From Paper Boy to Champion

It was cold for June, very cold today. As often happens in the North East through the months of May and June. I began cycling the 18 mile ride from my home in South Shields to Ponteland. I’d made an old light bracket into a makeshift wheel hanger. A flat piece of metal with two holes, one at each end. One end attached to the forks with the wheel skewer and the other end attached to the skewer of my spare racing wheel. The top part of the rim, tied to my handlebars with a lace. This was my ‘good’ wheel. A 395g Mavic GP4 rim with a tubular tyre glued on. I had a pair of these, but only the front ever got used. They were reserved for ‘big races’ ,the special days, when I wanted to perform at my best. Today was a big day. It was the 1999 North East Divisional Road Race Championships. And I was fit. In form. At my best. It needed the good wheels! I’d only ever seen black and white photos or heard stories of riders of old, taking their best wheels with them on special wheel hangers attached to forks and handlebars. This inspired me. This was my own effort.

I always rode to and from races. I had no choice. My dad took me to my first race in the car, got lost trying to follow the event and ended up reading the paper for 3 hours. “Never again” he declared. That is until the following season, first race of the year, 30 miles away, in the Durham moors. I was 18. He took me that time and the next race too. And so, I rode to virtually every race I entered for a long time after. Shared lifts were rare. Too many stories of hard men of the past, riding 50 miles to and from an event with the victors spoils in their back pocket had cemented that idea in my head as a good one. It was a good warm up for sure. I had that advantage, I told myself. Despite coming into the final of an 80 mile road race, having 100 miles in my legs instead of my fellow competitors 20 miles fewer, I was so mentally strong, that I convinced myself that I was in fact STRONGER because they HADN’T ridden the extra miles. Crazy. It rarely translated into reality. One race that season, it was a whopping 35 miles to the start. I was in the lead group on a hilly circuit. A group of 3 broke clear and after 75 miles I came 4th in the sprint to take 7th on the day. Barely 5 miles after the event, I remember being sprawled out on the grass. Exhausted and with 30 more miles to cycle home. 145 miles that day. For a 75 mile road race. Nobody else in the entire region did this. Not to this extent. What doesn’t kill you, makes you stronger, I convinced myself.

After 3 miles it started to rain. By the time I reached Ponteland Leisure Centre where many races started from, I was pretty soaked. I had my clean, dry, racing jersey in my rucksack. The colours of the Belgian national flag. My club colours – GS Metro. I wrang my sodden socks out into the toilet and headed for the start line.

“You’re shaking! Are you cold?” The words came from my good friend, team mate and massive influence in my life – the late, great, Russell Thompson. “You’re shaking Micky. You must be freezing. Where are your arm warmers?” We were huddled at the back of the bunch in the Leisure centre car park, waiting for the race to start. Willy Thompson, the legend of a man in our world of road racing, that organised more races than anyone else put together, was making announcements about the route etc.
“No I’m not” I replied. “I’m just nervous and excited.”

People would look at me funny when I told them I got nervous at EVERY race. “But you have been racing 15-20 years, How can you still get nervous?” My response was always the same – “The day I don’t get nervous before a road race, is the day I stop racing” That day came, some 16 years later. My teammate. Danny and I, drove up for a tough race near Edinburgh. No nerves. None. I found myself getting dropped by the group and started sliding out the back. Instead of fighting, terrier-like to remain in contention, I ‘allowed’ it to happen. Gone. Dropped. I turned around, rode back to the car and, almost in tears, put the bike in the boot. I knew what this meant. I’ve never done a road race since.

One of the things that stood me out from many others, was my refusal to quit. I had read a story about a Professional cyclist and Dutch Road Race Champion called Frans Maassen. I was there amongst a large crowd that included 5 time Tour de France Winner, Eddy Merckx, in Grey Street, Newcastle of all places. This was the scene of The Wincanton Classic – and the only one day international road race in Newcastle, that I can recall.
Standing on a window ledge for a better view, I watched this powerful Dutchman, with thighs the size of my waist, cruise home to a solo victory ahead of the current World Champion Maurizio Fondriest and the word class Irishman, Sean Kelly. Inspiring stuff. One year, he had to quit the Tour de France and, whether my memory holds true or not, he was in tears because it was the first time he had quit a race. These kinds of stories stuck with me. That day in Lothian, I quit my last race.

