At least Maurizio was more than living up to his commitments. All contact was positive and everything he said he would do, he did. I revelled in the comforting isolation of hard training, where I was my own, rather demanding master. I accompanied Craig on his morning school run each day, my old school bag filled with textbooks and strapped to the bike, which provided an ideal, high-intensity workout. Then in the afternoons I would do my long ride over the Bwlch and other hills to develop endurance, lost in my own thoughts and expectations about what might be ahead. This steady routine, undertaken irrespective of the weather, created a strong base for the season ahead. I wanted to repeat my early-season success of the previous year but – and this was the hard part – ensure that I didn’t fade later in the campaign. I looked back on that first year and realised I had learnt a lot, despite the difficulties associated with adapting to a different language and culture.
In early February 2003, I arrived in Cornuda and settled into an environment that was welcoming and homely, although the surreal events occurring almost daily in Maurizio’s team were never far away. The house I stayed in was owned by an old Italian widow who lived by herself on the ground floor and rented out the top floor to Maurizio each season. This was the famous ‘Nonna’ who Maurizio had promised I would live with. She was in her eighties and a real character, with six children and numerous grandchildren who would pop around to see her, so the house was usually a buzz of activity. She kept chickens, had a vegetable garden, made her own bread in a big oven and even produced homemade wine in a garage fitted out with an enormous wine press, with grapes grown in a small vineyard tended by one of her sons. She and I became particularly close. I admired her resourcefulness and resilience, as well as her joyful spirit. I sometimes took her to the village church when she wanted to attend a service, or to the cemetery to lay flowers on the grave of her husband; flowers which she’d grown specially for this purpose.
The other girls arrived within a few days, including Australian Rochelle Gilmore who had the role of a sprinter within the team and was to be my room-mate. We prepared diligently for the next four weeks, riding out to meet up with our team-mates living nearby and making quite a sight on the roads as our yellow and silver train headed out into the quiet countryside. I also regularly trained with a local men’s U23 team to get some good sparring partners for the hills and to do my longer endurance rides. My form felt excellent.
For the season opener, the GP Castenaso, I happily acted as domestique, supporting the sprinters. Intra-team rivalries, if not managed properly, can cause havoc. The result was disappointing; the sprinters couldn’t agree who would be the team’s finishing rider to be led out by the other two in the last stages of the sprint train – they placed third, fourth and fifth. The following week, for the GP Rosignano, where I was team leader and protected rider, I felt great again but we made another tactical mess of the finish, and I finished in second place behind World champion Susanne Ljungskog, with Rochelle third.
The first round of the World Cup had been held in Australia. The second round was the Primavera Rosa, and Maurizio was in overdrive with his passion and desire for a victory in one of the biggest showcases for women’s cycling, and his team, in Italy. For him, the Primavera Rosa and the women’s Giro d’Italia were the highlights of the year.
Russian Zulfiya Zabirova was Olympic and World Time-Trial champion who, due to her lack of a good sprint, would always try to get away on her own and use her time-trialling abilities to solo to the finish. She had won several stages of the Tour de France in this manner. We discussed the possibility of a Zulfiya breakaway in our pre-race talk; Maurizio waved his hands around saying, ‘Non mollare.’
My Italian was getting much better but I was still learning about the subtleties of the language and phrasing. My interpretation of the instruction was not to worry, to relax. I was always being told that I needed to calm down, that I was too anxious and should learn to save my strength during a race. If Zulfiya broke away, then I shouldn’t worry because someone else would chase her down.
The race started and despite earlier attacks from different riders, a big group was still together as we tackled the Cipressa with 25km to go. Zulfiya attacked, by the top of the hill she had a gap of 35 seconds and after the descent it was 50 – she was gone. My natural instinct would have been to go with Zulfiya, I had been in a position to chase and I felt great athletically. I was easily capable of matching her move, but I had obeyed what I thought were the team instructions. There were no tactical opportunities for a break in the last few kilometres and so I led out my room-mate Rochelle in the sprint. She finished on the podium in third. In the post-race analysis, Maurizio and I spoke. He explained that ‘non mollare’ was a warning not to give in or yield if Zulfiya made a break – in other words, to get after her!
