way. Breathtaking
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ABOVE: With the memories of Yorkshire fresh in his mind and the yellow jersey still on his back, Vincenzo Nibali is protected by his team as the peloton descends off the Tourmalet
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The crowds were out in force, along with the camper vans and super fans. But really only on the important climbs of each stage and, as you crested the top, the ensuing descent would be virtually deserted
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the team buses keen to grab a glimpse of their chosen hero, jostling and pushing trying to get that all important autograph. The crowds were out in force, along with the camper vans and super fans. But really only on the important climbs of each stage and, as you crested the top, the ensuing descent would be virtually deserted. Nothing quite like the amazing throng of people greeting the riders as they approached each Yorkshire ‘Cote’ and beyond. But then again, Le Tour is an annual event in France. Whereas in the UK, we’ve only been afforded the privilege of a race visit four times in the past 27 years, so of course we are going to make an extra special effort. And boy didn’t we just. I for one can’t wait for it to visit our shores again. Could it get a bigger and better welcome than the one it got in 2014? I hope so, but - heck - Yorkshire did us ‘reet’ proud. Vive Le Tour…Make sure you don’t leave it too long for your next visit. PREVIOUS: Us Brits, we get bloody everywhere and even more zany the further we travel from our own border ABOVE: Waiting and waiting, crowds sit patiently on the Tourmalet
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ABOVE: Like a true champion, Vincenzo Nibali leads the way down off the top of Tourmalet
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RIGHT: Roughly translated by some Frenchmen as ‘bad trip’, the Tourmalet is certainly no easy feat to scale but some respite on the descent BELOW: With a hollow-eyed stare looking straight ahead, Vasil Kiryienka ignores the shout from the fans at the roadside
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JERSEYS OF GLORY PART II
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Journeying to this far-off place, you must first scale the mountainous divide of the Pennines and then tame wee hairy beasties know as ‘terrors’ – or maybe that’s ‘terriers’ – and suffer a dozen lashes with stinging nettles on your nether regions to prove you are indeed tough enough to enter the age-old land of ‘Yorkshire’. Old club racers have been telling us tales about actually racing against people from clubs based in far flung places ending in ‘y’ such as Otley, Ilkley, Selby and er.. Leeds. Some have even been there and returned – hollow-eyed and gibbering about hidden Northern towns nestled in brooding hills with their own hardened cycle clubs. Towns and villages with streets so steep granny cogs were used by actual grannies who thought nothing of pedalling a 20 per cent hill to get t’Lidl. With this in mind, we decided to find out for ourselves. Scouts were dispatched. Some never returned. Eventually messages were swapped between club elders and gifts of beads exchanged for glimpses of exotic club jerseys. OK, we may have made a fair bit of that up, but we didn’t believe that a place with no flat whatsoever could possibly exist either. So out we popped over the hills and far away to find out what made Yorkshire such tough cycling territory that the pros fell in love with it during this year’s Tour de France back in July.
LEEDS MERCURY
EGEND has it there is a mystical land not too far from our shores that has endless dry stone walls, rolling green countryside and more hills than you could ever possibly hope to climb in your lifetime.
LEEDS Mercury Cycling Club is a friendly and sociable club, which aims to increase individual and family participation in all forms of cycling. Boasting a Go-Ride accredited section, the Mercury run a Saturday skills club for youngsters and evening training sessions for adults. The club also encourage club participation in all local cycling activities, whether including local cyclo-cross events the
Roundhay Vertex Ride Grass Track League. Like many long-running clubs, the Mercury suffered dwindling numbers a few years ago but have since bounced back and revived its ranks thanks to a shift in focusing more on younger riders and the social side of cycling. For more information, please visit: leedsmercury.co.uk or email: ian.thewlis@ get2cycle.co.uk
OTLEY
OTLEY is one of Yorkshire’s biggest and oldest cycle clubs, having been founded way back in 1927. With its own clubrooms in the heart of the town on Crow Lane, membership is growing rapidly and currently stands at a whopping 240 members with a staggering 50 per cent of them being women. Regardless of whether you are new to cycling or a seasoned rider, Otley offer something to interest all levels of fitness – both on and off-road. Not only does the club host various runs, including both ‘A’ and ‘B’ groups, but it also cater for those who just want to enjoy the scenery in the form of social rides, as well as parent and child groups. Many generations have been introduced to the wonders of two wheels courtesy of Otley Cycle Club. Cycling, as a pastime and sport, really began to evolve in the late 1800’s due to the town’s geographical location just 10-miles from the large conurbations of Leeds and Bradford, as well as on the edge of the Yorkshire Dales. The first cycle club in Otley
dates back to 1890 with the formation of Otley Road Club. Like all early cycling clubs, the initial focus was predominately the social side and, at this time, organised sport was very limited. Otley Road Club staged the first-ever running of the now weekly summer timetrial - known as the Triangle - way back in 1892, when the 12.5-mile course was won by Harry Fieldhouse riding the first pneumatic tyred machine. By 1909 - perhaps due to the lack of competition or even the development of other clubs - Otley Road Club evolved into a purely social institution and disbanded as a cycle club. Then in 1924, another cycle club took up the name. Mr Tom Edmunson was elected as president, but the club again sadly folded a few years later due to a financial setback. Three years later, another band of keen cyclists again resurrected the name ‘Otley Cycling Club’ and it has been going from strengthto-strength ever since. For further information, please visit: otleycycleclub.co.uk/
SKIPTON
DESPITE being dubbed the ‘Gateway to the Dales’, Skipton did not have a cycling club of its own – well, at least not until June 2012, when a group of local cyclists gathered in the Narrowboat pub to form Skipton Cycling Club. Right at the top of this new club’s agenda was the word ‘inclusive’. From the beginning, the founder members were adamant that the club would have a place for a range of abilities, from those starting out in the sport to seasoned riders wanting to race in club colours. Central to this was making sure women cyclists were fully represented in the club and focus was equally fixed on developing young riders – this definitely was not going to be a club for your typical middle-aged men in Lycra. Apparently, the name Skipton Cycling Club narrowly won out over Skipton Wheelers. Just as well, as soon after the club was formed, it was contacted by Eric Walker – a member of the original Skipton Cycling Club. Unbeknownst to the founders of the new club, the original Skipton CC had been a strong club, with many good riders, but had
gradually dwindled with only a few older members remaining. Thanks to Eric getting in touch, the two clubs were quickly amalgamated and overnight the founding date went from 2012 to 1936. In tribute to the original club, the decision was taken to retain the old colours of yellow and green in the new kit design, as well as making the original club members into life members of the new Skipton Cycling Club. Within a year, the club has grown rapidly and now boasts a membership exceeding 130. Many of the regular rides attract upwards of 30 riders and there is a social side too, with cafe stops during and after rides – plus regular club nights in the Narrowboat pub on the second Wednesday of the month. In-keeping with their image of a modern club, Skipton also have a very slick-looking website with plenty of video content and an extremely active social media side, too. Many of the members regularly organise trips abroad to take part in the Tour of Flanders and Amstel Gold sportives, as well as week-long trips to the Alps. For further information, please visit: skiptoncyclingclub.org.uk
ILKLEY
WHAT a year for Ilkley Cycling Club - the club is still buzzing after welcoming the Tour de France and Le Grand Depart to its special corner of Yorkshire during 2014. Ilkley is a thriving spa town on the 2014 TDF route and hosted a week-long festival of cycling celebration to mark the occasion in July. Established in 1896, the club was eventually disbanded before being reformed in 2011 under the fanfare of the brilliantly gruelling White Rose Classic – an ultra-tough 115-mile sportive that takes participants through some of the most spectacular scenery on offer in Yorkshire. Tour de France fever aside, Ilkley Cycling Club has a very successful youth development programme
and actively encourages more women to take up the sport with regular rides on Sunday and Thursday. Not to be outdone by other clubs in the region, Ikley also stage monthly ‘family rides’, where it encourage mums and dads to join their children for a leisurely ride through parts of Yorkshire. Even more impressive is the fact that the club boasts a membership of 1,200 – that means one in eight people in or around the town are members of the club. Imagine trying to squeeze all them in for an annual club dinner. Yikes. For further information, please visit ilkleycyclingclub.org.uk or email the club via secretary@ ilkleycyclingclub.org.uk
