The Cyclingnews.com coverage of my win in Italy was over the top in its praise, declaring that I was ‘formidable’ and ‘already one of the strongest riders in the elite ranks’. Then again, it was written by Maurizio Ricci, our Deia-Pragma-Colnago secretary moonlighting as a journalist. But it spoke volumes of the confidence that the team had in me after only a few weeks and cemented my position in the team. I was now looking forward to competing in my first-ever classic, the Primavera Rosa World Cup, the women’s equivalent of the Milan-San Remo. The race is over 118km, running down Italy’s far north-western coast from Varazze to San Remo, just short of the French border. The main difficulties are in the final stages, with the 5km Cipressa climb and the 3km Poggio climb whose summit is just 5km from the finish line, meaning another white-knuckle ride on the descent at full speed before launching almost immediately into the sprint.
The team had been working well for me throughout the race and I was in the lead group of about 30 riders as we descended the Poggio and started jockeying for positions for the sprint finish. I was well positioned as we came into the last kilometre, tucked in behind Petra Rossner, who was leading the World Cup and would go on to win the overall title that year. I was confident I would be up there in the sprint, until Petra caught the rear mechanism of the bike in front of her, which shredded the spokes of her own front wheel and caused her to veer sharply to the left. I was forced to go with her, as I was overlapping her back wheel with my front wheel, and in trying to avoid a collision with her I lost all my speed and contact with the leading group. I finished in 20th place, upset that in such a prestigious World Cup event, the finish had ended in this way.
The drama of the day wasn’t over. We set off on the long drive home to Forli, our Ukrainian team mechanic and driver Oleg heading off at breakneck speed. I was chatting away with my team-mates in the back when there was a huge bang and the back window smashed. I swivelled around to see what had happened. In the darkness behind, I could see sparks under a following car and the outline of a wheel. We pulled over, accompanied by the car behind, hissing steam and sparks. A bike had fallen off the roof rack and was being ground away under the car, having holed its radiator. I started squawking like a parrot, repeating over and over: ‘That’s my bike, that’s my bike!’
The two young lads in the car behind were Italian, trying to communicate with a carload of foreigners including two Ukrainians, a Spaniard, French and myself. While we waited for the breakdown truck, we tried to explain that we were on our way home from a race, and they were telling us how they were on their way to a local discoteca. Oleg taped over the gaping hole where the back window had been with a black plastic bag and loaded my mangled bike back on the roof. We eventually arrived home in the early hours of the morning.
During the week, I was kitted out with a replacement team bike and we spent time getting to know the course of our next race, the 4th Memorial Pasquale di Carlo, to be held on the roads around Forli. Joane Somarriba and her compatriots had gone home to prepare for some important races in Spain, so it was a weakened Deia-Pragma-Colnago team that was entered for the race, and we could do little to dictate the race tactics.
It was a very different course from the previous races, with 20 laps of a 4.3km circuit. The bigger teams like Acca Due O, who had Rasa Polikeviciute, Diana Ziliute and Nicole Brandli, wanted to keep the race together and force it into another bunch sprint. They succeeded and with less than 2km to go, the field was still together. The finish was up a very shallow climb, it had about four hairpins on the way up and the last two in quick succession at about 400m to go, where the road flattened out for the long straight to the finish. I felt that with the drag to the finish making everyone work quite hard, it could be a sprint I could take on from the front.
I was in about fifth position entering the last two bends and with my main rivals on the left, I felt the moment was right to dive up the inside on the right for the last bend and take the lead. I jumped out of the last corner, hugging the right-hand edge of the road to make it hard for anyone to get any slipstream from me, and I kept on sprinting all the way to the finish. No one could get up to me and I’d won my second race from four starts.
My team-mates were ecstatic, and others around me kept talking up my victories as unprecedented in the world of women’s cycling. I deserved my wins and had raced well, arriving on the scene with no intention of taking it easy in my first season. I had trained for this like a demon and I tried to look at the praise without rose-coloured glasses. The truth was that I had come off a very comprehensive pre-season training schedule and was in good form, while some of the others, like Joane, were still building into the season and would undoubtedly beat me later in the year when most of the big stage races were held. Still, no one could have hoped for a better start in what was a giant leap into the unknown. I’d left home excited and unsure of what lay ahead. I had acquired many friends, immersed myself successfully in another country and delighted in the discovery of the sport’s history. I was proud of my achievements in these months but now looked forward to returning to Wales.