We drove down to Spain to tackle the Castilla y Leon, the third round of the World Cup. It was on a tough course and should have suited me down to the ground. I decided to change tactics and follow my natural instinct to attack on the hills, hoping to break away or at least reduce the lead group to a selection of the strongest riders, and fight it out for victory from a more manageable-sized group, as my team did not have the strength to dictate race tactics on a hilly course.
I attacked several times, only to be brought back to the peloton. On one occasion, with about 8km to go, Mirjam Melchers made a counter. It didn’t look threatening at first, but as no one chased her down, her lead gradually increased and she went on to win. I finished 14th in the bunch sprint behind. This left me with a total of just seven points in the World Cup standings after three rounds (a win was worth 75 points).
I could feel a volcano brewing inside me, frustrated that my excellent form was not translating into results, and also because I felt there was a lack of tactical direction from Maurizio and his staff. While I never wanted to go back to Deia-Pragma-Colnago, it was evident that the tactical skill and team direction of Giorgio and the sanguine encouragement of Joane had provided a vital element that was not present here.
My other tactical resource was Dad, but it was difficult to discuss pre-race tactics on a course he hadn’t seen and with riders he didn’t know. It was obvious that I would have to be far more self-reliant. I committed to building up my databank of knowledge about the characteristics of each rider and how they might respond during a race. I was determined to learn and succeed.
In late April, a week after my 20th birthday, we were in Holland to compete in the fourth round of the World Cup, the Amstel Gold Race. I recce’d the course and rode the finishing hill, the Cauberg, a couple of times to get a proper feel for it. The Cauberg is 1.2km long with an average gradient of 6% and starts in the small town of Valkenburg, near Maastricht. I began to formulate my tactics. The race is known for the succession of climbs over the Limburg hills. If the race was run off at a fast pace, this would lead to a selection from the back, as riders not able to maintain the pace would be dropped. If there was a break, I would definitely go with it, but I wouldn’t attack until the final climb.
The Amstel, like the Primavera Rosa and the Flèche Wallonne that follows, was one of the spring classics, held on the same day as the men’s race. Both the women’s Amstel and Primavera races are now long gone, as the women’s sport has declined, even though the men’s races remain. As we watched the men line up, my mind was in race mode even though my legs had not yet turned the pedals. Today there would be a different outcome.
I kept near the front as we tackled each of the successive bergs (climbs). As the race wore on, the fast pace reduced the field. Cresting the penultimate hill with 13km to go, Australian Oenone Wood made an attack and I was quickly on to it, with Dori Ruano, my Spanish former team-mate at Deia, coming with me. After we bridged to Oenone, the three of us worked well together doing hard turns. We knew it would be touch and go whether we could hold off the chasing peloton. Coming into Valkenburg, I knew I had to time my move perfectly. If I went too soon, I would die up the long climb, but if I left it too late, the bunch would sweep us up. We had already started the climb and I couldn’t afford to wait any longer, so with 800m to go I put in a strong acceleration and dropped Oenone and Dori. I risked a glance back and saw that both had been caught by the bunch. This was going to be very close. Could I stay away to the line or would the bunch sweep past me in the final metres? I had to force my brain to overcome the signals that it was receiving from my body to ‘stop the pain’, and just suffer. The line was approaching. I was starting to hear the tell-tale sounds of the tyres on the road and the breathing of other riders approaching, but I kept going. Would I make it? Yes! Standing on top of the podium in front of the vast and knowledgeable crowd, I felt my frustrations of the first few weeks begin to abate.
I now had 82 points in the season-long competition and was in fifth place. Australian Sara Carrigan, who had won the first round in Geelong, had finished seventh today and was leading the series with 139 points.
The next round was the Flèche Wallonne, only three days later, just across the border in Belgium. I would now be considered the favourite and all my moves would be marked by the other teams, while their tactic would be to attack and get away from me before the Mur de Huy.
Zulfiya Zabirova attacked several times trying to escape from the bunch, just as she had in the Primavera Rosa, but on this occasion was unable to get away. Others joined in the hostilities, with many attacks coming in the closing 25km as rider after rider attempted to break away before the Mur. On the penultimate climb, the Côte de Ahin, I thought the best form of defence would be to attack and accelerated hard myself, not really with the intention to get away but to whittle the field down and to test the reactions of the other riders. We were down to 20 as we approached the Mur. Passing under the 1km banner, I attacked, opening up a gap. At 500m, I was caught by Sue Palmer-Komar, who I had beaten into second place in Manchester the previous year. Five hundred metres is a very long way on the Mur; perhaps all wasn’t lost.