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true brit
IN FRONT OF THE PROS Words ADRIAN LOMAS Photography CHRIS JELF & TOUR DE FORCE
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ON’T you find an awful lot of swapping experiences with other cyclists are just veiled bragging? Cycling’s all about the numbers – how far and how fast? Rather like those tourists you see who are so busy with their eye to the viewfinder or their finger poised on Instagram. For some cyclists, actually experiencing a place or event isn’t as important as recording it so that you can boast about it later. It seems for so many in this age of Strava that cycle events have become trophy events rather than a personal experience. The first sportive to offer an optional £10 sew on badge rather than a medal will make a fortune. Last spring, I was eyeing the Raid Pyrenees online as a possible holiday. Five days bimbling through the mountains with the weight hopefully dropping off, when an email landed from Adrian Lomas. He was a keen cycling contact asking for support for his Tour de France event. My own inner bragger rose up. “Etape? Done that. Got the crappy medal and the T-shirt too. Twice, actually, if you’re asking? Oh you weren’t....” Hang on. Reading further, I realised Adrian wasn’t doing a single stage of the 2013 Tour de
France – he was riding the whole bloody thing. Run by The William Wates Trust, the Tour de Force is a fully supported event that takes its riders through every stage of that year’s Tour de France. Starting a week before the pros in Corsica, Adrian would do every stage – even the time trials, rest days and finish in Paris. Run on a first-come-first serve basis, only 40 riders - ‘the lifers’ as they call themselves - would be doing the whole event, but others would be dropping in for a few stages at a time here-andthere. It sounded perfect. With full-board, support teams and relatively few riders, they’d would be no hauling heavy, hateful panniers over some of the best climbs in the world – or desperately hunting, mouth rime-rimmed, every evening for a Campanile hotel with a room and a restaurant that didn’t shut at 6.30pm. You’d be fed, even leg-rubbed along the way if you needed it and, with no broom wagon lurking somewhere behind, you’d have time to look around you and enjoy the whole route. Still. It was the whole 2103 Tour de France route and the stats were daunting.
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RIGHT: What would you drink when you got to the top of Ventoux? Recovery drink? Nah, champers, of course - the choice of champions
Hang on. Reading further, I realised Adrian wasn’t doing a single stage of the 2013 Tour de France – he was riding the whole bloody thing
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Starting in Corsica, the route that year covered 3,479kms – or 2,161 miles, you majesty – and consist of seven flats stages, five hilly stages, six mountain stages with four summit finishes, two individual time trial stages and only two rest days. Blimey. Adding up the mountains and hills, the climbing alone would cover almost 250kms with an elevation of about 43,000m. Adrian’s blog made welcome reading before the event. He was tackling the event as much for the experience as he was a personal test. But the chance to see so much from the saddle over three intense weeks was the real draw. His frank assessment of his own fitness and what lay ahead was quietly confident yet boast free. But Ventoux? Then Alpe D’Huez twice in one day? Would he make it? No daft jeopardy curve - the answer is, of course, he made it. And judging from his blog, it was quite a trip. The week after he got back from Paris, I sat down with Adrian. DK: Congratulations. The first nerdy question. What was your preparation like? AL: I’d done a fair amount of distance and hills to try to get the feel of a stage, then I thought I’d test myself on the Fred Whitton. Of course, it turned into a nightmare. Within the first 20-miles, my chain became mashed in the
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LEFT: You must be bananas - time to pick up nature’s perfect snack for cyclists, complete with a message from loved ones for added motivation
front mech and I lost 45 minutes getting it fixed. Of course, the extreme gradients of the Lakes in the lashing rain aren’t the best way to assess fitness for long, multi-stage events in summer either. I’d asked Dave Lloyd to help with training and I did the usual of looking at all my kit from sunglasses to shoes - trying the replace items that weren’t completely comfortable. I was doing the event with a friend, but aside from a meet-and-greet in Manchester, we didn’t know any of the other riders. I’d managed a good 81-mile ride in the last two weeks and then did five days in Mallorca to try and get some heat training in. With this, there was mental preparation too. The big thing for me was to not just look at the whole 3,400km as one big bike ride. In my mind, it was broken down into 21 stages and within that, I’d broken it down into roughly 40km chunks. Can we ride 40km? For sure, let’s do it, stop, refuel and focus on the next 40km. And this way, hopefully, is how we’ll do every stage. DK: Still. That’s a fair few 40K’s a day. AL: Yep. You’d do the 40km, then stop and get re-fuelled, a
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massage, etc, if you needed it and then off on the next block, so you kind of ignored dwelling on the full distance the whole day if you could. DK: What about general fatigue over three weeks though? Mental tiredness must surely have kicked in near the end? AL: I suppose so. Thinking back, on descents in the last week, we were all taking it a little easier, having to think about the corners a little more. My Stage 18 entry ‘finally feeling tired’ kind of sums up the fatigue at this point. Sitting in the saddle, making constant tiny corrections as you do when riding a bike, even on the flat, it does get tiring. As for the rest of me, it was amazing the changes in the body. I have never been fitter than I was when I finished. It’s just incredible how the body adapts each day and becomes stronger. Coming home, it really got me thinking about how a normal guy like me could actually go out there and conquer the toughest cycling race – the Tour de France. I took an immense amount of learnings from the whole event. For me, it worked extremely well. I covered 3,400km with more than 47km
The big thing for me was to not just look at the whole 3,400km as one big bike ride. In my mind, it was broken down into 21 stages and within that, I’d broken it down into roughly 40km chunks
Post race warm down. Ian Stannard bleeds from road rash picked up on course A delighted Thomas Craig from Team Scott UK celebrates as he secured his first National Junior title after an intense battle with rival Dylan Kerfoot-Robson from Marsh Tracks Racing
I have never been fitter than I was when I finished. It’s just incredible how the body adapts each day and becomes stronger
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PREVIOUS: Adrian and his friend heading along Col de la Croiz de Mounis LEFT: Climbing up towards the summit of Moun Ventoux, the landscape might as well be on The Moon
of height gain, took in 21 stages with no punctures, aches or pains and, if I’m honest, I finished the event with so much more energy. Every day now, I get up and I have so much more energy than before the event. It’s like my body is working so much more efficiently. I don’t believe that I’m a great cyclist because I’m not. I used to race when I was younger, won some races and competed in many, many more. And I’ve trained hard, sometimes with
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bike for three whole weeks. I envy the inner feeling of balance that using your muscles fully gives you. That subtle endorphin ‘high’ of having to force your body, every day for three weeks, into getting fitter than it’s probably ever been. Also, I’m ashamed to admit it, but truth be told I also envy Adrian a little for now being in possession of the braggers golden trump card. The 2013 Tour de Force was a one-off. That route
I’m ashamed to admit it, but truth be told I also envy Adrian a little for now being in possession of the braggers golden trump card. The 2013 Tour de Force was a one-off some great riders, but there was some very talented natural riders who would come out and beat me, even when I was at the top of my game. During the Tour de France event itself, it often surprised me how some guys, who were quite new to the sport, were able to fly up a mountain quicker than me. My excuse was that they were lighter and younger. That’s the first truth in cycling, there is always - and always will be someone younger and lighter. But after completing the entire route, excuses are probably unnecessary. I envy Adrian. Not just the chance to soak up the scenery at your own pace and the romance of powering around France on a
will never be run again. Adrian has the everlasting bonus of being able to listen politely to people banging on, uninvited, about their London-to-Paris ride or their End-to-End in eight days, smile sweetly and then deliver the reply: “No, I haven’t done those - but I did ride the entire 2013 TDF route in three weeks.” Oh, the bliss. And to savour his sweet victory a little longer, we have the highlights from his blog entries below. Bon appétit.