I was back home because the residents of Wick had decided that they wanted to put up a plaque in the memorial village hall commemorating my four world junior titles. It was a touching reminder of where I had come from and where my heart belonged. Bob Humphrys of BBC Wales asked, on the morning of the unveiling, if he could do the sports section of Wales Today from the hall and could the village turn out then. Of course we could! The hall was packed as we went out live. I celebrated my 19th birthday and then flew out to Belgium to get ready for another of the classics and my first Flèche Wallonne World Cup, including the famous finish up the Mur de Huy, a 1.3km climb which averages 10%, with one corner at 26%.
With a full field of 130 riders, the race started on a steep descent out of Huy. The rough and pot-holed road took an early toll, as I dodged around an obstacle course comprising drinks bottles that had bounced out of bottle cages.
I spent most of the race at the front of the peloton to stay out of trouble and keep an eye on the action over the ‘côtes’ (climbs). On the penultimate climb, with 15km to go, the two-time winner of the race Fabiana Luperini attacked, followed by Priska Doppmann. I looked around to see who from the big teams might chase them, but no one did. I’d missed my chance, through a tactical mistake rather than physical selection, and it was too late. They were pulling away from us and we were racing for a minor place.
I am used to the pain and burning of climbing hills and can push myself very hard, but the huge crowds lining the Mur made me dig even deeper as I forced myself well into the ‘red’ in an excruciating finale, played out almost in slow motion up the steep gradient of the Mur de Huy. The last metres seemed an eternity and I collapsed after crossing the line in fifth place. It had been a fantastic race packed with action and super crowds – the sort of race I love – and I made up my mind, there and then, that this was an event I was determined to win in the future.
After getting cleaned up, I was told by the team that plans had changed and instead of going back to Italy to take some rest and then training, they wanted me to fly to Spain for the Castilla y Leon World Cup race, followed by a five-day stage race. Sure, why not. Just go with the flow, I thought as I repacked my bags with everything in full view, in the car park. Belgium one day and Spain the next; the fairy tale just kept getting better. Joining me in Spain was a new C40 carbon fibre bike from the Colnago factory. I struggled in the World Cup race but, as the protected team rider, finished third overall in the stage race, and we were all delighted.
The Spanish girls stayed on, while Oleg, Fany and I took in the realities of life on the circuit, a 17-hour, 1,700km drive in the team van, non-stop other than for petrol and toilet breaks. In the early hours of the following morning, after stopping for something to eat, Oleg forgot to close the back door and as we drove away all the bags fell out onto the road. The way we just pulled over and leapt out, dodged the traffic, grabbed the bags off the road and then continued home, as if nothing had happened, was a measure of the world we lived in. When we arrived in Italy, Giorgio Zauli was waiting for us, wanting to speak to Fany and me privately. He was leaving the team because he hadn’t been paid for three months and felt he had no option but to stop. He liked both of us and felt obliged to tell us personally. Fany and I checked our bank accounts and relaxed a little; our latest pay was there, but it was unsettling when things had been going so well. After all, I was barely 19 years old and had known these people three months. Could I actually trust them?
Fany, having been around the scene for many years, must have read the signs because she decided that we should pack up our things and move to the second team house, where the Spanish girls had been staying which was now empty. It would allow the Ukrainian riders to have the house to themselves and give us some sense of reassurance. The alarm bells weren’t ringing loudly, but they were certainly there. There was a realisation that outside the glamour and excitement of race day, we were vulnerable.