I concentrated on my pedalling action, trying to put as much effort into pulling one leg up as the other was pushing down. Sue matched me stroke for stroke. My legs felt like they were going to explode at any moment, my teeth began to tingle as I kept driving, and gradually Sue faded. As I crossed the line, I barely raised one arm off the bars to acknowledge the crowd. Then I collapsed, having to be attended to at the side of the road with oxygen before I could stand. All sportsmen will know what I mean by the sweet agony of victory.
I wanted to know where Sara Carrigan finished. At first, no one could tell me. Then I found out she had gained just a single point that day, so now I was leading the World Cup standings with 157 points, to Sara’s 140, and had achieved a rare Amstel Gold–Flèche Wallonne double. Climbing up onto the top of the podium, the second time in three days, in front of a massive crowd, was everything I had dreamed of as a ten-year-old, charging up and down the hills on my little pink bike.
Maurizio wasn’t at the race. He’d been at Amstel but had then taken the other half of the team, headed by Diana Ziliute, to a different race in Italy, the Trofeo Alfredo Binda where, with a flat finish, she stood a better chance of winning. When we stopped for a meal at a service station during the 11-hour, 1000-kilometre trip home in the campervan, an excited Maurizio called to tell us that Diana had won the race. He told us that he had bought a massive bottle of champagne and everyone was having a party to celebrate with Diana. We could hear it all in the background! There were a few awkward glances as we looked at our modest fare in the service station; then Primo, somewhat embarrassed, scurried away and rummaged through the campervan until he found a bottle of Prosecco which we shared. Maurizio knew how to celebrate success and we needed to learn from him.
Life at Cornuda was good. There isn’t much spare time when you’re a professional cyclist – training, eating, sleeping and racing are pretty much the routine, with socialising limited to the occasional meal at a local trattoria or baking high-protein muffins with team-mates. One day in May, Maurizio’s brother Luciano, who was involved with some men’s teams in the area, called by with a rider, Peter Baker, and wanted to introduce us because Peter was an English speaker surrounded by Italians who lived nearby in Castelcucco.
Peter was trying to make his way in the U23 ranks of cycling, dreaming of a start in the Tour de France. We became good friends, perhaps because of our common experience, being far from home and immersed in the quaintly chaotic, crazy but always engrossing world of Italian professional cycling. Peter had won the US National Collegiate Road Race Championship while he was studying architecture at the University of Virginia, and had decided to pursue cycling to see if he could make it as a pro. Like me, he loved cycling and the exhilaration of competition. Needless to say, it tended to dominate the conversation if we were out for a ride, having dinner or grabbing the occasional pizza.
Meanwhile, my good showing in the World Cup had called for a change of team plan. We now needed to get across to Montreal at the end of May for the next round. I rested up and by the time we left for Montreal I was feeling refreshed and ready to perform on the hilly course, which was pretty much the same as when Eddy Merckx won the 1974 world title there.
Canada’s Genevieve Jeanson, the hometown favourite, had won the event for the past two years (and would win another three times before her drug-fuelled career ended in disgrace in 2006). She was the clear favourite over a course that required 12 ascents of the 2km Mont Royal. Her team attacked constantly and by the time we climbed the hill for the last time, there were only six of us left at the front – Genevieve, Sara Carrigan, Lyne Bessette, Susanne Ljungskog, Judith Arndt of Germany and myself. Genevieve attacked to win alone. I had the privilege of being the last one to get dropped and took second. Sara finished in sixth place, so now I had increased my lead in the World Cup to 44 points with three rounds to go, one each in France, Germany and the Netherlands.
Maurizio was delighted. He told me that now I should focus on the World Cup series and World Championships and that lifted the pressure to win any other races. The events in between were important but not essential, which meant I could enjoy the fun of racing without any pressure. I could also change role from leader to that of supporting my team-mates, knowing I would need their help in the remaining rounds.