TIME TO HEAD OUT: Can’t believe that it - time to head out to Corsica. I have butterflies. Rode my training bike last night and my legs were like jelly. It’s weird. I’m not worried - it’s just a
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nervous tension. It really kicked in on Tuesday, when I dropped my bike off with a guy in a van on the motorway for him to drive all the way to Corsica. I hope he takes it steady and sleeps in the van. STAGE 1 (213KM): Wow, what a great start to the tour. Eighty of us rolled out at 7.30am. Only 40 of us are doing the whole tour, while others doing several stages. The terrain today was rolling and really beautiful scenery. I vowed to ride conservatively, but to let go off a back wheel in front is hard to do when you’re competitive. The organisation here is outstanding – we turned up to the hotel as they were unloading and therefore got the first massages before retiring to the rooms for cold showers, which help to reduce soreness and get the muscles recovering quicker. STAGE 2 (154KM): We had our briefing late last night – we always eat at 8pm and as you can imagine, getting 80 hungry cyclists into a restaurant and all fed is a challenge. Anyway back to day two of the tour – the first mountain stage as such, and for me, not being a climber, it doesn’t bode well for what’s to come. We all rode out together, but as the hill went up, so did the temperature and riders dropped backwards. After half way, it was whittled down to three of us working together (not the very
front runners I hasten to add) and we managed to take short turns on the front to enable the others to recoup behind. We did this all the way back to the hotel. We parked the bikes, booked the massage and started to get bags only to be informed there was a 12km loop that we needed to do with a 1km climb in it. STAGE 3 (145.5KM): Unbelievable. The Tour de France organisers rubbed their hands with glee when they compiled this stage. Apparently, it’s the first stage to have no flat sections. It was either up or down all the way. We rode more sedately today. At some stages, I just rode alone taking in the experience. Right at the end came another nasty climb listed as 3km at more than eight per cent average. However, the first half was more gentle, so the second half more like 12 per cent and longer than a few kms. Cracking descent and run into Calvi, where we are now congregating on the harbour waiting for our overnight ferry to Nice. STAGE 15 - GROWN MEN CAN CRY, CAN’T THEY?: And no, it’s not with the pain, we can handle that. Well some of us can. It’s more to do with the emotions of achieving a big goal. It’s strange, I never really set today’s stage up to be a such an achievement, but Ventoux has something about it. We arrived at the base around
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ABOVE: Climbing up all these cols, it is a good ideal to have some company
5.30pm. It was just tipping over 36-degrees and had risen to 40-degrees an hour earlier. Right from the start, I got in a good rhythm but soon the gradient went up-and-up. And as for my gears, they went down and down. Hard graft and 1hour 50minutes later, I crested the top at almost 2,000
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metres above sea level. Others were in all states – knackered, ecstatic and freezing cold, as the temperature had dropped. We had a photo and, at this point, I seemed to get something in my eye. OK, I started to shed a tear a bit and got really, really emotional. I spotted more men -
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ABOVE: Heading towards Alpe D’Huez, who wouldn’t stop to pose for a picture - nothing to do with tired legs and all that, obviously
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real men – crying. It was bizarre, so many of us were so touched by the achievement of getting to the top. Over in the distance, flashes of lightning were seen and the clouds rolled in. From the base of the mountain, where it was topping 40-degrees, it had plummeted to about 10-degrees. I had every piece of clothing on, found a newspaper for my chest and then headed off down the mountain. Within 500-metres, the road was misty and there was flooding, hail stones, wind, rain, everything. It was a nightmare. The pain of the cold and hail hitting you meant descending at speed was impossible. We were fortunate to find a restaurant awning to shelter beneath. Some hid in people’s camper vans. One car even stopped and rescued a rider. We hid for about 40 minutes
then set off down the mountain. Boy, was I relieved to get to the hotel. But do you know what? I wouldn’t have changed a thing. The whole experience of riding 166-miles in blistering heat, riding a mile-high mountain and experiencing the weather as we did, was an experience not to be forgotten.
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ABOVE: Either Adrian and chums have reached Paris or they have taken a wrong turn and ended up in Blackpool RIGHT: Nope, must be Paris - no ‘kissmequick’ hats or donkey to be seen, time to celebrate by showing everyone how he has the Eiffel Tower stuck in his back wheel
STAGE 18 - FINALLY FEELING TIRED: Maybe I went a bit too hard yesterday. Whatever it was, today was the first day I felt really tired. We cycled out and the big focus of the day was to be the double ascent of Alpe d’Huez.
Within 500-metres, the road was misty and there was flooding, hail stones, wind, rain, everything. It was a nightmare
Hitting the start, I felt good and climbed up much better than I did in 2006, when I last did it. Great, now we have to eat, descend and then go back up it. We went off the back of the Alpe down a descent that is lethal. The drop-offs were huge and the road surface terrible. We did it thankfully not racing it - and then headed back round for the final ascent of the Alpe. It took much longer than the first climb, so
arriving at the top was the most welcome sight ever. Hopefully, I feel better tomorrow as it’s now been decided tomorrow’s stage is the hardest of them all.