Meanwhile, the efforts of Mike Townley and Dad finally paid off, when at the beginning of May I flew to London to attend the meeting convened by SDRP/UK Sport to solve the problem over the conditions of the Team Agreement with British Cycling. A great weight was lifted from my mind when all the points I had proposed were accepted. I would be able to join the team to represent Great Britain in the World Championships. From a personal point of view, I was delighted that UK Sport now felt it appropriate to recommend me for a Lottery athlete subsistence grant. I never took the public’s money lightly. I felt very proud to learn afterwards that UK Sport asked Mike to review a lot of the documentation for a wide range of governing bodies in addition to BC. If my little challenge and my stubbornness helped move sports administration in Britain from the amateur to the professional so that it might compete effectively on the world stage, then it was worth every bit of the heartache my family and I had to put up with over the months. All I had to do now was show that I was worthy of selection.
Next came a stage race in the French Pyrenees. I felt I was among the stronger riders in the field and, after finishing fifth in the first 108km stage, won by Simona Parente from the powerful Edil Savino team, I had high hopes. I then won the next stage, a shorter 63km course, ahead of Fabiana Luperini, Simona’s team-mate. This put me in second place behind Simona and just ahead of Fabiana on the General Classification. I maintained that position during Stages 3 and 4, so going into the last stage Simona was in first place, I was second at 19 seconds and Fabiana was in third place, a further 12 seconds behind me.
The last stage was a mountain-top finish, which I was certain would suit my climbing strengths, so I decided to go for not just the stage win but for the overall victory. It was tantalisingly close and the three of us were again together in a break as we approached the last climb, 10km up the Col du Cauteret. I concentrated too much on trying to beat Simona, forgetting that Fabiana was also a strong climber and that they would work as team-mates. Every time I attacked, Fabiana would bring Simona back up to me and then sit back and rest. Then I would go again and Fabiana would nurse Simona back behind me. I was doing all the work and wearing myself out with my fierce attacks, while they were working together and taking their time to steadily catch me up, using their energy wisely.
Near the finish, Fabiana attacked and I simply couldn’t respond. I struggled after her but she kept pulling away, and then seeing that I was in difficulty, Simona attacked me too. I eventually finished in fifth place. Instead of winning and taking the overall title, I had actually lost a place to finish third overall, although I did win the King of the Mountains title and U23 classification. It was a mistake. I still cringe when I remember that race, although Joane and the others were sanguine about it, insisting that it was a learning curve and that there would be another day.
Back after another epic drive, the mood in the Forli team headquarters had turned sour. The departure of Giorgio had been worrying enough, but now former professional cyclist William Dazzani had been mentioned as his replacement. The name meant nothing to me, but Fany was angry, insisting that Dazzani was suspected of being involved in doping. Her worry was that Luigi could have heard the stories but still hired him; Giorgio privately agreed, warning us to be vigilant and offering to stay in contact.
We were invited to Dazzani’s team house in a nearby town to train with Team 2002, a squad of mainly Italian riders he also helped. Neither Fany nor I wanted anything to do with him, but Luigi insisted we went to join the other girls for a training ride twice a week. A few days later, Fany returned from a training ride during which she had met up with some other cyclists who chatted openly about what they were taking and how it made them feel fast, as if this was normal. Fany was furious. ‘I spend my life working as hard as I can; looking for every tiny improvement to be a better rider for the team and for myself, and yet there are riders out there who take whatever they want and are getting away with it.’
Suddenly, drugs were everywhere. We watched the coverage of the men’s Giro d’Italia in which a number of riders had been kicked out of the race for drug offences and police were raiding team after team, searching for drugs. My most recent race was in Bolzano, in which I had won a stage and finished second to the 2000 World Road Race champion Zinaida Stahurskaya. She had recently returned to racing after a positive test the previous year in the Giro d’Italia Femminile when she had been banned for four months, the first of four failed tests for her.
The first time I met Dazzani he said he wanted the team to have a blood analysis, which, on the surface, seemed reasonable. But I was petrified, sitting on a chair with my results waiting for a doctor to advise me what to do, repeating in my basic Italian, ‘I’m a clean rider, I don’t do drugs, all I do is train,’ like a mantra.
A year later, Dazzani was one of 22 people who were placed under house arrest after telephone taps ordered by Italian prosecutors revealed that he was a suspected dealer in an organised drugs ring. He was not subsequently charged. Doctors and nurses were implicated for assisting in hiding the drug trail, there were claims that a teenager was being forced to ride 200km per day on a diet of apples, and there was a bizarre conversation about women hiding drug use by getting pregnant to avoid testing procedures and then aborting the foetus.
