To my mum and dad, Carol and David

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Dedication

Introduction

1. The Art of Throwing Up in Secret

2. Pimped-up Rides and Broken Hearts

3. Smells of Sandwiches and Mars Bars

4. ‘That Can’t Be Good for You’

5. Going Round in Circles

6. Craig and Jason

7. Holding Your Hand in the Fire

8. ‘They’ll Be Here in a Week to Ten Days’

9. Uncle Mick

10. I Believe the British have Pastries for Breakfast

11. Sydney, Silver and Stig of the Dump

12. Primero?

13. The Chimp Is in Its Cage

14. Some of My Bark Is Missing

15. ‘Would You Like Me to Lap Dance for You?’

16. Taking On the Tour de France

17. The Final Kilo …?

18. A Stroll in Beijing

19. He’s Like Something from The X Factor – the Outtakes

20. Rings and Roundabouts

21. Perfect Ten

22. The Helicopter Technique

23. Pain, and Shane

24. London

Chris Hoy in Numbers

Palmarès

Acknowledgements

Index

Picture Section

Copyright

About the Publisher

INTRODUCTION

The Danger of Disappearing up My Own Orifice

On the day after I won my third gold medal at the Beijing Olympics I was visited by a small posse of Scottish journalists, and asked a question I have never been asked before, or since.

‘In the last 24 hours everyone has offered their opinions of Chris Hoy,’ said Gary Ralston of the Daily Record. He may have been stroking his chin as he contemplated how he was going to phrase the next part of his question – I could tell that it wasn’t going to be of the more familiar ‘How does it feel?’ or ‘Has it sunk in yet?’ variety.

‘I wonder,’ continued Gary. ‘What does Chris Hoy think of Chris Hoy?’

There was only one answer to that. ‘Chris Hoy thinks that the day Chris Hoy starts talking about himself in the third person is the day that he disappears up his own arse.’ It maybe wasn’t the response that Gary was looking for, but he, and the others, looked reasonably happy with it, and it duly featured in their stories the following day. (Thankfully, it also got me out of having to offer up a cringe-worthy response to the actual question.)

I bring it up because it popped into my head when thinking about this book. I asked myself: what kind of book would I like to read? Personally, I’m not a huge fan of the straight-forward ‘then-I-did-this-and-then-I-did-that’ life story. What I like, particularly in a book about sport, is an insight into what it’s actually like to compete at a high level, and what it takes to get there, and stay there – ideally sprinkled with a few semi-humorous anecdotes. In essence, I want to know how a sports person does what they do. I want to know why, too, but most of all I want to know how.

It’s the way I’ve always been. At school, I enjoyed subjects where the answers tended to be ‘no’ or ‘yes’. I liked logical subjects – maths, the sciences – which involved some kind of puzzle and a definite or correct conclusion or answer at the end of it. I liked there to be a ‘right’ answer, I suppose, but I also enjoyed the process of working towards it.

I wouldn’t want this book to read like a science manual or maths paper. But I hope that it can go some way to explaining ‘how’. If I were an aspiring athlete, or just a fan of sport – and without referring to myself in the third person – I think that is the kind of book I would enjoy reading.

In any case, I am still just as interested in the question of ‘how?’ as I was when I was a 14-year-old, and making my first, tentative and very nervous pedal strokes around the forbiddingly steep-looking banking of the Meadowbank Velodrome. As I look ahead to the London Olympics, with the knowledge that, just to make the British team, never mind win another gold medal, I will probably have to be a better athlete in 2012 than I was in 2008, the question remains as pertinent as ever.

The irony, of course, is that, while I say I like ‘right’ answers, in reality there seldom is a definitive answer. Training and competing are less an exact science and more an endless puzzle; they are a creative process of trial and error – and a process I enjoy, even though I know that the correct answer one season can be the wrong one the following year.

After 25 years of competing as a cyclist, on BMXs, mountain and road bikes, and finally on the track, I would like to think that I have stumbled on some ‘right’ answers; if I have been paying attention then I should have learnt something. Yet at the same time, if I thought I had all the right answers, I’d be screwed. I know that I wouldn’t get near the team for 2012, never mind challenge for a gold medal, if I thought for a second I could just carry on doing the same things.