Adrian’s full day by day account of the 2013 Tour de Force can be found at: http:// www.blue-leaf.co.uk/category/ tour-de-france
MONEY CAN’T BUY YOU LOVE
BUT IT CAN BUY YOU THE ANNUAL Also available from our selected stockists LONDON: Condor Cycles, Magma Books: Clerkenwell and Covent Garden MANCHESTER: Harry Hall Cycles, Eddie McGrath Cycles, Magma Books, Polocini Cafe
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TRUE MARK OF CHARACTER
Words LAURENCE FRYER-TAYLOR Photography JOOZLE DYMOND
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ARK McNally isn’t a stranger to setbacks. In 2009, he was told that he no longer had a place on the under-23 British Cycling Olympic Academy and similar news came in 2010 when his old team, Halfords-Bikehut, dissolved. Despite these shaky times, he now finds himself racing as the longest serving rider on the An Post Chain Reaction team - along with a plethora of riders from around the world - in Belgium. Although Mark considered last year a ‘huge disappointment’ in terms of performance and luck, of which he seemed to have little, it hasn’t affected his relaxed and confident approach to this season. Something never quite fell into place last time out. At the start of this season, he was hoping to put that right with his extra experience, new kit and new equipment. After the winter base period, a new team dynamic at An Post Chain Reaction – spearheaded by new coach Niko Eeckhout – made Mark think differently about how he and the team trained, as well as the way they would be approaching races. There seemed to be a positive atmosphere within An Post Chain Reaction, although not living in the team house has meant that he hasn’t needed to face the bickering over who left their washing up in the sink - and
the consequences this entails for RIGHT: Mark gets ready for another racing teamwork. His goals at the race with An Post Chain Reaction start of the year were about good Cycling Team performances in the semi-classics and taking what he could get on the road. We caught up with him recently to ask about how things have turned out following this optimistic beginning, the Prudential London-Surrey classic and his prospects for the Tour of Britain. LFT: You sounded more relaxed when it came to talking about your goals this season. Do you think this is because you have changed them or are you just approaching things with a new perspective? MMc: Well, I’ve started working with a new coach because I wasn’t happy with the first half of the season, to be honest. I had to get my wisdom teeth out around late April, early May, and that held me back a little bit. I never really had the legs I wanted at the time, but now I’ve got a more structured approach to training and more discipline. LFT: What about during races? Has your mental attitude changed with experience? MMc: Not really. If you ask anyone they know me as a bit of a
I’ve started working with a new coach because I wasn’t happy with the first half of the season. Now I’ve got a more structured approach to training
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stress-head. I think it’s part of my character, so I try and shoulder it as much as I can. The thing with the confidence is that when you’re not going well, you need be your own boss and give yourself that positive nudge. In Europe, when you’re not going well, they’ll keep kicking you while you’re down. Sometimes that’s not what you need. You just want someone to pick you up and give you a pat on the back, but over here they call a spade a spade. Now though, my confidence is getting better having seen my training numbers – my coach is telling me I’m going well too. Bike racing can be a cruel mistress sometimes, but that’s the luck of the draw. LFT: You’ve mentioned that you want to be more selfish with your racing this year. What prompted you to think about your own needs more? MMc: Just experience really. To progress in this sport people say that it’s very team focused. But at the end of the day, you’re not going to get far without results. Even if you help someone out to win a race, it’s the winner who gets the contract - not the person who did the work to get into a winning position during the final kilometres. LFT: How have your performances been recently? MMc: I did RideLondon and I had three punctures in the end - the last of which was with a few kilometres
to go. I was feeling good with two climbs left, but unfortunately I got a puncture. The team cars were behind the chasing pack about 50 seconds behind the group I was in, so that was pretty much race over. LFT: A great shame. Despite the conditions and bad luck, what was the atmosphere like there? MMc: It’s madness. Every time we’ve done the Tour of Britain the last few years it’s just got progressively bigger. Now RideLondon is just massive and the crowds are insane. I started road cycling when I was
ABOVE: Post-race it is time for a recovery drink, some food and catch up on emails from home
11, with about two or three English professionals and nobody knowing what cycling really was. Now, it’s a different world. LFT: Are you quite excited by what this holds for the future of cycling in the UK? MMc: It’s definitely looking up, but with the last few years of professional teams folding it’s been a tough environment to say the least. I think that any professional sport is going to be difficult though and that’s the beauty of it. LFT: What are your plans for the rest of the season?
MMc: A big goal would be Tour of Britain and then we’ve got a lot of one-day races in Belgium. The legs are there, now I just want a little bit of luck and need my tyres to stay up. LFT: Cheers. Best of luck for the Tour of Britain.
Since our interview, Mark went on to dominate the King of The Mountains competition at the Tour of Britain after winning the jersey on Stage One in his hometown of Liverpool. Well done, Macca.
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THE EDDIE SOENS TAPES
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ITTING in a hotel room in Japan in 1980s, an elderly gentleman plays round with a small tape-recorder. It’s one of those dicta-phone type recorders that are used by secretaries or journalists. Unable to speak any Japanese, he has time on his hands while over in the Far East to coach the Shimano/Pearl Izumi team. The man has been given the small personal recorder by his close friend, John Geddes, who had the foresight that he might be at a loose end during his trip. The man, of course, is Eddie Soens and, during his stay, he recalls various chapters in his life - from his formative years growing up in Smithdown Road and meeting his future wife, Mima, to serving as a Regimental SergeantMajor with the army in India and then going on to coaching a long list of talented athletes that reads like a list of cycling royalty from the 70s to 80s. “The recordings finished in 1981 and my father died in August 1985,” explained Eddie’s son, Bill. “So there were a number of others who came under his wing with outstanding success and others who failed to achieve their capabilities because of his passing away. “It is written verbatim, as recorded on a small personal tape recorder, and, in places, appears somewhat disjointed. You have
to try to imagine that he is RIGHT: A very fresh-faced Eddie actually talking to you and then Soens during his early racing days it all makes complete sense.” For nearly three decades, the contents of the tapes remained unpublished until Bill decided it was time for people to discover the man behind the myth. In reality, Eddie needs little introduction. This is his life story, told in his own words.
