I’ve always loved the World Championships. The atmosphere is different from every other race on the calendar. It’s festive and a little fresher than the occasionally battle-worn professional ambience we inhabit for the rest of the year.
When I rolled up at San Sebastian for my first Worlds in 1997 as a twenty-year-old neo-pro, I was excited to be among English speakers in a safe environment, having spent a horrible year learning about the harsh and hidden realities of the sport I loved.
Six years later, those realities had taken their toll. In 2003, I arrived in Hamilton a cold and calculating ruthless big hitter—unrecognizable in relation to the twenty-year-old kid of 1997—winning being the only reason I was there.
At the 2010 Worlds in Australia, I was neither of these younger versions, yet both of them remained part of me. At thirty-three, I’d reawakened much of the neo-pro idealist, despite the twenty-six-year-old having destroyed much of himself.
I was representing Team GB in the individual time trial, which would be run over two laps. I’d kept my strategy simple: give it everything in the first lap and then hang on with a wing and a prayer through the second.
Before the race, I sat chatting with Dave Brailsford and Luke Rowe, one of the younger guys in the British team. Luke reminded me of myself at the same age. He was charming and chatty, the big talent, the kid who stood out from the rest. I jokingly asked if he was going to be out on the road cheering me on, as the time trial route went straight past the Team GB hotel.
“Dave—of course I will,” he said. He seemed genuinely taken aback at the thought of not doing so.
“In that case, Luke, you’re in charge of getting me a big crowd—in fact, why don’t you make me a banner …?!” I was joshing with him, seeing how far I could push him.
“A banner …? Yeah, I can do that,” he said nonchalantly. “Anything particular you want it to say?” I looked at Dave and saw that he was following our banter with amusement.
“I like you, Luke.” I laughed. “It can say anything. What do you reckon, Dave?”
Brailsford put on his poker face.
“Luke, if you get a banner made and a crowd out there, I’ll do everything I can to make sure it’s on TV or Graham Watson takes a photo of it. You’ve only got a couple of hours, though, so you’d better start working on it.”
Luke, offered an opportunity to impress both Dave and me, was on his feet and out of the room almost instantly. Dave looked across at me and smiled.
Not many people knew what we’d been through together, or how far I’d really fallen, nor just how far Dave had gone to support me and pick me back up. Sitting there, the two of us jesting with one of the next generation, a couple of hours before I wore the British colors, squared the circle.
Just over three hours later, I came flying past the hotel. I had set the best time at all the time checks and was now leader on the road, desperately holding off the incoming express that was Fabian Cancellara. I knew that the British team would be watching me on TV in the hotel, and I felt so proud to be giving them something to cheer for, flying the flag at the very front of the race.
As I came careening onto the coastal road that passed our hotel I made sure that I lifted my head, taking a few seconds out from my race against the clock. I could see Team GB tracksuits lining the barriers and a big group, led by Luke, holding up a white sheet, presumably borrowed from the hotel.
Painted across it, in massive letters, were the words: “DAVE THE BRAVE.”
If I hadn’t been so wrapped up in my efforts to fend off Cancellara, I’d have had a lump in my throat. I didn’t care that perhaps it was probably the only thing Luke could think of that rhymed—it was just nice to imagine that maybe he believed it.
Ten days later, after I’d been pushed into the silver medal position at the Worlds by the untouchable Cancellara, I arrived in Delhi to represent Scotland at the Commonwealth Games. This was another opportunity to say “thank you,” as it was among Scots that I’d found refuge when times had been at their worst.
Scotland had always welcomed me. When I’d been told I could compete for the nation in the Commonwealth Games and that the lifetime ban enforced upon me by the British Olympic Association did not apply, I leaped at the opportunity.
When I’d been younger and consumed by the European racing scene, I had been dismissive of the Commonwealth Games. It was ignorant of me—I didn’t see any benefits taking time out from my pro racing schedule to race for Scotland. I regretted that and was thankful to have the opportunity to rectify it.
Mark Cavendish felt the same way about the Commie Games. It had never crossed our minds not to go—we’d both been with Team GB at the Worlds, and we couldn’t wait to get to India. We’d spent close to two weeks living in each other’s pockets in Australia and had grown closer than we’d ever been.
I began to see a side of Cav that I’d never known. Behind the emotionally armed, verbal Gatling gun was a very focused and mature young man. I’ve met a few people in my time who like to think they suffer from OCD, but Mark was the real deal.