So the search, the working out of the puzzle, continues. The answers or solutions to some problems remain elusive, while for others the nature of the problem, or challenge, changes; the variables do what the name implies: they vary. I’m getting older, for one thing – I’ll be 36 by the time the London Games come around – and my rivals are getting younger, if only in relation to me. And so I have to go back to the drawing board, come up with new ideas, and then work even harder.

For me, it’s the puzzle and the inherent unpredictability of sport that keeps it fun – and endlessly fascinating. I hope this book can reflect that and, for aspiring athletes and armchair fans alike, prove interesting.

Chris Hoy, Salford, 2009

1

The Art of Throwing Up in Secret

Beijing, Tuesday 19 August 2008

It was 8.30 when I woke up and hauled myself out of bed. I was lucky, having my own room in the athletes’ village. Jason Kenny, my neighbour in the room next door, had been sharing with Jamie Staff. However, Jamie, whose Olympic Games had started and finished with our gold medal-winning ride in the team sprint the previous Friday, had moved out, so now Jason too had his own space.

It was the final day of the track cycling programme: day five. I had raced on all four days so far, and I could feel it in my legs. First thing in the morning they were stiff and painful, having so far made 14 flat-out efforts in the course of long and draining days at the track.

I could also see the fruits of those efforts, though: two gold medals, from the team sprint and keirin, in the bedside cabinet. I permitted myself the odd sneaky look, though it felt like a bit of a guilty pleasure. I didn’t feel I could – or should – enjoy them until my Games had finished.

That would be today, a day that might even end with a third gold, in the individual sprint. But, bizarrely, there was every chance that my neighbour and team-mate, the aforementioned Jason Kenny, could be the opponent to stand in the way of what, I had been told by journalists a couple of days earlier, would be a historic achievement. No British sportsperson had won three gold medals in a single Olympic Games in a century, I was told. That was news to me: I hadn’t even allowed myself to contemplate the possibility of winning three Olympic titles prior to Beijing, let alone start considering any historical significance. And this morning that was certainly the case: the team sprint and keirin had gone, they were finished. I was focused only on the day’s racing.

The individual sprint starts with a qualifying round – a time trial over 200 metres – and then proceeds over three days with man-against-man contests. Now, two days in, I had made it to the semi-finals. These and the final were both best-of-three rounds, so I would have six more races at most, if I got through my semi and if both rounds went the distance. At 8.30 in the morning, moving my legs slowly and painfully out of bed, then hobbling stiffly towards the shower, I didn’t know how I would cope with that. By bluffing, I imagined.

Though I had my own room, Jason and I shared the apartment, and the shower. Not at the same time, I should clarify. But Jason, being more of a morning person than me – which isn’t saying much – was in there first, and so I waited, then showered, before joining Jason to ride down to the canteen for breakfast.

It’s not as though it was far. It was only a few minutes’ journey, but cyclists abide by a set of absolute golden rules. Never stand when you can sit. Never sit when you can lie down. And never walk when you can cycle. At this stage of the competition, in particular, it is a case of trying to preserve all the energy and strength you can.

We freewheeled down to the canteen in silence, arriving at the entrance and locking up our bikes. It might be the Olympic athletes’ village, with stricter security than the Pentagon, but you still lock your bike. You can never be too careful – especially with a £3,000 road bike.

Looking back now, this would have been a quite surreal scene: Jason and I heading off to breakfast together, like best mates, as if there were nothing out of the ordinary about the day ahead. It probably helps that Jason must be one of the most relaxed people in the team, if not the sport: nothing seems to faze him, and he is famous for his languid and laidback style (off the track, I should point out: on it, his reactions are a little bit faster).

Both of us knew there was a chance that, just a few hours later, we would race each other for an Olympic gold medal, in arguably the most prestigious of the track cycling events, the sprint. We had qualified first and second in the initial 200m time trial two days ago, and we had both progressed reasonably comfortably to the semi-finals – separate semi-finals, with the German rider Max Levy as Jason’s opponent, and Mickaël Bourgain of France as mine. Beat them and we’d be meeting again a few hours later, in an Olympic final.