In the midst of these worries and fears, Craig came to visit. Now aged 17 and in his final year at school, he arrived with BBC Wales reporter Richard Owen, who was putting together a television documentary about six Welsh athletes preparing for the Commonwealth Games. After the filming was finished, Richard left and Craig stayed for a week, a calming influence when I needed it. We rode the hills around Forli and mixed a bit of tourism with our training rides. I even braved driving the team car, complete with the widening crack in the windscreen that no one would fix, down to San Marino to show him the amazing cliff-top castle.
The excitement of Craig’s visit, and showing my new world to one of my family, helped put my worries out of my mind, not that I had any as far as the racing was concerned. I just wanted to ride every race I could. Next on the calendar, the Giro del Trentino, had a reputation for being one of the toughest events of the season, with three days up and down the Italian Dolomites.
On paper, my result of fourth overall and top in the U23 category was another super achievement. The reality was that on the last two stages I was suffering like a dog, climbing as wheels or riders, who weeks earlier I was riding away from, were now too fast to hold. What was wrong? I overlooked the obvious, that I had been racing non-stop since March, over four months of racing in four countries. I was worn out – over-raced and under-rested.
Back in Forli, Fany and I spoke about my situation. Giorgio would have been helpful, but he was not on the team any more. I felt there was absolutely no way I could speak to Dazzani about my bad form and ask him for suggestions as to how to get better. And to add to the problems with my form, Fany and I had not received our wages for June. Other riders in the team had, and now Luigi was not answering my calls. Just when I needed to rest and recover, the realities of my situation made it hard to get any perspective on what lay around me.
The British Championships were only a few weeks away, and then there was the Commonwealth Games in Manchester at the end of July. I rang my parents, who suggested I came home and prepared for these big races in my home environment. I have never been happier to be home. After a few days’ rest, I felt ready for one of my hard training rides to get a guide on where my form was. I did my standard 75-mile route which takes in the Bwlch and Rhigos and finishes by coming back over the Windmills, a session for which I had all the times and data, having repeated it many times over several years. I did my best time, and when I told Dad that evening, we came to the conclusion that the Giro del Trentino had probably just been a few ‘off days’, affected by all the other things going on around the team.
Overjoyed, I did more training. It was ten days or so later – when my heart rate wasn’t responding as it should have during training rides, and, in particular, I was riding very weakly after the first hour – that we realised the problem was much bigger, and in training hard I was actually just compounding the error. By then, it was too late to do anything else but rest up for two or three days before the National Championships, which were being held at Resolven, a short 45-minute drive west of Wick.
My recce of the course – a 40km loop and then five laps of a 15km circuit – a couple of days before did little to boost my flagging spirits. There was only one hill on an otherwise flat course and that hill was in the first loop. As the favourite, I worried that everyone would want to attack me in turn, then sit in my slipstream as I chased down each breakaway. To avoid this, I needed a small group to crest the hill of that first loop and stay away, as a small group of riders, fancying their own chances of a medal, would all work together and the bunch would not be able to catch us.
All I could think about was my poor performance in the Giro del Trentino. I pulled myself together on race day and with a chain of Nana, Mike, Craig, Mum and Dad tactically distributed along the key hill, in case my resolve wavered in the task we all knew I had to execute, I rode at the front and kept the pace high. The race had to split right here. The elastic stretched and stretched. Riders dropped off the back. Over the top, I dragged a little group away from the bunch. On the descent I kept going, needing to make sure we would be out of sight of the bunch once on the circuit. Time checks from Dad on the circuit told me we were safe. By the time we reached the last lap of the finishing circuit, the break was reduced to Rachel Heal, Melanie Sears and me. I attacked them with a kilometre to go. I had won my third title in four years, looked supreme but inside I knew my form was far from good. I felt more relief than joy.