Within minutes of arrival at the team hotel, he’d emptied his expensive matching luggage ensemble and made his room his home. He was clearly intending to keep the room in a near perfect state of order and hygiene while he was staying there.
If I popped in to see him in his hotel room in the morning, it already looked as if the housekeeping staff had done the rounds. But they hadn’t—immediately after he woke up, Mark would make his bed and then keep everywhere else spotlessly clean and organized.
His behavior behind closed doors was about as far from his public persona as was possible. As a result, he became much more interesting. I put aside the loyalties I had from being so close with Tyler Farrar, often the only competitor Mark had in the sprints, and opened my mind up to Planet Cav.
It was never boring hanging out with Mark. He’s a charismatic little bastard, with an eccentric streak that makes him all the more appealing. I was amazed that he held the same desire to represent his country in the Commonwealth Games as I did. I’d assumed his rock-star life in Tuscany had changed him, made him grander. I hadn’t expected that representing his home, the Isle of Man, would mean as much to him as representing Scotland did to me.
His frivolity, generosity, and occasionally manic behavior reminded me of when I was his age. But Mark’s vices were slightly less destructive than mine, probably due to the much healthier environment that surrounded him. He had come from the very nurturing Team GB setup overseen by Brailsford, and then joined HTC, one of the new wave of clean professional teams.
At Team GB, Rod Ellingworth was his coach and confidant and had worked with him since he had been a teenager on the national team. Rod’s a moral and ethical rock, immune to celebrity or wealth, and I have no doubt in my mind that he is one of the main reasons for Mark’s incredible success. All of this had protected Mark from cycling’s dark side.
I blended in as quietly as I could, and hung out a bit with the boys on the Scottish team, but I’m always a bit edgy when I find myself surrounded by other sportspeople. I’m always afraid that all they see me as is “different,” an unwelcome outsider. This probably isn’t helped by the fact that I’ve only ever spent time with other noncycling sportspeople at the Sydney Olympics, so the precedent didn’t bode well.
Of the other riders out there, Mark and I had the most in common, but we were also enjoying being in a completely alien environment. Being with athletes who had full-time jobs outside of sports, and for whom the Commonwealth Games was possibly the highlight of their sporting careers, was a refreshing and inspiring atmosphere. Mark and I loved being part of it all. In fact, Mark seemed more at ease and happier than I’d ever seen him.
We competed in the Commonwealth road race before the time trial. I’d never raced with any of my Scottish teammates before, and yet we rode as if we’d spent the whole year racing together on the same professional team. We were all so proud to be wearing our white-and-blue, thistle-adorned jerseys, and we made sure everybody in the race knew it. But Scotland had never won a medal in any of the road events before, and I wasn’t expecting to be the person to change that record in the road race.
It was a pan-flat sprinter’s course, raced around the central, deserted streets of Delhi. I had nothing to lose and raced like it, but the team was brilliant, doing everything I’d asked of them and setting me up perfectly to blow apart the second half of the race. I did as much as I could to rip the field to pieces, planning to tire out the sprinters in what I imagined would be a fairly impossible attempt to claim the elusive and unprecedented Scottish road-cycling medal.
Yet the tactic worked, and I finished in an exhausted but elated third place. It was a great feeling to be on the podium and watch the saltire being raised, even if it was for bronze and not for gold. The team was ecstatic, and we all shared the joy of success, although I didn’t join the festivities that evening as my main event, the individual time trial, was yet to come.
As an experienced time trialist, it was taken for granted that I’d win the gold medal in Delhi. I’ve been pre-race favorite many times in the past, and it’s never something I enjoy. It was made even more daunting by the time trial course, which, like the road race course, was completely flat. It was also dead straight; we raced 20 kilometers up the road, made a U-turn, and then raced 20 kilometers back.
The weather was dry and dusty, with the temperature sitting in the low forties. There was a howling tailwind on the outward section, which ensured a horrendous headwind on the way back. None of this suggested a nice day out. I knew it was going to hurt like hell, as the flat and straight route meant that once I’d got up to speed, I’d only be shifting from my aerodynamic time-trialing position for the few seconds of braking, turning, and accelerating at the 20-kilometer turnaround. This would put my body under a lot of stress, painful stress. That didn’t bother me too much—it was more the psychological stress that worried me.