THIS is a story that Johnny Geddes has asked me to relate. It is something about my life and my name is Eddie Soens. I was born in a bike shop in Smithdown Road, Liverpool, which my father owned. When I was just under three years of age, the First World War had started and my father joined up - even though he was over age. Within a fortnight, my mother had sold the shop, or what there was of it, and moved to where you would say that the scenes of riots were in Liverpool 8. It was a terribly tough area but the people were, I think it’s true to say, good people. Tough people, but they would help anybody. Then the war ended and my father came home. I remember him coming home because I was
This is a story that Johnny Geddes has asked me to relate. It is something about my life and my name is Eddie Soens
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ABOVE: Eddie’s son, Bill, with just a small selection of the family album - filled with photos of his father, family members and all the riders or athletes he helped over the years
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crying when I saw this man. I didn’t know who he was and I lay on the sofa and cried a little. You must understand, I was the youngest of three lads. There was my eldest brother Jim, six years older than me; Tommy, who was a year and 10 months older, and myself. It was then that I was brought into sport by my father, who was quite a good bike rider. He was a very good all-round athlete and his life consisted of sport and three lads. We were brought into the sport he loved, which was cycling. Jim - my father’s name was Jim, by the way - was the apple of his eye being the eldest son, very intelligent and had passed the scholarship. Myself? I was third in line. I started work at Everton Valley, which is a long way from Liverpool 8 for a lad of 15. The first morning, I went on the tram and it cost me a penny. I came home again on the tram, which cost another penny. That was the last time I took the tram to work – it was too expensive. Whatever people like to think, you just didn’t have that sort of money to spare. The next day I went on a bike. The bike had originally been a 24” Hercules, but my father cut the top off and brazed-up down to a bike that I could reach. I was quite happy with it - it got me places. My eldest brother was
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racing on a bike and Tommy was getting into the same thing. The house was just full of bike racing talk. Consequently, this was your environment and eventually your life because, make no mistake, it has been my life. My mother and father had another baby - my brother Dougie, who is 10 years younger than I am. When he was about two-anda-half, Tom and I put Dougie on a very small framed bike that my father had built and wheeled him forward to teach him how to ride. Unfortunately, we jammed his foot between the crank and the chain set. It was a tremendous rush to the hospital. Dougie’s foot swelled up bigger than his body and they rushed him to the children’s infirmary in Princes Road. He was in for months and it seemed to make him sickly from then on. I first raced when I was 15 and on my 16th birthday I managed to beat evens, which is 1hr15m for a 25-mile race - I did 1hr14m14s. I did it on a bike that I borrowed off my brother, who was a good athlete and quite a good bike rider – but a nut. He had about a nine-inch extension that he’d got my father to make. He wouldn’t let me
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alter the position. So when I did that 1hr14m14s, it had been so stretched out that it felt as though I’d been on the rack. Every joint in my body ached for weeks, but I was quite happy. I’d finished third fastest in the club, which was called the Western United Rose Club – very glamorous. It ran an inter-club with two others and we won. I finished third fastest, which got me a medal. I won the handicap in my own club and it was a fantastic day for me. People will laugh now at a 1hr14m. Things started to get a bit better. The club I was in – The Western – had folded up and my brother Tom and I had both joined a club that my brother Jim was in – The Liverpool Cycling Club. I worked for a man called Allen in Everton Valley. His eldest son was in the Liverpool Century. He was captain of the club and it was obvious that I wasn’t going to stay in the Liverpool Cycling Club. It was also obvious that our Tommy wasn’t going to stay in it either because he was too good to be there, really. He was a fantastic bike rider, our Tom. There was period of three years when he was never beaten in a distance race on the track - that is five or
I first raced when I was 15 and on my 16th birthday I managed to beat evens, which is 1hr15m for a 25-mile race - I did 1hr14m14s. I did it on a bike that I borrowed off my brother
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LEFT: Eddie during his days in the army. He would later go on to become a Regimental Sergeant-Major with the army in India
10-miles scratch races. He could do anything on the track and he was a good time-trialist. As that was the only road racing there was, they took some winning. He was terrific and it was obvious that he would not settle in the Liverpool Cycling Club, so we both resigned. I joined the Century and Tommy joined the East Liverpool Wheelers. He was very successful with them, too. Anyhow, we both raced on the Bootle track and
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people at Bootle. He had also been National Sprint Champion of Great Britain. I thought it was quite an honour and, by the same token, I received a massive gold medal. Things were good and I went to a dance that year run by the East Liverpool Wheelers. I couldn’t dance, but I was asked to go. When I got there, I saw this beautiful girl look across and smile. I thought, ‘God, she couldn’t be
I joined the Century and Tommy joined the East Liverpool Wheelers. He was very successful. We both raced on the Bootle track and it was like riding up hill all the time - it was so hard it was like riding up hill all the time - it was so hard. That was where I won the first ‘real thing’, I suppose - even though I had won a lot of races. I won the Liverpool Centre 50-mile tandem paced. At the same time, I broke the record for this, which had been set many years before by a man named Jimmy Bennion. At the time, he was champion of the world and had set the record up at the track in New Brighton, which was a much better than Bootle. People said it would never be beaten, but I managed to beat it and I was presented with a type of certificate, or an ‘illuminated address’, as they called it. It was presented by a man named Scott, who belonged to the bread
smiling at me’. As it happened, she was. So I went over and had a talk with her. Her name was Mima. Now, why she married me eventually, I just will never know because she could have done a thousand times better. It was just my good fortune, that is all. It certainly wasn’t my good looks. It has just been a fairy story being married to her. At the present moment, I am recording this is Japan and even to think about her brings tears to my eyes because that is the way it is. Now that year, 1936, our Jim opened his bike shop in Lower Breck Road. You must appreciate that for years my father and our Jim had been building bikes in the cellar in Penrith Street. Jim was always
Post race warm down. Ian Stannard bleeds from road rash picked up on course
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down there working with my father on the bikes. You must understand that Tommy and I were two lads who would go to boy’s clubs and that sort of thing. Our Jim never took part in any of that type of activity, but would always go down to the cellar and work on the bikes with my father. It was quite right then that he should open the shop. There is no question about it, he was a very successful business and he carried on until it must have been 1973 or somewhere in that area. He retired then and, unfortunately not long afterwards, he died. It was a very sad thing, very sad. But this is life and one has to accept it. The next year, I managed to get Mima to race and she was something out of the ordinary. It was just tremendous to be going out with somebody you were going to marry and not only was she, well, what I think she is, but she could also go like hell on a bike. Well, it couldn’t have been better. We were so happy. Quite a lot of races were won and then I broke my arm, as well as fracturing my clavicle in a silly little Olympic Games trial on Bootle. I was married at the time. So, OK, you had these upsets, but we were quite happy. Then I had a bit of a falling out. Well, it was really a lot of falling out – with Liverpool Century. I think they
objected to me. Our Billy had been born, so I was just dashing out on a Sunday morning and then dashing home for dinner because Mima could not get out at the time. I had been banging on about what mileage I could do early on a Sunday morning, up to 60 or 70 miles. Then they held a hill-climb and I made the mistake because I went and obliterated them all. I was very fit and very well. They had a few favourites and they didn’t want to see beaten. They didn’t manage to do it, so there were quite a few things said and then they held a race at Bootle – a tandem race – and I thought that I would get some tandems from the club. But, as it turned out, I didn’t. They gave them all to a chap named Gilbert Gerrard, so I jumped off my bike and got a tandem and paced our Tom, who ended up winning. Now, I am not being boastful, but it would be fair to say that if I had ridden that race then I would have won it. Instead, Tommy won it and the Century didn’t like that either. There were a few things said. Being the sort of bloke I am, there were a few things said by me also. Now, it was a case that I had to resign from the club or they would throw me out. I knew this. I could see the situation. So I resigned before they threw me out.