My next event would be the Commonwealth Games. The publicity I received after re-taking the National Road Race Championships at Resolven was excellent. Not having received the cup at the time of my win in 2001, I had taken it along this time. The photographs of me – the ‘Welsh Wunderkind’ in the sun of South Wales, having ridden everyone off my wheel to win alone, smiling with the big silver cup in hand, the only rider wearing an exotic continental trade team jersey to go alongside the club jerseys worn by the rest of the field – were widely promoted. And to the many who knew little of the sport of cycling and even less about the intricacies of road racing, all I had to do apparently was turn up and Commonwealth gold was mine.
Just when a publicity bandwagon was starting to roll and I was getting attention from the broader press, instead of being overlooked by the cycling journalists who focused almost exclusively on male cycling, my times in training indicated that all was not well and a sense of frustration was rising within me. Only my family and I were aware of this, and we knew the next few days were likely to be very challenging, with little prospect of success. Could more bluff and confidence, and a few days’ rest, restore the magic? We all kept on smiling and whistling.
I was down to ride the time-trial on the first Saturday of the Commonwealth Games, the track points race on the Tuesday and the road race on the following Saturday. I had the answer straightaway. In the time-trial, where I had been seeded as a favourite, I was caught after only 10km by Australian World No.1 Anna Millward, who had started two minutes behind me. This was shocking. I was not competitive and I was going to be riding a road race where she and any of the other capable Australian riders would form a formidable team. I needed to have a margin of physical advantage if I was to stand any chance, not be weaker!
It wasn’t as if I didn’t try, or there were any of the bungling, bumbling Laurel and Hardy routines of previous years to degrade my performance. Here I was with Welsh coach Phil Jones and others who were competent and wanted me to win every bit as much as I did, but I could muster only tenth place. BBC Wales’ Bob Humphrys, always so supportive, interviewed me afterwards to find out what went on. He was very gentle on me regarding questions about the time-trial, explaining to the viewers, in terms far more generously than I would have allowed myself, that it was not my specialist discipline. The timing and position of the TV interview could not have been more apt. The medal presentation for the time-trial was going on simultaneously, and while not in camera shot, the crowd and sound were. At a pause in the interview, the Canadian national anthem struck up, and we both listened. Bob asked very encouragingly about the road race. I answered. He then made a comment about the anthem and without pressurising me, gave me an opportunity to answer in respect of whether that same anthem would be playing again in seven days’ time. I knew what he was doing for me. ‘We’ll sort that one out for next Saturday, Bob.’ The defiance and determination were there, but the events of the day would not give confidence to any who were knowledgeable about the sport.
Days later I was on the track at the Manchester velodrome, in the points race. I read the race well, getting in an early breakaway and lapping the field, which gave us each 10 bonus points and should have ensured that our breakaway would fight it out for the podium. All I needed to do was regularly pick up points from the remaining sprints through the race, but when I contested the sprints I simply couldn’t muster the energy to score any more points, and finished back in sixth. I knew that it was far below my best and I was being outsprinted by riders who I would normally beat comfortably.
It wasn’t looking good for the road race in four days’ time, a race I desperately wanted to win for Wales. How many hundreds of times had I run over the race in my mind since my visit the previous year? In none of these did I expect to get to the start line being so far off-form. This was a nightmare scenario. At a national level, the knives were sharp and already the first cuts were being made on the Welsh Wunderkind. The Welsh public, via the good work of Bob Humphrys, had followed my career since I was a young girl and had supported me in my unsuccessful fight to gain a place at the Sydney Olympics. I very much wanted to repay them and this was meant to be the moment.
The race was eight laps of an 11.7km circuit, for 93km total. There was one challenging hill that finished 4km before the end of the circuit. The hill was a series of three steps, each of which were quite sharp, with a little flat for recovery between them. Given my form, those flat sections were starting to look like important features. The field would be only 36 riders strong. However, alongside World No.1 Anna Millward would be five powerful Aussies including Sara Carrigan, who would become the Olympic Road Race champion in Athens. The six-strong New Zealand team included Sarah Ulmer, who became Athens Olympic champion in the pursuit. Several of the other riders were regulars at World Cups and had an excellent string of results to their credit. The Canadians had a team of four, with Genevieve Jeanson pulling out, claiming injury. What was left was very powerful nonetheless, with defending champion Lyne Bessette, and in Clara Hughes, fresh from winning the time-trial gold a week earlier, they had the only person on the planet who had won medals in both winter and summer Olympics, while Sue Palmer-Komar was on the European circuit and riding well. England and Scotland fielded six and five riders respectively.