Two days later, we started the stage race that accompanied the World Cup event. A lot of European-based riders had travelled to Canada for the World Cup; while most stayed for the subsequent stage race, a good number returned straightaway. The organisers were then faced with a difficult dilemma. They had some of the very best riders in the world present and were putting on a super Tour – they could not have been doing more to showcase their world star Genevieve Jeanson – but the field of high-quality riders was now reduced by absences. Should they run the stage race with a small field, or open it up to local riders of somewhat variable experience and ability levels to keep the field size large? The same situation did not occur on the men’s circuit – with larger global participation rates, an equivalent men’s Tour would have not seen such a spectrum of standards in one race. We started the race with a staggering range of ability levels within the field.
Genevieve pleased the home crowd by winning the first stage, a time-trial. Three years later, they would no doubt feel differently when she confessed to having taken EPO, in connivance with her coach and parents, since the age of 16. I finished out of contention but wasn’t concerned, I was thinking about the World Cup and the rest of the season and Diana was to be our team leader for the Tour. That evening, there was the second stage, a 50km criterium around the town centre. On the last lap, I was looking for Diana but she was not in the front half of the field, so I moved up to try for myself, alone. My positioning for the final sprint was not ideal, so I was happy with my second place.
The next day, Stage 3, was a 111km road race which had some decent hills. Although I was under no pressure to win, I certainly wasn’t going to be a spectator or ride ‘gruppetto’. So when the pace was whipping up and we were getting strung out by attacks, I was fully committed. We came round a fast corner and were all in a line on one side of the road. Without any warning, the rider two places ahead of me swerved to avoid a stationary motorbike in our path. The next rider caught it a glancing blow and I went into it. My arm had hit the motorbike and my frame was broken into pieces, while behind and around me, bikes and riders were flying through the air. An experienced rider would have indicated the hazard to all behind and moved over well in time. A novice, caught up in the excitement of being in such a race, would not be sure what to do. It was a totally unnecessary crash and one that changed my sporting career.
In the melee of bodies and bikes, I didn’t even try to move, the pain in my arm was so acute. I could see faces hovering above me; one of my team-mates asked if I was okay and I just groaned something back to her, saying she should go on and I’d be okay. Then the team car and ambulance arrived and people were tending to me.
‘I think I’ve broken my arm,’ I said to my team’s directeur sportif.
‘Your arm? What about your leg?’
I couldn’t feel any problem in my legs, so I ignored the comment as I was put in a neck brace, strapped to a stretcher and loaded into an ambulance and quickly taken to hospital, where the very first thing they did was to take all my details to make sure they could send me the bill. Then they attended to my injuries. I still hadn’t sat up when a doctor came to see me in the ward. My arm was swollen up in the middle, like a football had been inflated under the skin, and it felt like it was broken. The doctor helped me gradually straighten the elbow and sent me off for x-rays. The good news was that I had not broken a bone. I’d had a lucky escape.
‘Now, what about the knee,’ he said.
‘No, my knee is fine.’
‘Have you seen your knee?’
‘No.’
The doctor lifted me so I could see. There was a bloody pulp below my cycling shorts. My left leg must have caught the end of the tubing of the shattered bike frame, because it had ripped a massive gash. I got a glimpse of something white inside the mess and immediately lay back down, reeling from the sight. After that I was sewn up with internal and external stitches on my left knee.
Racing for me was finished for some time. It meant I could not ride the two-week Giro d’Italia, which was a great disappointment, as after my poor showing the previous year I really wanted to prove myself and my form in one of the grand tours. Fortunately, due to the Giro and Tour, there was almost three months until the next round of the World Cup, so I did have the time to recover properly. I flew back to Wales to enjoy an unscheduled but relaxing time with my family while I waited for the wound to heal and then gradually returned to training.
My first race after the accident was the two-day Giro del Trentino. On the first climb of the first stage I should have been at the front on the hill, but I was still recovering from the accident and couldn’t hold my place. I was in a group of riders chasing down the descent, and as often happens when one fast group catches a slower group ahead, there was a crash. Riders came down in front of me, then I came down. This time I was thrown over the handlebars, landing face-first on the road with my knees taking the impact. There was an immediate searing pain in my legs and I couldn’t move, but I could hear the groans of other riders who had been injured. The team car arrived and helped me get up. I looked at my legs: serious grazes, but nothing worse. I was fuming, so I demanded my bike and set off chasing the peloton once more. I caught the rear of the bunch but was dropped on the next climb and finished well down the field. I went to the start line the next morning aiming to get into an early breakaway, since I was out of contention for the overall win. I formed a break with about five riders, but midway through the stage I started to feel pain in my left knee. It had been the same niggle as the previous day, but each minute it now became worse. I then did something I had never done before: I sat up and let the break go. I tried to soft pedal to the finish where I crossed the line alone, behind the bunch and in agony.