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ABOVE: Eddie, far left, with the Great Britain squad, including Kirkby CC’s finest, Doug Dailey, third from right
I tried to join the East Liverpool Wheelers and they refused. Believe me, that was a terrific setback for me and yet it was the finest thing that could have happened because I was accepted as a member of the Liverpool Unity Road Club. Among their membership, they
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had four young lads who wanted to do what I wanted to do and we used to ride the team pursuit. When I joined, we had two leagues on Merseyside, racing leagues. We were bottom of the second division but in the first year, we were top of the second division
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and we beat the top of the first division - that club being the East Liverpool Wheelers, so, you know, I was very pleased about this. The next year, we were in the first division and we used to race against all the big clubs and we absolutely obliterated them. Then the war started and all the lads out of my club were in the forces. They became flyers and all got killed. I was in the army and I won the last race that I rode, which was the LTTCA 25. At the time, it was the big race at the start of the season. Larry Ross was second, so it was a reasonable performance. I went in the army and was not cycling, so I started boxing again. I was very prickly, a sergeant and I transferred from the infantry to the tanks. Unfortunately – well, I don’t know that it was
‘unfortunately’, I would say really it was bloody fortunate I had a row with an officer over some stupid silly things. He was an idiot and I told him that if he came round the back of the tank, I would flatten him. Within three days, I was back in the infantry. Then after nine days, I was on the boat to the Far East. Now that saved my life because if I had not got killed at Caen - the squadron I was sort of in charge of had only three tanks left after that and 12 out of 15 of them went for a Burton - there is no question that I would have been killed with my pal at Antwerp.
I had a row with an officer over some stupid silly things. He was an idiot and I told him that if he came round the back of the tank, I would flatten him
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Anyhow, I went abroad and did a short period, six weeks, in South Africa and then landed in India, where I was a sergeant-major. I did some service in Burma and I finished up as Regimental Sergeant Major. I came out of the army and I was going to race again, but I just couldn’t raise quite the full enthusiasm for myself. I would have done OK, as I was very fit and strong. I was 36 years of age. Anyhow, I encouraged Mima to race and she was tremendous. She won our first British Championship medal ever won in a time-trial and I feel it was great that she did this. She had all the courage and certainly had all the ability. She went on and won a lot of races - and I mean a lot. Then we had a baby, a girl who is 14 years younger than the lad - Mima Jnr - and I’m very proud of her. In 1951, I was looking after various lads but I was terribly upset when one young lad, who was going to be something special, fell out of a boat on the River Dee and never came up on May 8th. That really shattered me. It took quite a long time to pull myself together. I had looked after him and he was only 16. His mother was a widow and it was a really upsetting thing, but you have to get hold of yourself. Afterwards, I really got cracking
and started looking after Norman Sheil and Stan Brittain, who were both complete novices at the time. Of course, Norman ended up winning two world championship, a couple of third places and a couple of commonwealth games and was just a tremendous road rider. At the same time, I somehow got involved with Johnny Geddes, which was a tragedy - I think for both of us. But it is my opinion,
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and I mean this, that he was the greatest rider of the lot. He never achieved what he should eventually have done, but at least he came out of both the Olympics and Worlds with bronze medals. At present, if we had somebody who could do something like
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that in our sport, he would be headlines all the time. Alas, John Geddes and I went on with bike riders, people like Paddy Boyd, who was one hell of a road rider, and Harry Middleton. There were many of them at the time, I was going to use the phrase
I really got cracking and started looking after Norman Sheil and Stan Brittain, who were both complete novices at the time. Of course, Norman ended up winning two world championship
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‘that I was producing’, but it is wrong because they were there. I just helped to mould them. There was Joe McLean and so many out of the Liverpool Unity; a man named Johnny Ryan, who was a fantastic rider - just fantastic. Unfortunately, the lad eventually destroyed the Liverpool Unity. So I, along with a lot of others, joined the Melling Wheelers. There were about 11 or 12 of us who joined on the one night and made it the most fantastic club in the country - just unbelievable. The things we could do and the things that we could win. So we went on and Johnny Geddes won a lot of things for us – terrific – and Norman Sheil won a World Championship in the name of the Melling. We had Joe McLean and Charlie McCoy. Charlie became 25-mile champion of Great Britain, while Joe McLean won the National 10mile championship. All these men represented us in World Championships, Olympic Games and Commonwealth Games - unbelievable really. They were all around you. I don’t know, it seemed that everything I touched turned to gold, as regards bringing lads along. In the meantime, I had been taking teams abroad on my own in the name of the NCU, then in the name of the British Cycling Federation. No mechanic, no masseur, just yourself to do all
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the work and come home ill. It took a month to get over it, but it was part of your life and you loved it. Anyhow, I carried on working right through and the Melling Wheelers changed their name to the Kirkby Cycling Club. Again, we were tremendously successful. Fellows like Billy Whiteside, another novice that you could help and make into one helluva bike rider and so it has gone on. I don’t know if it is going to stop – I wouldn’t wish it to stop. Norman Sheil then became National Coach in 1965. I knew that I would have got the job if I had allowed my name to go forward, but Norman was unemployed at the time and I withdrew my name and he got the job. I went to the worlds many times and went to one world championship where we won two championships with Graham Webb and Beryl Burton. I have both the jerseys they rode in because that was their way of saying thanks to me. So these are the things that I value. I also have a jersey belonging to a fellow named Geddes, which is the Tour of the Ardennes and, if we had some bugger who could
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go and win it now, we would be over the moon. These are the things that you have done in your life. Eventually, I started working with Norman and we managed to get a medal out of the Olympics of 72. There was also a bronze in the team pursuit and we finished fourth and fifth in the road race. There was a lad named Dave Lloyd, who I started looking after in 1976 because his knees were absolutely crippled due to some bloody fool named Geoff Bewley, who told him his position was alright. It was only about 1.5 inches overstretched and it just about crippled the lad. We managed to put things right and, in 1972, Dave Lloyd won the Grand Prix William Tell. In 1975, I was working like hell with Norman. Meanwhile, Dave Lloyd and Phil Bayton both turned pro – these two were our really top men – and so did Phil Edwards. I had also been looking after a young lad for years, from 1961 right through, named Dougie Dailey. He, along with many others like John Clewarth, won two National Road Championships. Norman Sheil then resigned from his job. Now, being the cheeky
I also have a jersey belonging to a fellow named Geddes, which is the Tour of the Ardennes and, if we had some bugger who could go and win it now, we would be over the moon
Post race warm down. Ian Stannard bleeds from road rash picked up on course
Norman Sheil then became National Coach in 1965. I knew that I would have got the job if I had allowed my name to go forward, but Norman was unemployed at the time and I withdrew my name and he got the job
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LEFT: Signed photo from Norman Shields thanking her for all the help she and Eddie gave him during his career
so-and-so that I am, I applied for the job because the requirements laid down for it were such that, really and truly, being the bigheaded individual that I am, I was the only man in the country that could meet them. I knew when I rang them up and asked for a form, I wouldn’t get the job. Don’t be upset at what I’m going to say, but they asked ‘why, are you applying?’. I told them ‘I am applying to embarrass you bastards. I know that I won’t
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I did not do it for the Federation - I did it for Bill Bradley because he is a fabulous bloke and he was the manager, so I went with him. Now, at the World Championship, there was this lad who just missed winning the kilometre gold. This lad was a Canadian called Gordon Singleton. In 1975, Gordon Singleton came to this country to buy a bike from Quinns and, at the same time, to find out about this fellow named Eddie Soens.