Objectively, it looked like a three-cornered fight between Canada, Australia and New Zealand. My two team-mates, Penny Edwards and Nina Davies, would perhaps be able to help me in the early stages. My form indicated that going on the offensive would erode my precious reserves. It was pointless to attack, I just had to make sure I was still in touching distance at the top of the final climb, so that I could get myself in contention for the sprint.
I went into ultimate recovery mode, doing two very light sessions riding on the rollers for the next three days. The only exception was practising the sprint with Craig. First of all Craig, Dad and I rode very slowly back from the finish and then towards the finish, so that I knew exactly how it was laid out. We did this a few times. We discussed in detail the small undulations on the run-in and even the run-off at a bend, and the fact that the finish line would be out of sight due to a slight curve as I approached it. Then I did four practice finishes coming from behind Craig. Now I would have to hope.
Relations with Shane Sutton, meanwhile, had been up and down. With just one day to the finish of the Games, the cycling events had been a shambles for the Lottery-funded British riders competing for their various nations. The only gold achieved was that by Chris Hoy for Scotland. It is hard to get a perspective on things now. A couple of years prior to this, Brian Cookson had suggested that with the new WCPP coming on stream and all the resources going into it, there was no reason why the home nations should not win every cycling gold at Manchester. He was right; there was no reason why not. With hindsight, we can see that a lot of good work was being done, but at that stage the management structure was not yet strong enough.
Just before dinner on the eve of the race, Shane decided to call an impromptu meeting of the three of us road girls. At this late point in the preparation cycle, he decided it was very important that he shared with us his professional and detailed critique of our preparation. He gave the impression we were beyond any help he could offer. He did not want us to ride as a team; we were to ride as individuals and we should take a long look at Julian Winn, as he was the only one in the Welsh Cycling team who was professional about his approach.
Shocking as the comments were, the unprofessional nature of the delivery and the timing made it worse. Nina had been doing her best since 2000, with scant little encouragement. My form had dropped off a cliff, but that was nobody’s fault apart from mine and nobody knew that more than me. I didn’t need to be berated; I wanted someone to encourage me. Shane left the three of us totally deflated, and if his words were meant to spur us on, they had the opposite effect. We trudged off to an evening meal which we ate in silence. Our mood could not have been lower. This race was going to be hard enough without Shane taking away the modest assistance I could have. In hindsight, I should have proposed to the other two that we would race together as a team, regardless of any instructions the national coach was giving us. After all, they both knew they were there to support me; it would not have been a new concept. That I didn’t grasp the situation, regardless of the circumstances, was a mistake on my part. It felt as though cycling was a man’s world and only their views counted. We all knew that Shane wasn’t right, but I didn’t rise above it.
After dinner, I went out of the athletes’ village for a prearranged meeting with Dad, who was staying in a campsite nearby, and told him what had gone on. Dad reminded me that Shane wasn’t riding in the race. My main rivals, how they raced against each other and my reaction to them were critical, not Shane’s unhelpful rants. I said goodbye to Dad and returned to join ‘Team Wales’, determined to do my very best.
Next morning, Dad managed to evade the security around the race start to join me at the Welsh team pit and wish me well for the race. He told me that Uncle Chris, Mike, Brian Rourke, Nana, Granddad, Auntie Karen and my cousins, along with Mum, were distributed all around the course at key points. By the start of the race, I could not have been more motivated and had almost convinced myself I could win. Why not? I’d had a great season, I was a great rider and I was as close to riding in front of a home crowd as I would ever get. I could not slug it out with the three powerful teams, but I had just one focus and that was to get to the top of the last hill on the last lap, with the leaders. Time to race.