My very first race was actually another North East Championship event too. It was a comical affair and the start of what was to come. I had never set out to ‘become a cyclist’ or to race or any of it. My pal from school, Cameron had told me about a second hand bike for sale in a local charity shop for £5. When I was young I never got any pocket money. As a family we struggled, life was tough. But I had started a paper round and this particular Easter, I had been given a £5 bonus. So, aged 12, I had my first bike. A red Raleigh racer, with a 3 speed hub gear that was stuck in the 3rd and highest gear.
Apart from using it for my paper round and the odd ride down town, its uses remained there. It wasn’t until my Uncle Howard came down from Aberdeen, took one look at it and declared “Well, its a start. I ride 20 miles every day” I couldn’t believe my ears. Did he say TWENTY miles? There’s no such distance. As you may guess, I was – inspired! I took to riding to Sunderland and back. 14 miles. 7 each way. Up the coast or via Cleadon. Upon telling Ian, my classmate, he decided to join me. Using his dads own red racing bike, with a heavy metal bike lock chain wrapped round the seat post. And so began a lifetime’s passion for cycling.
Together we joined the Jarrow St Christopher’s Cycling Club the following year and I entered the Juvenile North East Champs. This was a closed circuit on the grounds of the County Hall at Durham. A short,tight circuit with a hill in it, repeated about a million times. Obviously, we all rode up as a club and before the start I prepared as best I could. This involved sitting on the grass in the sun, eating cheese sandwiches. Malcolm, my fellow teenage teammate, offered me the use of his wheels “Because they were alloy and lighter than yours” My second bike was a Raleigh Banana that I’d bought from the catalogue with my weekly paper round money. I couldn’t afford one otherwise. My friends all got one for Christmas. I couldn’t wait and got mine in the October. My dad subsidised part of the weekly payment.
The Raleigh Banana was based on the UK Pro team of the same name. When I say ‘based’ – it was the same colours and about 4 times the weight. I swapped the wheels over. Before the start,I turned to John, our club secretary, for some advice on the race. He shrugged his shoulders and said “I don’t know, I’ve never raced before” then took another puff on his cigarette.
The first lap was neutralised and an 18 year old junior, who was as wide across the shoulders as he was, tall, lead us round the circuit. Surprisingly, I found the pace comfortable. Then the race started properly. What the actual hell! I got lapped seven times! At one point, I was going so hard that I was getting pains in my heart, most likely from those cheese sandwiches!

Ian and I rode one other that year, an 18 mile time trial at Ponteland. Riders go off at one minute intervals and fastest time wins. Of the five Jarrow St Christopher entries, Ian went quickest. I didn’t fair as well, getting beat by Brian Beckett! Ah, Brian, what a character, nice lad at heart, cyclist, raging alcoholic and the worlds biggest bullshitter. One wonders where today’s Child Welfare Officers would sit in a club with a guy that jokingly threatens to stab you with his screwdriver! Apart from things like claiming his bike cost £7,000 – believable today, but that would equate to around £50,000 today. It was only a Dawes Galaxy Tourer. He had also claimed that he clocked 112mph going down Lizard Lane in South Shields. How the hell did you manage THAT? We asked. “I built up the speed on the flat, first”

Yes, I got beat by Brian that day, the man with the worst B.O. I have every had the displeasure to get a whiff of! As ‘punishment’ I decided to ride all the way back to South Shields in 12th gear (my biggest gear – a 52 x 14 ratio) And, I did it, hills and all, the full 18 miles. These were the kinds of things I would do. In winter time, on an already very heavy winter training bike, I used to put a large water bottle full of wet sand in my bottle cage for extra resistance!

I never raced again after that time trial and my road race baptism of heartfelt fire. I did one race at the end of my last season as a junior. The day my dad got lost in Northumberland trying to follow it.