I had trained so hard that year and I had got everything right. Weeks before, things had been going so well. Now I’d been involved in two accidents in consecutive races, and the season had gone into reverse. I tried to forget about it the next day when I went for a very gentle ride around Cornuda with Peter. We were happily chatting, but my knee started to hurt and as much as I was enjoying the ride, I had to insist on cutting it short and going home.
I prepared for the British Championships the next weekend, held in Wales for the second successive year. The course at Newport was mainly flat with only one medium hill early on and then three short rolling circuits to finish. Being the clear favourite, it would be hard for me to control the closing stages of the race against a large group. So the best option was for me to force a small breakaway on the main climb and then ride fast enough to stay away and fight out the positions from our small group, where everyone would have worked quite hard, or at least make the bunch work hard to catch us, hopefully whittling the numbers down to a manageable size. Of course an arduous race, with me making it even harder, was not the way to preserve my knee. Mum and Dad were now very concerned for me. Maurizio rang me before the race and assured me that I could beat all the other British riders with one leg anyway, so what was there to worry about! I was not so dismissive.
I attacked on the hill after just 10km, and kept on going, attacking again and again until eventually I was left with just two riders, Rachel Heal and Vicki Pincombe, a former triathlete. Three is the ideal number for a breakaway in a championship race, as it meant a medal for each of us. Rachel and Vicki recognised this and we worked very effectively together for the rest of the race until the finishing circuit. As we started this, Rachel and I dropped Vicki, and now the two of us would have to go head to head on the last little hill to the finish line. The pain had been gradually building as the race went on but I just ignored it, and close to the line I sprinted away, winning by a few seconds from Rachel.
You will recall that there had been no junior or U23 women’s titles in 1999, which is how I had been able to ride the senior women’s event. In an attempt to broaden the prize purse and reduce the gap with the men, organiser Bill Owen arranged for an U23 subcategory to be created within the race. Club cycling has its traditions and one of those is one rider one prize (no one should be greedy), so here was a chance to encourage some British riders of my own age. Catherine Hare was most reluctant but she was the highest U23 finisher behind myself, so the prize was hers. I stood guard at the side of the podium (with my dodgy knee hurting) to make sure Catherine and the other two medallists got on the U23 podium in the right places. That day, I struck up a great friendship with Catherine and we have roomed many times together since and our parents always spend time together when they bump into each other at a race.
I was thrilled with the victory in front of a home Welsh crowd, and my bluff obviously worked wonders as it was reported: ‘Cooke showed no signs of the knee injury that she sustained when she crashed in the four-day Tour of Montreal in Canada.’ But all I could think about was what was going on with my knee and how long would it take to recover. This was not like any injury I’d ever had before, so I consulted with the BC doctor and went for an MRI scan two days later, where I was diagnosed with severe bone bruising in the knee cap and femur which would need at least two weeks of complete rest.
In August, after being given the all-clear from the doctors, I returned to Cornuda and had about two weeks to get ready for the next round of the World Cup at Plouay. As he watched my progress, Maurizio decided I needed more hill work to tackle the course. So I rode about half an hour from Cornuda to a 2km hill at Asolo and spent the next three hours going up, down, doing some recovery on the flat and then back up the hill again. I was absolutely exhausted afterwards, but most importantly my knee was not hurting – well not too much anyway. Maurizio’s philosophies were endearing and he was always supportive of the riders; and, unlike some managers, he always paid the riders what he said he was going to pay them in the contract.
Peter and I would meet up often, and one night during dinner he spoke about when he arrived in Italy at the start of the season. For many cyclists, arriving on the continent is not the start of the journey; there have been many years of dedicated training before this point. Rules for Italian amateur men’s teams stated that there could be only one foreign rider per team, and Peter and another rider were training with the team, both hoping that they would be picked for that spot.