There would be no time checks, no supporters on the road—just me, the heat, the wind, the breathing, and the pedaling. In other words, not much for me to concentrate on—just a painful, rasping meditation through time, racing against the clock.
Yet the amount of infrastructure the Games organization had put into it compared to a Tour de France stage. Much of this was because they’d catered for a visit from a head of state, Scotland’s first minister Alex Salmond. He’d been told that he could count on a Scottish gold medal in the individual time trial. No pressure then.
I didn’t feel good for most of the time trial, which wouldn’t have been so bad if the course had been technical and fun. At least then I could have distracted myself with the technical intricacies of the race.
All I could think about was keeping my hands in the most aerodynamic position I could manage, focusing on my fingers being perfectly aligned, and keeping my head down and out of the wind. I used my peripheral vision to guide me while balancing my maximal sustainable aerobic workload, against the delicate near overload of lactate.
I had no idea what the time gaps were to the riders I had to beat. The longer it went on for, the more insecure I became about my performance. Just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse, I began to seriously overheat, which made the final kilometers excruciating, although it still looked effortless on TV.
Finally, with about 2 kilometers to go, I saw the Australian Luke Durbridge, who’d started a minute ahead of me. For the first time since I’d rolled down the start ramp, I knew I was going to win.
I crossed the finish line and wheeled to a halt, throat rasping. I craved water and downed bottle after bottle, finally cooling my badly overheated body. Then I was able to enjoy it.
Everybody connected to the Scottish contingent was overjoyed. Although they’d expected me to win, that didn’t detract from the joy that we were all sharing. This definitely wasn’t business as usual—all the Scottish team had brought their kilts and put them on while I’d been out on the course. Alex Salmond was clearly ecstatic and appeared in the throng, giving me a big hug, live on BBC. I was a very, very proud Scot.
October 2010, Delhi, Commonwealth Games. Flanked by Alex Dowsett and Luke Durbridge, two riders over a decade younger than me in the dawn of their careers.
Mark was there to congratulate me, too. He was in no rush to return to Europe and had spent the day helping out the Manx riders, working for the team, checking the kit, putting bikes on the roof rack, and driving one of the following cars—the highest-paid, most famous directeur sportif in the world.
By that evening, Mark had become an adopted Scot. There was a reception at “Scotland House,” a hotel that had been taken over by the Scottish federation for the duration of the Games.
Later, Mark and I commandeered the bar upstairs and invited everybody to join us. By the end of the night, we were in my room drinking Dom Perignon—Mark, not a big drinker, feels that when he does drink he must quaff only the finest champagne—celebrating the end of another season.
When I woke up a few hours later, there were two unfinished bottles by my bed. I got up and wandered over to the window, carefully avoiding the debris scattered across the floor, bleary-eyed but looking forward to the new day.
My planned cinematic sweeping opening of the curtains, to reveal a widescreen view of Delhi, stalled when I realized there was a technical glitch, preventing such a grandiose moment.
Finally, after some fiddling, I found the right cord and the curtains swept aside. I’d forgotten that I was on the top floor of the hotel and was taken aback by my eagle’s view of this amazing city. Everything below looked so calm and peaceful, a long way from the reality.
I stood there for a while, my forehead pressed against the window, and just stared. Below me, India was in its usual bustling frenzy, but up in my room, high above Delhi, it was so quiet. I don’t know how long I stood there, but it was long enough for me to understand where I was, what I’d done, and where I’d come from.
I had always been scared to push the fast-forward button France and I had wished we’d had six years earlier, sitting at the top of the steps down to the beach in Biarritz. Now finally, I did.
Everything that had come before ran through my mind: playing with my Star Wars toys, running through the RAF aircraft hangar with Dad watching over me, discovering cycling, my parents’ separating in the dead of night, leaving Mum and France for Hong Kong and all its wonders, my dreams of turning pro, the success at Cofidis, Biarritz and loneliness, racing—always racing—the Tour de France, its beauty and pain, doping and lies, losing it all when I had it all, working with WADA, meeting Nicole, and then back to France and me, and the steps at my feet, leading down to the warm sand of the beach in Biarritz.
I stood, hungover, barefoot, a gold medal on the bedside table, forehead pressed against the window in a Delhi hotel room, quietly crying, a last wave washing over me, feeling something I thought I’d never know.
Redemption.