The following spring, my first race as a senior rider was on a cold, blustery April day in the tough County Durham hills and was one to forget. When my dad pulled into the village hall car park, all I could see were highly talented riders from the two big clubs in the region – North East Racing Team and Middridge CRT. I was out of my depth here. 18 years old, skinny, inexperienced and facing 60 miles on arguably the toughest circuit in the region. Five laps over a 5 mile climb onto the moors. As if that wasn’t bad enough, I had somehow managed to lock my bag in the boot of the car. One call to the RAC later, left with no time for the toilet nor a warm up. First lap and the hammer inevitably went down and the boyo’s just rode off into the horizon leaving me and one other rider to struggle round alone. I came last.

My next event, the Ashington Road Race, didn’t include any First Category riders and was ‘merely’ 2nd & 3rd Cat. My Tyne Velo team mate, Jason Robson remarked “You like riding all the hard races, don’t you?”. Great! An early breakaway managed to remain in front right to the end but at about half distance I seen my team mate, Jon Kelly, drifting off the front of the bunch. I thought “Oh – there’s JK. I wonder what he’s doing? I’ll go and see him” I launched out of the bunch, caught him and we rode together until three or four others caught us, including hard man ‘Blackie’ (Paul Blackett) and the current North East Champion, Graham Stirzaker and fellow 18 year old, Colin Ash.
The race was akin to a Belgian kermesse – short circuits, with a hill in it. This one was 18 laps of around 4 miles with a 17% hairpinned climb to tackle each time. Lap after lap, the strength was being sapped from the legs. Jon was dropped and the group in front were tiring. The final time up the hill, with the finish in sight, my group exploded over the top, leaving me for dead. A few hundred metres from the line, I latched onto the wheel of Martyn Wallbank, another first season senior like myself and whom had spent the whole race at the head of the field. I knew he would be tired. I sat on his rear wheel then sprinted past him across the line. I came 6th. In those days, unless it was over 83 miles, you only got points to 6th place. And in this race, that’s where the prize money stopped too.
Some of my Velo teammates were a little incredulous as to what I’d just done. One lad remarking “Bloody hell Micky, some of us have been racing for years and never got a single point. You’ve got one in your second race!”

Six seasons later and I’d still not won a road race but I’d switched clubs to the dominant, GS Metro. I’d had a few 2nd and 3rd places and countless top ten’s but never the top rostrum. I had, however won an event before and also been crowned ‘North East Champion’ on one other occasion. In my first two seasons as a senior, I used to ride the track league down at Gypsies Green Stadium in South Shields. A poorly surfaced, banked asphalt track. Manchester, it wasn’t! (Manchester track had yet to be built!)
As a local lad, I’d ride down on a borrowed track bike that was too big for me, trying hard to remember NOT to stop pedaling and fly over the handlebars!
The second season racing there, in 1995, fortune shone my way. I made it to the semi-finals of the 4000m individual pursuit championships. Martyn Wallbank was favourite to win, but pulled out with an injury. He lent me his bike with its low profile frame and cow horn handlebars and, gritting my teeth through 10 laps of a block headwind blowing in off the North Sea, I snatched a narrow victory. 1995 North East Champion. But I was a road man, road racing for me, was everything.

The weeks leading up to the 1999 North East Championships were not exactly what you might consider as ‘perfect preparation’ for someone gunning to be crowned North East champion. Two weeks previously I had been in London for three days because Newcastle United were in the FA Cup Final. Three full days of drunken tomfoolery and not befitting at all to the life of a supposed athlete! The following weekend saw my second participation in the Tour of the Kingdom two day stage race in Fife. A national level event with the very best riders in the UK and many a hard Scot to compete with too.
I’d been riding well all season with a 4th place, a 5th, and 8th. The strength and the form was there. Pitting this form against the very best in Britain and just one week before the champs was a key indicator for me. Instinct saw me latch onto the wheel of the tough to beat, Mark Lovatt and come home 17th on Stage 1 and a respectable 20th on the super fast stage 2. 32 miles finishing with a 3 mile climb up Falkland Hill. Overnight, I was lying in the Top 20 in a Premier Calendar event. I couldn’t believe it. Then, ten miles into Sundays final stage, disaster struck! I hit a hole, hard! I climbed off thinking I’d punctured. Quickly realising I hadn’t and that the brake caliper had just jammed onto the rim, I corrected it and hopped back on. Now normally, the following cars would assist you in regaining the bunch. Not the clown behind me that day. He sat there behind me, then when we reached the crest of the hill, overtook at high speed, taking the rest of convoy vehicles in his wake, giving me no shelter or opportunity to tuck in. I was alone, with the bunch speeding off into the distance and 70 miles to the finish.
Now this is where your mental state plays a role. It was easier for me to climb off and ride back to the start. Any hope of maintaining my top twenty status or, singlehandedly returning to the pack, were non-existent. Not wanting to quit, I could have also just pottered round the last 70 miles in the sunshine and enjoyed the day. No! My choice in that moment was this “Micky. Its the Div’s next week. Treat this as just a training ride and destroy yourself to the finish” So I did. 70 miles flat out, all the way to the line. Collapsing, exhausted. Its decisions like this, that make the difference.