With such a small field there was no luxury of hiding in a big bunch and being sucked along; I had to stay near the front and be vigilant at all times The pace of the first three laps was steady, and I felt a little relieved that my race was now effectively down to five laps and I hadn’t spent much energy.
Towards the start of the fourth lap, Sue Carter of England raised the pace. New Zealand made a probing attack, but Australia and Canada were not yet ready to attack. At the end of the fourth lap, Clara Hughes from Canada forced the pace. Then a move formed with a rider from each of Australia, Canada and England. The girls from New Zealand worked hard to bring the break back. There was a counter attack that took a group of six away. The Canadian team did not like the construction and worked hard to get the splintered peloton back up to them. Another attack with Sue Palmer-Komar, Australia’s Margaret Hemsley and England’s Frances Newstead formed, and as we approached the hill, it looked like a dangerous springboard to a possible race-winning split. On this feature of the circuit, I knew I hadn’t been climbing well, so just prior to the hill, I jumped off the front of the group together with an Australian rider. Up the three stages of the hill, various riders made attempts to catch the leaders and break away from those behind. I had made exactly the right move going into the hill, although others had passed me on the climb. I crested the top, still in touch with the leaders.
We merged into a group of ten which then became 12 as we went through the finish with two laps to go. I looked around. At this stage of the contest, Australia had the better of the engagement. Out of the 12 they had four riders, compared with two each from Canada, New Zealand and England. Just Caroline Alexander was left from the five-strong Scottish team, and I was there from Wales. Behind, nobody else was going to regain contact. Now would be the most dangerous phase. Australia would undoubtedly play out their advantage in numbers and it would be impossible for a lone rider like me to cover everyone. I had to look at the other riders and think who was most likely to go in the race-winning break.
I opted not to go in any move with Anna Millward, but go with any move with the other three Aussies and Lyne Bessette. The attacks from the Aussies came thick and fast. Several times I had no option but to chase when a group of three were away. I always tried not to close up too quickly, knowing that as soon as we made the junction, the next attack would come. Caroline Alexander was in the same position and was doing the same thing. A group formed – Margaret, Rachel Heal, Roz Reekie-May and Sue – Australia, England, New Zealand and Canada all represented, but were they the right riders? Caroline and I played poker, not chasing. Four riders, three medals, surely one of the teams knows they have the wrong person up there? The gap went out to 20 seconds. It seemed that four nations were content.
I rode next to Caroline and quietly asked if she wanted to attack together to bridge up. We had to chase or the race was finished. She clearly understood the position we were in and said we should go in the dip ahead where we could at least build up some speed before attacking as the hill began. There was an excruciating wait as we approached our designated point. I made sure I was on her wheel. She jumped at the start of the descent into the dip.
Caroline blasted up the climb. I could not hold her wheel and was passed by others as she powered on after the break. I used up a lot of energy chasing Caroline, who was chasing the break, but gradually I clawed my way back up to her group. We were a group of six riders who were 13 seconds behind the leading four. Now I had no cushion of being ahead of stronger riders; we were chasing the race. I had to measure my effort. Over the top, Margaret Hemsley broke away from the other three and was riding away alone. Our group split up, with me in the middle, but I knew I would have the flat on the top and the descent to get back on, so I remained calm. I needed to conserve my energy for the finish. Now on the descent, three from my group had caught the three dropped by Margaret. I was just about to regain this six when I saw Margaret Hemsley getting up at the side of the road. The descent was very treacherous with patches of water on it. She must have caught one while braking and gone down. But I was back in the group at last. We were now seven riders and it was the Canadians who had the advantage. There was a single representative from the five other nations but two Canadians. In one lap, the Australians had lost three riders and a massive advantage.