But neither of us mentioned any of this. We didn’t talk about racing at all. We just chatted about the usual things, and spent breakfast engaged in the activity that occupies so much of your down time at the Olympics: people watching. This is a particularly entertaining and enjoyable pastime in the athletes’ village, where you get famous names, some extraordinary shapes and sizes, which inspire games of ‘guess the sport.’

Thus did Jason and I pass this very ordinary hour on this most surreal of days, before returning to our apartment, to prepare for the 40-minute bus journey to the Laoshan Velodrome, on the outskirts of Beijing.

First, though, I paid a visit to the British team’s sprint coach, Jan van Eijden. Jan, from Germany, was the world sprint champion in 2000. He retired in 2006 and came to work for us the following year, having been poached from the Eurosport commentary box by our head coach, Shane Sutton, who reckoned Jan had the ingredients to become a top coach. Though he wasn’t the fastest in the world, Jan consistently won head-to-head ‘match’ sprint races. Tactically, I would argue that he is the best sprinter of the last decade. And Shane was right, as he often is (and sometimes isn’t): Jan’s knowledge and experience make him a brilliant tactical coach, and a real asset to the British team. Added to which is the fact that he is very upbeat and virtually always smiling. So he – like the incredible force of nature that is Shane Sutton – is also good for morale.

But this morning I wasn’t going to see Jan to have my morale lifted, or to ask, in the eventuality of us meeting in the final, how I might beat Jason. I knew he wouldn’t discuss Jason’s tactics – and in any case, I wasn’t thinking of Jason … yet. I was thinking of my semi-final opponent, Bourgain.

Before any race, we watch videos of our opponent in action. So Jan got his computer out, and together we watched every sprint race I had ever ridden against Bourgain. We looked for potential weaknesses (his, but also mine). I’d watched all these videos numerous times before. But this, I suppose, was like looking over your notes before an exam. It’s probably not going to make much difference (‘if you don’t know it now, you’ll never know it,’ as the mantra used to go before exams), but, as in the anxious pre-exam wait, you think that you should be doing something. It feels better than doing nothing.

The videos for Beijing were prepared by our performance analysts: there were hours and hours of races on film, over 300 gigabytes’ worth; files and files, comprising a complete library, with every opponent racing and just about every scenario you could imagine. But the analysts’ work goes way beyond just having all this stuff on film. They’ve studied it and worked out things like, ‘If Bourgain is leading with half a lap to go there’s an 80 per cent chance he’ll win the race …’ or ‘When he’s behind his opponent with two laps to go, there’s a 30 per cent chance he’ll win.’ All these statistics and data (‘the numbers’, as we call them) have been prepared by the Great Britain team’s performance analysts – go to any World Cup meeting and you’ll see them sitting quietly at the back of the stand with a tripod, filming every single race.

The thing is, a head-to-head match sprint race will often come down to intuition and what we call track craft – the fast/slow feinting and cat-and-mouse tactics that you see between two riders – but it’s reassuring to have the statistics to back it all up; it can give you extra confidence in your game plan.

As Jan and I sat and watched the footage of my previous races against Bourgain, we focused on a couple in particular. One was at the same Laoshan Velodrome, at the Beijing World Cup the previous December. At that point, I was still taking my first, tentative steps as a sprinter. At 31, I was a bit old, really, to be trying something new – or so the accepted wisdom went. Match sprinting – since it demands the explosive acceleration of a Usain Bolt coupled with the quick reflexes and agility of an Olga Korbut – was seen as a young man’s game (and I’m no Olga Korbut). But having lost my specialist event, the kilometre, I was determined to add another string to my bow.

And that’s really all I was thinking back in December 2007, at that World Cup in Beijing. The team sprint remained my priority as I looked ahead to the Olympics, while the keirin, in which I was also a relative novice, and the sprint gave me other options. My thinking was that if I could do all three events, I’d increase my chances of being selected for the team sprint. But at that point the idea that I could challenge for a medal in all three seemed like a pipe dream. I was expecting to be competent and competitive, nothing more.

And I still had some distance to go, if my meeting with Bourgain in the quarter-final of the 2007 Beijing World Cup was anything to go by. He beat me in two straight rides. Both rides were quite close, as it happens, but the bare statistics don’t lie. Two-nil is a comprehensive beating. And it was to be expected: Bourgain, a 28-year-old Frenchman best described as a ‘pure sprinter,’ was certainly one of the top two or three in the world, having medalled in every world championship since 2004.