As soon as this now very wet and bleak looking edition of the North East Championships started, any visulisations I’d done as to how I imagined the race to go, were blown out of the window. My usual tactic was to attack from the gun! Launch a move as soon as the flag dropped. I did this regularly. My opinion was that if a move of the day is going to occur, why not be the one to initiate it? And if there is going to be a big move, do it sooner rather than later. It rarely worked and maybe explains why I’d not won a race in 6 years!
A move of around ten riders established itself very soon after the start but it was such a move that suited me perfectly. There was no fewer than five riders from GS Metro up the road. Perfect. It meant I could sit back in the bunch and save my energy as in all honesty, if I didn’t win today but my teammate did, I’d be be equally happy. The Mighty Metro were dominant in the 1990’s, winning the past 5 North East Championships. Three of those riders were present today, including double winner, Glen Turnbull, now riding for another team.

At around the 20 mile mark, towards the top of a short, steep hill, Steve Ward from VC Azzurri, rocketed out of the pack. You have milliseconds to react. If you hesitate for just ONE second or stop to think about whether or not to move, its already too late. My visualisation kicked in. Steve was too strong, too dangerous to let him get away. I pounced, latching onto his rear wheel like a limpit. 100 metres gap, 10 seconds, 20 seconds. We were away, gone, cut loose of the peloton, the rest of the favourites, imprisoned by a bunch that would now be reluctant to allow anyone else to escape its clutches. Ahead lies many, many tough climbs, a brutal circuit and 5 of my teammates. It was this latter piece of information that was vital. I had no need whatsoever to turn a single pedal in anger in order to perpetuate our two man escape. You just don’t chase down your own teammates. You just don’t. Especially if you are bringing up a strong rider and definitely not a strong rider who can sprint!

I used to always tell people that I believed cycling to be 70% Mental, 30% Physical. It was the mental strength, the psychology, the abiity to read a race, know when to attack, where the wind is blowing, visulisations. All of this trumped pure strength and fitness alone. The Thursday before the Champs there was a evening circuit race down on Teesside. Croft Motor racing circuit. These events are typically one hour plus 5 laps. This particular circuit was pan flat and very windy. Jason took us down and he had to endure listening to me moan on about how I’d never won a race before, blah blah. When we reached this event, I looked around and the riders would be just as suited to a spit and sawdust gym as a bike race. Strong, muscular riders, all tailor made for fast, flat riding, sprinting and general argy-bargy. There was no hope of getting away from this pack, alone.