At a meeting with the team management to discuss his racing calendar, they asked Peter about his ambitions in the sport and then they used an analogy. There are cyclists who compete naturally, in the white area, and there are cyclists who compete in the different shades of grey, all the way to black. ‘How far into the grey are you prepared to go?’ Peter was taken aback and said he wanted to see how far he could get naturally, and was definitely in the white. A few weeks later, the team announced that Peter would not be offered a contract. He eventually found a place on a small regional team based in Bassano.
Peter knew he could not compete. The playing field is not level. He returned to the US with a shattered dream but his integrity intact; he could look in the mirror with pride. Around this time another American, Lance Armstrong, completed a highly lucrative fifth Tour de France win.
I was quite nervous as we set off on the two-day trip in the campervan to drive the 1,600km across Italy and France to reach Plouay. The course was one of my favourites, with plenty of climbs and technical descents to provide opportunities for attacks. My worry was that I had no real reference point as to my form. I was going to have to race very cautiously and try to save as much energy as possible in the early stages. Our next best climber, Modesta Vzesniauskaite, was not up to the level of the climbers from some of the other teams, and even if I was good enough to stay with the leaders, I could be isolated and hostage to teams with more riders in the break able to mark me out of the race. This was all on the basis that my knee would stand up to the strain of the race.
I had special support. Mum and Dad had been holidaying in the French Alps where they had watched stages of the women’s Tour and had planned a typical Cooke family logistical marathon, arriving in Plouay at the opposite end of France, meeting up with Craig and Uncle Chris as well as my grandparents and some friends from the Cardiff Ajax cycling club who set up a little tented stand on the course to promote the team and share their support.
Plouay is about much more than just the race itself. The town organises a whole weekend of activities, including cyclo-sportif events for the active members of the crowd. Fans are attracted from all over Europe. The organisers put up mobile grandstands to go alongside the road they built into the town centre specially for the World Championships in 2000. There is a tunnel under the road for spectators to use on cycle race days and there is even a separate stadium with an outdoor velodrome 500m from the finish line. No community in the world has integrated cycling more into its heart than Plouay.
With the help of my agent, I urged the BBC in London and Wales to send representatives to view this spectacle. Surely it would not be too much to ask that in 2003, when Wales had few sportsmen performing on the world stage anywhere, they might spare a cameraman and reporter to hop across the Channel for the day? French TV had helicopters providing full live coverage of the race. At the time, it was perhaps the broadcast which was the most professionally conducted on the whole women’s scene. Even if BBC Wales could not get a cameraman there, could they just get somebody to come and watch and get a flavour of what it was like to see the race, with a view to coverage next year? My agent tried her best, but BBC Wales couldn’t spare anyone. The drive to Plymouth, a ferry ride and 70 miles the other side of the Channel was a trip beyond them. The message was clear: they weren’t interested and they weren’t going to expand their horizons.
The race itself was active throughout and a great advert for the sport. The decisive break came on the penultimate lap, and I was the last rider to get across, making a group of nine. On the last lap up the final hill, there was another stinging attack. I was almost fighting the bike to make contact with a group of three that was riding away from the others. Joane Somarriba, still in excellent form after her Tour de France victory, was setting the pace with Mirjam Melchers and Judith Arndt, both still in contention for the overall World Cup. I was just able to follow. As we crested the final hill, Joane came off the front and normally would have come back down the line and taken her place behind me.
Sensing an opportunity, I hung back and left a gap between myself and the rider in front of me, hoping Joane would take the hint that I was suffering and enter the line in front of me. She glanced at me as she slotted into the gap, deliberately giving me a little extra breathing space with 2km to go. This was not a mistake, Joane knew exactly what she was doing and why. This gesture was just the boost I needed. As the sprint wound up, I kicked, looking below my arms behind me to check on the others. The exhilaration of winning a race I thought was going to be a battle of survival is clearly shown by the photos of me crossing the line, arms outstretched like an albatross, mouth open in a whoop of delight, while the others behind still have their heads down sprinting. My family and Ajax club-mates were overjoyed, and it was fantastic to share the moment with them. To make things better, Sara Carrigan had come in 38th and scored no points, so I now had a 118-point lead in the World Cup series, with just two rounds to go. I hugged Joane.