Eventually, he became what I consider now is the fastest sprinter in the world. Well, maybe not ‘the’ best sprinter in the world because he doesn’t do enough match sprinting get the job, but I am the only one who can do it. After a few months, the job was given to a man called Tom Pinnington – he destroyed the sport in my opinion. The day he got the job, I informed the Federation that, in no way, would I do anything for him. I refused to do any work or any trips while he was in charge – except for the Peace Race in 1975, but that was at the request of a great friend of mine. I went and that, for 20 odd years, was the only full team that has finished in the Peace Race. The lads were made up and they won a plaque for the team. They gave it to me and it is still hanging on my wall. That is the only thing that I have done, but
He found me and I started looking after him. He came over each year for three or four months. Eventually, he became what I consider now is the fastest sprinter in the world. Well, maybe not ‘the’ best sprinter in the world - because he doesn’t do enough match sprinting - but I consider that, at this present moment – well, last year anyhow - he is the fastest sprinter in the world. When he finished up getting the silver medal at this World Championship, he came right over to the UK pen, put his arm around me and remarked to them ‘somebody in England must be stupid’. So in 1980, I go to Mexico with Gordon Singleton, or rather I go to
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Canada, I go to America and then I go to Mexico. In 24 hours, we break three world records. When we were in Colorado Springs, the British junior squad are there training - the same as we were. They were never out of my room. If they wanted anything, even to the extent that I went and gave help to both Willie Moore and Geoff Cooke, which I was quite willing to do and Willie thanked me terrifically, no doubt about that. I went and showed them how to rub legs, if you can use that expression. Now I am in Japan. I have been asked to come here, which has cost them an awful lot of money, but it is a ridiculous situation when I should be doing it for my own national team. Danny Clark wants me to look after him the Championship of the World and he is an Australian. Another success is a lad who broke his back in 1974. His name was Terry Tinsley. I coached him from when he was 15. He is now our best sprinter. He was the only one who shaped up. There was nobody else who did anything at all. He got into the last 10 of the Amateur Sprint Championship of the World and just missed winning the Professional Sprint Championship of the World. He was actually faster than the Japanese, who won it. There are a lot more lads I could
talk about, a tremendous number of lads. Our Billy managed to get a National Champions jersey in the team pursuit with John Geddes, Norman Sheil and John Plumbley. Here is a lad I had forgotten. John Geddes knows what I did for Plumbley. Unfortunately, this lad was found dead on the East Lancs Road on September 26, 1958. He was 18 years of age. His bike was virtually undamaged after the accident, but it was apparent that he had been struck by a protruding load from a vehicle coming the opposite direction in the dark. A lovelier lad never lived and a future bike rider – well, there would have been no end to it. Now I would like to turn to another bike rider – a lad named Dave Rollinson. This lad came to see me in 1964. A gentleman named Tom Pinnington had said there was no chance he would ever make a bike rider. Of course, Pinnington had come late into the sport - not racing, but talking. Anyhow, the lad came around to me because his father had sent him and I looked after Rollinson, a very young lad, not quite 20. He finished second in the Tour of Britain and Pinnington was standing there and telling everybody how he had looked after this lad since he was 14. I just happened to hear this and I
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turned around. There were quite a few people present and I said ‘you are a lying bastard’. He just walked away because he knew that he was lying. Anyway, Rollinson went on and twice became National Road Champion. Stan Brittain had won that and Stan Brittain was
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second in the Peace Race, twice. Another lad came along from the Liverpool Mercury and he was Kevin Apter. Previous to that, I had been working with Peter Matthews, who I had worked with for seven years. Whether he would wish to agree with me about that, I
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don’t know. But I really believe he would and, in that period, he became National Champion and twice winner of the Star Trophy. Well, Kevin Apter was a man of all talents, there is no doubt about it. He became National Champion. He won the Scottish Milk Race and he was a great bike rider, who could ride good track races and first class time trials. We turn back now to probably one of the greatest talents we have ever seen in a bike rider in Great Britain and that is Dave
I feel that what I have done with these men has all been worth it. So, I don’t know, I feel there is a lot more to come. I look around bike riders in my own country and I think there is a waste of talent going on. There is no doubt about it, they are being wasted and it is because of the system. The system whereby they go abroad and certain people get drunk. Incidents have happened in the Worlds last year, 1981, that would never have happened if Eddie
To me, I look back and I don’t regret one single thing. When I go anywhere and meet any of the lads, they come straight across and make fuss. That is payment enough Lloyd. The things that this man has done are unbelievable. In 1971, as a complete novice, because I had started looking after him in 1970, when he rode races. He was a 3rd cat rider in April and, at the end of the year, he represented Great Britain in the World Championships in Team Pursuit, Team time Trial and Road Race. No other Englishman has ever done that before or since. But of course, he had this heart trouble brought about by his head. I got him to start again because I thought that it was a complete waste of talent and ability. We all know what Lloyd has done, all of us who are around now.
Soens had been there. There is no question about that. To me, I look back and I don’t regret one single thing in any way. When I go anywhere and meet any of the lads that I have had in teams from as long ago as 1953/4, they come straight across and make fuss. That is payment enough and on that note, I will sign off. This is Eddie Soens. Thank you very much.
Spin Cycle Magazine would like to thank Eddie’s son, Bill Soens, for allowing us to reproduce parts of the tapes and also for access to his family album to help illustrate his father’s fantastic life-story.