During the race, with a strong wind blowing across the course, I’d noticed something that happened every lap. On the back straight, the wind was so strong that it would push the riders way over to the left, fanning them across the track, leaving the inside, wind exposed line, clear. Then, at the head of the course, we turned head on into the teeth of the wind, slowing us all down to around 14mph before quickly making two, tailwind assisted loops for the final 500m to the line.
I spoke to Jase and gave him some instructions. “Jase, on the last lap, hammer up the inside line on the back straight and get me to the front of the bunch”
He duly obliged and with one lap to go, everyone in the bunch was twitchy and getting ready for an inevitable bunch sprint. But I had other ideas. Hugging Jason’s left shoulder as he bore the full strength of the wind on his right side, he got me up the inside of the fanned out bunch. We turned into the wind for the brief wall of resistance, I clicked through the gears and attacked. Flat out. Hard. I got a gap. Only a small gap, but a gap nevertheless. I knew that all I needed to do was maintain just 5 seconds and the twists and tailwind round the last two loops would make it nigh on impossible for me to be caught. It planned out to perfection. I turned into the home straight, arms aloft, I’d done it! I won my first race, even if it was just a circuit race. Jason commented afterwards about there I was moaning about it too. I asked him to drop me off 20 miles from home so that I could ride back to South Shields. I wasn’t strongest that day, I was the cleverest. Its not always the strongest that wins.

Steve and myself, now well clear of the bunch began the first of the day’s big climbs – Garleigh. A long undulating set of climbs that conclude with a 50mph descent into Rothbury. We met the first casulaties of the days big move. Jason and Carl Adams, both GS Metro team mates, spat out by a top quality, leading group. Jase and Carl dug deep and sacrificed themselves with some tough pulls up the climb to assist our efforts to reach the front group before bellowing a ‘Good luck’ as they sat up for the bunch to swallow them up.
Steven was immensely strong today, it was impressive. But I was clever. I knew that I could quite understandably, sit back and do NO work whatsoever, citing the reason of having 3 guys up the road, including Russell and last years winner, Steve Gibson. But today I wanted to win. My hunger for it was insatiable and so, I did work, but only enough to keep the momentum of the chase going, I saved myself a bit, letting Ward’s legs do the lion’s share of the effort. Five time Tour de France winner, Bernard Hinault said in his autobiography – “Sometimes we need to lose, in order to win”  We swept through Rothbury. Two strong lads, both in their early twenties,at the top of their game, We were flying!

After what seemed like an eternity chasing the lead group, we caught glimpse of the leaders through the rain. Upon reaching them, I made sure I motored past them all to the the head of the line, almost arrogantly stamping my authority on the race. Announcing my presence with a silent “I’m here now” like a proud lion, that knows he’s king in this jungle. There was eight riders remaining. The race was on.

What lay ahead was two very tough, 2 mile climbs of Billsmoor and The Gibbet, before reaching the notorious ‘Netherwitton circuit’. This circuit was tough enough in its own right, as a 3 lap, 60 mile event. Sticking Garleigh, Billsmoor and the Gibbet in for good measure was just savage. But this was one of Willy Thompson’s promotions. Two years previously he had audaciously took the race down the A69 past Hexham, through Alston, then up over the highest A Road in England – the monstrous 627m high climb of Killhope Cross. After which the race got even tougher! Willy ran races on courses that provided a worthy winner, and I loved him for it. Approaching Billsmoor the hailstones started, this was getting grimmer by the mile but up until now, I’d felt pretty rubbish, I was starting to feel stronger. The inclement weather bolstered that for me. I would revel in it. The harder it was, the more I preferred it. Not that I was sick in the head, but simply because I knew everyone else despised it, got demoralised. When it would rain like stair rods, I would laugh, look to the Heavens and like the little boy in the song ‘Sometimes’ by James, I would taunt the skies with a vocal “Is that the best you can do?” People hated me. Once, I did a big Elite race in Scotland and it was around 4c. We were riding to the start line and I peeled my armwarmers OFF ready for the race. The comments, laughs and jeering I heard. I was 3rd that day, yet another race that I should have won. Today could be that day.

Once we’d merged with the front group, I noticed that Steve Ward was sprinting for the top of almost every hill. Unbeknownst to me, there were twenty £5 hill primes (pronounced ‘Preems’ from a Flemish word for spot prizes for hills and sprints etc). Doing my usual anti-race nerves tactic of clowning about, joking and chatting, my doing so at the back of the bunch with Russ in Ponteland, I’d not heard this piece of information. Wardy had, and he wanted them Primes. Let him have them, I thought. Every little effort, sprint, aggressive stomping of the pedals, to gain one of those prizes, was energy wasted, strength sapped. I ignored them. 70% Mental.