The penultimate event was based around Nuremburg, a flat, sprinter’s race, not ideal for me but with team support I could be competitive. It was mathematically possible for my three closest rivals, Sara Carrigan, Judith Arndt and Mirjam Melchers, to get enough points to overtake me in the overall standings, and of course I always had to factor in the possibility of a crash. It wasn’t over yet. No one got away and as the finish approached Rochelle Gilmore was up there with me and did a great job in guiding me through the last kilometres to finish fifth. I had clinched the World Cup, the youngest to ever do so, male or female, and the first-ever British rider to achieve such a victory. At that moment, despite all the injury problems, the future seemed as bright as ever.
However, just like the week before, we were quickly into the campervan en route to the next race, in this case the six-day Tour of Holland which began the following day. Here, I would work for Diana Ziliute. The first stage over 118km was a sprinter’s stage on another flat, typically Dutch course. With 6km to go, there were around 40 or so riders left in the leading group. It was a finish that suited Diana, but I couldn’t see her so I dropped back and found her in last place in the group. I encouraged her to get on my wheel so I could take her to the front, getting her into a position to win before I tucked into the pack to recover from the effort. But, having got her from the back of the bunch to the front once, I was shocked to see her towards the back of the group again as the race entered the last 2km.
There was a lull in the pace and as we reached the long finishing straight, I decided to make another effort, diving up the side and screaming at Diana to hold my wheel, as I charged to the front so that I could lead her out for the sprint. Usually, something goes wrong to block your passage down the side of the group, but for once it went perfectly. I had won the World Cup the day before, Diana was the principal rider in the team and I knew Maurizio wanted the team to do its best for her, so I was going to give it everything I had. I got Diana to the front and she was able to accelerate off my wheel and take the win.
Diana, spirits buoyed by the way we worked together, won again on the second day and I finished fourth. It was a great feeling as we were the best team on the road. When we arrived back at the hotel, I stepped out of the campervan and put my left foot awkwardly on the curb, twisting it and immediately felt a sharp pain. I staggered away, angry with myself for being so stupid, and tried to ignore the pain, but my foot swelled badly. At least it stopped me thinking about my knee.
My foot still hurt the next morning when I walked, but felt okay when I tried riding, so I decided to ignore the discomfort and race on. The team enjoyed a successful week, with Diana winning overall, and I achieved a second in Stage 4 and won Stage 5, beating Susanne Ljungskog in the sprint from a small breakaway group. Next up was Rotterdam and the final World Cup race.
I knew that with the World Cup in the bag, it would be a great opportunity for me to support my team-mates in going for a big result themselves, as a ‘thank you’ for their dedication to me. It was a grey and wet day and there was not much action until the finish. Mum, Dad and my Ajax club-mates had placed themselves around the course, waving flags, cheering and sounding their car horns as we went past. Given the grim weather conditions on the course, they seemed to outnumber the local spectators, which did make me and my team-mates feel quite special to have such wonderful support. At the finish, I helped set up my team-mates for the leadout, and then eased up, not wanting to take any risks, and rode over the line in 54th place, punching one arm into the air and then being mobbed by my team, including Chantal Beltman who had won the race. It was very special being presented with my jersey and trophy in front of my team, family and supporters.
After Rotterdam, I took up the kind offer to stay with Mike Townley’s parents in Athens, spending three days riding the 2004 Olympic course, getting up at 5am to ride several laps before the traffic became too busy. This allowed me to learn about the hills, gradients and the finishing straight as well as taking lots of photos, to remind myself of what it was like when back home.
Another great race of the time was the San Francisco Grand Prix. Rather than go early and attempt to adjust to the time difference, we went late and I maintained my European meal and sleeping pattern, taking full advantage of the 24-hour restaurant in the hotel. At the press conference, I was one of two female stars accompanying the men, as we were given proper coverage. I even had to act as interpreter, as one of the male cyclists spoke only Italian. The race itself was brilliant, with four ascents of the fearsome 18% average Fillmore Street. A small group was left at the foot of the final climb. On the podium, preparing to receive the winner’s bouquet, I looked at my hands. I’d been gripping the brake levers so tightly on that final climb that I’d drawn blood.
From there I maintained my hectic schedule and returned to Italy. With no adjustments needed to my body clock, I was racing two days later in the six-day Giro di Toscana, where I won a stage and figured in the finishes of several others. My attention by now was firmly on the World Championships, in Hamilton, Canada, with the GB team. I believed I was capable of a medal, and I really wanted to make up for last year’s disappointing performance. The circuit included some good hills and would certainly be different from the last time.