As I came through the finish for the final lap, I had a last bite of an energy bar. There was a glimmer of hope. Anna Millward, the sprinter I feared most, was dropped, and the two Canadians had the numerical advantage which would be tricky for me if they tried to break away, but good if others attacked, as the burden would always fall on them to close the gaps. My climbing was not amazing, but with only one more time up the hill I could give it everything, I would not need to save energy for a counter. However, even if Anna wasn’t with us, she neutralised the Canadian advantage. She continued to chase as hard as she could. On the flat, she was making good progress. The gap back to her varied between 10 and 20 seconds. The Canadians could see this and both of them, fearing her in the sprint, played out their numerical advantage by countering the chase of Anna. The Canadian duo did not attack us, but took it in turns to drive at the front. I took advantage to have my last drink from my bottle and then disposed of it. I needed to be as light as possible for the hill. I also needed to be in the best position I could be. Lyne was leading as we approached the hill and I made sure I was bonded to her wheel in second place. If I could get to the top of the hill in a position to be able to chase and regain contact, a medal was a real possibility.
Lyne and Caroline set a ferocious pace up the climb. I dug deep, and used every fibre in my body to stay in contact, my riding style losing all coordination. I had Brian Rourke and Uncle Chris at different stages of the last climb both shouting at me to keep in contact; they knew this was a critical moment of the race. At the top of the final climb, there were three of us alone. I’d done it, I’d hung on, and now it would come down to the sprint.
We paused. The group enlarged back to seven and took the descent flat out. We approached the sharp left-hander, where Margaret had crashed the lap before. As I leant the bike over and took my line round the corner, I felt my wheels slide as I was braking. There was water on the road. I had to react quickly if I wasn’t also to crash. I immediately released the brakes and straightened up, then reapplied the brakes hard but kept going in a straight line, running off the road and managing to stop. I had to unclip my foot and turn my bike round and start chasing to catch the others.
I pursued the group exactly like any track pursuit specialist but had to make sure that I didn’t panic and burn up my precious energy reserves that I had husbanded so carefully during nearly three hours of racing. I needed to catch them but I needed to still have energy left to sprint in a finish that would probably be as tactical as any track match sprint. Then, as I came round a corner I saw them, going under the 1km banner, spread all over the road. My heart rose; nobody had started a leadout, they were too busy watching each other. I was going to catch them! With only 800m to go, I was back in the front group. The gold was still on. I tried to take some deep breaths but I just had to concentrate on the tactical positioning and movement. I went to the far left, watching everyone to my right – I needed to look only one way. With 400m to go, Caroline jumped hard. I was on to her like lightning, into her slipstream and closing her down fast. I carried my speed and blasted straight past her, totally focused on the line.
It was still a way to go and now my legs were in agony, but I had to keep going. I had made my move and there was now no other option. I had a gap, they weren’t closing on me. I kept going. My legs screamed ‘pain’, my brain screamed ‘I’m going to win this!’ I threw my arms in the air as I crossed the line, I’d done it! It was a magical moment and one I will always treasure.
At the ceremony afterwards, it was fantastic. Rachel had timed her sprint well to come third and Sue was second. Australia, who had packed four into a winning break of 12, were not on the podium. During the interview Bob Humphrys reminded all the viewers what I had said the week before about making sure, today, the flags were in the right order and the crowd sang the right anthem. I think he knew just as well as I did what a punt that had been and I don’t know who was happier, Bob or me! Despite my poor showings earlier, the Welsh fans were there in huge numbers. With Welsh flags flying all around, we all belted out ‘Hen Wlad Fy Nhadau’, which caused John Inverdale, anchoring the show for the BBC, to state that Riverton in Lancashire sounded as passionate as rugby’s Cardiff Arms Park.
In the Welsh camp, it was all delight. Phil and Louise Jones came and greeted me, along with other riders and athletes. Penny and Nina were obviously pleased as well. Sadly, Shane did not find time or space to see me or say a single word to me. If he had been brave enough to apologise, we might have been able to move on. I was very pressed for time, with a plane to catch to join my team-mates in France. I was certainly not going to prioritise a possibly fruitless search for Shane over seeing my family. He knew exactly where to find me. I said goodbye and jumped into an official car to race back to the village, pack my bike and head to the airport to catch a plane bound for Brussels to meet my Deia-Pragma-Colnago team-mates for our biggest race of the year.
I was about to ride the race that I had dreamed of since watching Robert Millar attacking in the Alps. I was about to understand what it was like to be a servant of the team – a domestique – in the Tour de France. It was time to repay my debt to Joane Somarriba, who had done so much to help me in my first races as a professional.