We finally reached the circuit and we’d lost Geoff Burn and Iain Dey – both VC Azzurri teammates of Wardy. It left a group of Mark Addinall, Russell Thompson, last years victor, Steve Gibson and myself (all GS Metro) plus Colin Ash from Middridge CRT and Steve Ward, VC Azzurri.
Stronger and stronger I began to feel and I started turning the screw. “You’re dropping your own team mates!” someone shouted from the side of the road. I looked back and a jaded Mark had gone and Russell had succumbed to his usual cramping issues. This left 4 of us at the head of affairs, with Gibson, my team mate, yo-yo-ing to hang in. We were now on the final circuit and the time had come to put the hammer down. The steep climb of Nazzy Bank was a prime hill and I led all the way up put continued to drive it hard over the top. It felt…. effortless. Looking behind, I had Ashy on my wheel and very ashen-faced, Wardy. Stevie G was dispatched for the final time. There were 3 riders left and about 25 miles to go. I flew down the steep descent and set about the climb of Coldrife like my life depended upon it. I was gone, a gap, a sizable gap. Cresting the summit and earning another prime, Willy Thompson shouted “Ease up Mallen, there’s a lang way to gaan. Wait for them!” It’s worth noting here that Willy’s club was VC Azzurri… I waited. I’ve thought about this many times since and I wish I’d ignored him and continued on, I firmly believe I would have cruised to the win from 20 miles out. But, I didn’t. I chose to gamble and allowed my two companions to catch me. By this point, Wardy, with his huge efforts chasing the break and all those efforts for hill primes, was starting to really suffer, it was hard to hide. This left Colin and myself doing most but not all, of the work. With about ten miles to go as we passed Bolam lake, I looked back. Not once but two or three times. We all did. There, smiling back at us was the unbelievable sight of the reigning champion, Stevie Gibson. He’d got back on – a truly herculean effort and no mistake. Now we were four. This played into my hands perfectly because we could play the old one-two, whereby if one of us attacks, the other doesn’t assist the chase, leaving it to the other two riders. Upon being caught, your rested teammate then counter-attacks, making the two chasers work once again. One of us should win today. Could Stevie win for a second year in a row? What a story, and one I’d be happy to be a part of, but it was a second best scenario for me.

The last five miles was a flurry of constant attacks, mainly by me. Tired though he was, Wardy would surely beat me in a sprint for the win. I couldn’t sprint for toffee. Each and every time when I looked back it was one man. Ashy! Towing back my every single thrust to break away. In the end, I chatted to him at the back of the group and said “Look Colin, this isn’t your Divs, you’re a Cleveland rider. You’re now interfering with the outcome of our race. I know you can win today as a road race, but you can’t be a champion today. If you attack, I won’t chase you. But if I attack, I expect the same”
(Colin, whilst a North East based rider had been allowed to ride the event but his club was a different Division. He could ride as a race but not qualify for the championship. In all fairness, he was every bit as strong as me that day)
With a little under two miles remaining, I kicked hard, hammered the pedals and looked back. At last! Ashy and Wardy weren’t with me. The gap lengthened. I turned the final corner and looked up the hill at Saltwick and saw the waiting crowd. Sheer paranoia kept the pressure going all the way to the line. I crossed myself with my right forefinger, kissed my St Christopher and lifted my arms aloft. I’d won my first road race and I was the 1999 North East Divisional Road Race Champion.

I got offered a lift home. But I insisted on riding back, and also to take the trophy in my rucksack. I popped into the clubs sponsors – M. Steel Cycles in South Gosforth on the way home. To inform them the Metro had won for a 6th successive year. They were surprised and never expected it this year. I was nobody’s favourite, but I knew and that’s all that mattered.

Later that year I asked Steve Walton, the journalist covering the event if he had any photos of me with my victory salute. He said they hadn’t came out as the sun was behind me in the shots he took. The sun ha d finally emerged by the time we reached the finish, the majority of the 92 miles was in cold, gloomy and wet conditions but I wasn’t fussed. There was a sun shining inside ME, that day. That’s another Bernard Hinault quote. I wonder if Hinault or many other champions have wrung their rain soaked socks out before being crowned champion?