I studied the results of the time-trial, which was held a few days before the road race, to gain any last-minute insights into my rivals’ form. I didn’t ride it myself, as I wanted to concentrate on the road race, but I was really happy for Joane who won it.
My World Cup win marked me out as one of the strongest individuals in the race. However, it would be very easy for other national teams to use their strength in numbers against me. Once the real racing began, I would effectively be riding alone. I could only think what a difference it could have made if Rachel Heal had been able to be with me all year. By the time the race came, I was feeling frustrated that a lot of people in the British team and media seemed to think it would be a foregone conclusion that I would win. ‘Nicole Cooke just has to sit on the saddle and ride round and she will do it.’ The hopes of the home nation naturally rested with Genevieve Jeanson. I couldn’t match her up Mont Royal earlier in the year and she was going to be a big threat here.
Some weeks earlier, Genevieve had done an interview for Cyclingnews.com entitled ‘Killing Them Softly’. In it, she made mention of her very special coach, Andre. Now, on the day before the World Championships in Canada, put on to showcase their global superstar, there was an unscheduled news conference. The UCI required that riders with elevated blood haematocrit levels – those above 50% – must take a two-week ‘health rest’ (which comedian came up with that title?). Genevieve had been tested and now had to withdraw from the World Championships. After pausing for long enough to assure us all she did not use illegal doping products, never had used illegal doping products, and cross her heart and hope to die, she never would use them, she blamed her elevated haematocrit on an oxygen tent she had been using for months. She left the press conference in tears. A series of tests afterwards were meant to prove to us that she was not using EPO. The test results only proved the ineffectiveness of the testing. Genevieve still had several years left in the sport, but this was the beginning of the end for her and her coach Andre. She was killing us all softly, not least the Canadian races so many of us enjoyed.
The race was a cautious affair; Jeannie Longo made a serious attack with about 40km to go. No one reacted and as her lead hovered around 45 to 60 seconds, there was a real chance that she might stay away and win. I wanted to organise a chase, thinking it would be in everyone’s interest to share the work, but as I realised after the race, it was a big mistake. I did not realise that my desperation to win showed through so clearly to my rivals, and as the one favourite without any effective team-mates, I ended up leading the chase, while some of the other race favourites, even those with team-mates who could easily have acted as domestiques, just stayed in my slipstream and watched me wear myself out like a fool. On the final hill, with Jeannie still up the road, Mirjam Melchers and Susanne Ljungskog launched an attack which I followed with Edita Pucinskaite, but rather than holding the wheels comfortably and considering a counter attack near the top, as I had been able to do in Amstel or the Flèche Wallonne, I was now reduced to clinging on to the wheels in front of me, my energy dissipated by the chase of Jeannie. Even so, others seemed content to let Jeannie ride alone to the win. I chased again.
We caught Jeannie with only 600m to go, and using the rotation off the front, I placed myself in third position as we approached the final corner. Against these riders, I still felt I could beat them all in a straight sprint, and I mentally prepared myself for the kick out of the corner to the finish line. Mirjam was in front and Edita second as we approached the bend, when Susanne charged up the inside past me and got onto Mirjam’s wheel, setting herself up perfectly for the sprint. I wasn’t expecting the move or the force with which Susanne made it and was momentarily thrown out of my ideal position round the last corner. I kicked as I came out of the corner, forced to go to the outside of Edita and only just managed to get my front wheel in front of her’s with a final lunge for the line. Third and a bronze medal: I’d made a series of tactical errors during the race and fought back tears on the podium, as I tried to come to terms with having just thrown away a world title I could have won.
If someone had come to me at the beginning of 2003 and offered me a season in which, aged 20, I would win the World Cup and finish third in the World Championships and win two classics and a number of other races, I would have taken it in a heartbeat, but now I felt really disappointed. An athletic career is short and in cycling, where a mechanical failure or crash, neither of which you may be able to control, can rob you of a great result, an opportunity not taken may never come around again. Every ‘champion’ always wants to be a winner and has an immense inner drive, but what can be a blessing in one situation can also be a curse in others. I was very hard on myself and at the time could see only disappointment. As I flew back from Hamilton, I was grappling with all these emotions, I was also aware of a noise in the background. The clock was already ticking towards Athens 2004.