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SPIN CYCLE MAGAZINE PRESENTS
KILLER HILLS
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CCORDING to Wikipedia, “The Trough of Bowland is the term for the whole valley and set of hills between Lancaster in the West and the Yorkshire Dales in the East. It’s also the name for the pass, reaching 968ft, that divides the upland core of Bowland into two main blocks. Though steep and narrow, the road is the most direct connection between Lancaster and Dunsop Bridge then onto Clitheroe. The Grey Stone of Trough, at the head of the pass, marks the line of the pre-1974 boundary between Lancashire and the West Riding of Yorkshire.” There you go. All breathy and lyrical. Where would we all be without Wikipedia, eh? Truth be told, I was a little concerned about climbing the Trough, as I must admit that I’d only climbed up it from Dunsop Bridge once before - in the rain. It was a struggle, with a fair bit of wheel slippage for company. Sure, I’ve ridden down the Trough more times than I can count. Oh go on then, it must be 30 times or more now. It’s a lovely, scenic pedal up to the top of the climb and the boundary marked by the cattle grid. In fact, spurred on by being part of a group, I must boast that I once did it in the big ring by mistake, so the west side of the Trough should hold no fear for
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Nº.08
THE TROUGH KILLER HILLS Distance: 0.6 km Average grade: 13 % Maximum grade: At least 46.3 % Height: 326 m Feet gained: 82 m
anyone of reasonable fitness. Just RIGHT: The Trough - in all its to clear it up at this point - if you magnificent glory viewed from a go to the Trough climb expecting drone camera some vast panoramic bowl of hills and vales fading off into the mist, you’re going to be disappointed. The Trough is really a modest gully - as slim and claustrophobic as Winnets Pass. It is scenic and very lovely, but don’t go expecting the Grand Canyon. Approaching it from the Dunsop Bridge side, it starts to climb after the last farm on your right and then you’re surrounding by still, dun-coloured hills until right up
Truth be told, I was a little concerned about climbing the Trough, as I must admit that I’d only climbed up it from Dunsop Bridge once before - in the rain
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ABOVE: Craig, left, and John McGrath side-by-side as they take on the gradient of The Trough climb in the beautiful Forest of Bowland
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to the summit. There are a couple of bends early on to watch out for, though. One is pretty technical on the descent, as it’s a little tight and any under-braking can see you taking the wrong side of the road in a hurry or meeting head on the white haired old couple in the red Nissan Micra, who spend all day driving around these roads. They left Clitheroe in 2010 to get home to Lancaster and are still lost. Still, better them than the alternative. With no armco, you’ll be sailing off into the blue on the left hander and then dropping down a rough hillside of heather and bumps for perhaps 50 metres. On the way up, there are some 1-in-6 sections but - at less than a mile and a half long and by no means steep all the way up The Trough is almost the perfect training hill to do a few times in a row. It will tax you, but as Mr Paul Daniels would say so delightfully often - ‘not a lot’. Simon Warren in his essential guide to British climbs ‘100 Great Cycling Climbs’ calls it ‘a blue print for the perfect climb...it just needs to be that bit steeper’. He’s spot on. The Trough could also do with being a bit longer too. I know. How can a climb be a ‘Killer Hill’ if I say you might reach the top wanting more? Surely, the point is to be lying limp and delirious in the verge,
a puddle of your own sweat, thinking ‘never again’, while your heart and lungs beat a twin tattoo on the inside of your ribcage. Well, climbing doesn’t have to be about pain every time surely? The Trough isn’t that difficult, but it’s about the feeling of Zen it gives you. The surroundings are beautiful and sheltered. Yet the amount of steepness, bends and the little push you need to give for the summit are so amenable to a constant balanced effort, that it’s almost as if the climb is manmade. You reach the top more suddenly than you were expecting and, left with a feeling seldom felt on any hill climb, a slight disappointment that there wasn’t more of it. Because, as the thinking goes, if you could manage a little more maybe you’re that little bit fitter than you thought you were. That’s a nice thought to have. You end up loving the Trough for being so friendly – as opposed to other climbs that slap you with your inadequacies like some Sweary Mary Sergeant Major. My second boast coming up. Last month, I climbed it alongside a 22-year-old, who - to be fair - had only just started road biking that day. We were being filmed by a drone for a film trailer and had to climb it three or four times in a row. Using a 34:30, I had a couple of
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ABOVE: One more time for the camera - Craig is so light, he practically ‘floats’ up the climbs
gears to spare and danced up it like Contador. Well, dancing like Contador if Bertie was wearing 40lb Wellington boots and riding a BMX. I was having such fun that I was surprised to see my young companion utterly exhausted at the end of climb three, so my description of the difficulty of the Trough may just be relative to fitness. That said, we’d just come from an hour of filming on Waddington
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Fell, so by comparison the Trough was heaven. Looking at every other hill we’ve featured in Killer Hill, The Trough - in terms of length at least - maybe a tiny, fluffy kitten amongst tigers. But with fluffy kittens being the most popular images on the internet, who are we to deny you what you want? Don’t worry, our normal service will be resumed next month with a truly dreadful ordeal in Wales that I cannot even begin to mention.
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N AN age when one wellknown cycle clothing brand makes a virtue out of “the nobility of suffering” – even though its models look as though they’ve suffered nothing more traumatic than a lack of an amaretto biscuit to go with their double espressos – it’s easy to over-use words such as “agony” and “heartbreak” in a cycling context. Running out of energy gels halfway up a mountain or crashing into a ditch and ripping your prized merino-wool replica Faema jersey pale into insignificance compared with what riders such as Adrien Niyonshuti or Abraham Ruhumuriza had to put up with while struggling to make it as cyclists in Rwanda. Adrien lost five brothers, one sister and 40 relatives during the Rwandan genocide of 1994 when at least 800,000 of his compatriots – one in 10 of the population – were killed in 100 days. Abraham became convinced witchcraft was responsible for the sudden deaths of his mother, wife and two children in a short space of time. He refused to use communal drinking fountains and wouldn’t even spit on the ground in case a “witch” collected his saliva and used it to cast a curse upon him. Both riders grew up in homes without electricity or running water. Both used heavyweight,
primitive, single-speed bicycles as a means of transport to cover vast distances. If you’d mentioned “energy gel” or “body-contoured chamois pad” to either of them, they’d have dismissed it as black magic. Yet one of them, Adrien, grew up to compete at the 2012 London Olympics and now rides for Africa’s first Pro-Continental racing team, MTN-Qhubeka, while Abraham is a veteran of
Team Rwanda. But they are just two of the characters to get a shot at redemption in Tim Lewis’s Land of Second Chances: The Impossible Rise of Rwanda’s Cycling Team. (Yellow Jersey Press, £9.99). It’s a riveting story, with a fascinating postscript hinting that a new generation of black African riders may be about to make the same impact on professional bike riding as
Kenyan and Ethiopian athletes did on long distance running. And it’s a timely reminder to keep some perspective next time you start bonking halfway up a mountain…. The great Eddie Merckx knew all about suffering. Largely, it was the variety he inflicted on his rivals, but occasionally he found himself on the receiving end through circumstances beyond his control, notably a failed drugs
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past –women present future on–tour
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test during the 1969 Giro d’Italia – still believed to be the result of a plot by his rivals – and an horrific crash on the track at Blois that left his motorbike-riding pacemaker dead. Both events are covered in the handsome, coffee-table photo book, Merckx 69 (Bloomsbury, £35). The book contains some extraordinary black and white photographs – many previously unpublished – by Tonny Strouken, who spent most of 1969 following “The Cannibal” during what was considered his most successful season. We can’t mention drug-testing without the L-word, and the definitive account of the disgraced Texan’s industrial-scale cheating is provided in Cycle of Lies: The Fall of Lance Armstrong(William Collins, £8.99) by New York Times writer Juliet Macur. The fact that Armstrong and
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his co-dopers on the US Postal Team would sell off up to half the bikes provided to them by Trek to finance their supplies of EPO and other drugs is just one of the nuggets Macur uncovers during her extensive and compelling analysis of the sorry affair. Finally, back to the theme of suffering. The eight riders – of the 81 starters – who completed the 1914 Giro – enduring cataclysmic weather, appalling roads and 400-km, 20-hour stages along the way – could probably teach the Rapha generation a thing or two. Author Tim Moore pays tribute to the survivors of this epic event when he sets out to follow the route riding a bicycle from the period, i.e. with no gears, wooden rims, cork brake pads and weighing the same as a small bungalow. The result is the tear-inducingly funny Gironimo! Riding The Very Terrible 1914 Tour of Italy. (Yellow Jersey Press, £14.99) Moore’s humour occasionally stumbles from subtle to oldfashioned Anglo-Saxon, but then it’s probably hard to maintain a sense of grace when each day you know the only thing stopping you from careering into a ditch or off the side of a mountain is a pair of brakes fashioned with the corks from the bottles of Chianti you had with dinner last night. Book Reviews by Trevor Ward (@ willwrite4cake)