The other race Jan and I watched was from two months later, when I met Bourgain again, this time at the World Cup in Copenhagen. This was the race that offered the first sign that I might yet make it as a sprinter. Shane Sutton, in typically excitable and enthusiastic style, told me it was ‘the turning point – the moment you became a sprinter’. Reminiscing about it months later, he seemed even more convinced about this. ‘What was the critical race?’ he’ll ask – expecting whoever he is asking to reply that it was my defeat of reigning world champion Theo Bos, the Dutchman who dominated sprinting in recent seasons, in the quarter-final of the world championships in Manchester a few weeks after that Copenhagen World Cup.

He loves it if you respond: ‘Bos in Manchester.’ It allows him to counter with: ‘Nah, mate – Bourgain in Copenhagen.’

He’s right. I was riding in Copenhagen purely to try and qualify an extra British sprinter for the Olympics. My own ticket to Beijing rested on the keirin; I had to beat my old rival Arnaud Tournant, another Frenchman, to win the series, and thus qualify for Beijing.

The meeting had started on the Friday evening with the team sprint, and we had a terrible night, giving one of our worst performances in this event in recent years. While the French dominated, again, we could only qualify fourth, and then lost out to the Netherlands – led by Bos – in the ride for the bronze medal.

The next day was better: I reached the final of the keirin, which proved a bit of an epic. Tournant was just as keen to win, since that would guarantee him his Olympic place, and he and his team-mate, Grégory Baugé, both laid it on thick in the final, launching a series of attacks but ultimately failing to overake me, as I led from the front to win the race and the series, and secure my ticket to Beijing.

Competing in the sprint, on the third day, felt a bit like doing my duty for the team. Thanks to the keirin I was now guaranteed my Olympic place, which I was delighted about. But I didn’t know if I’d ride all three events in Beijing. To be honest, I didn’t know if I had it in me, and worried that I could spread myself a little too thinly by attempting such a full programme.

Added to this general uncertainty was the fact that there was a fourth event to do in Copenhagen: the lucrative Japanese invitational keirin, with its £10,000 first prize. I was doing that, too – well, that prize was quite an incentive – and I knew that by Sunday evening my legs would be in bits.

But first up in the morning was the 200-metre time trial that acts as the qualifier for the sprint, and determines the subsequent draw. I was third with 10.2 seconds, behind yet another of those fast Frenchmen, Kévin Sireau, with Bourgain second. I progressed fairly smoothly through a few rounds before my meeting with Bourgain in the semi-final.

In the first race I didn’t ride well. It was the same problem that I often encountered in these head-to-head races. Though I had the raw speed, my tactics were a bit dodgy. OK, I’m being kind to myself. Basically, I only had one strategy. All the decent rides I’d done so far had seen me going from the front, setting a fast pace, trying to take the sting out of my opponent’s tail, and then countering them when they made their move. It was a very one-dimensional way to ride, and it only worked if I could get to the front in the first place. And – not surprisingly, given that my opponents would have studied me in competition, just as I studied them – they were getting wise to it. So Bourgain beat me. One-nil.

I came off the track feeling pretty tired, and pretty discouraged. To add to my general dejection, I was then sick as I sat on the stationary rollers, keeping my legs spinning – and the lactic acid at bay – between races.

I could feel that something wasn’t right, and called Jan over, asking him to discreetly fetch a bucket, or some other water- (or vomit-) tight container. ‘But make sure no one can see what you’re doing,’ I told him; I didn’t want any of my opponents to see that I was suffering so badly. Jan carried out the task to perfection, providing and then dispensing with the container before anyone saw anything. I should point out that vomiting is not uncommon; the repeated sprint efforts create such high lactic acid concentrations that they can, literally, make you sick.

My little bout of sickness didn’t distract Jan from the mission that remained ahead of me: to beat Bourgain. ‘He knows you can do that,’ he said, referring to my one and only tactic. ‘You gotta go from the back!’

I had tried going from the back in previous sprint matches, but I found it difficult to commit. What would happen is that my opponent would stall, I would hold back a little, and then we’d both end up ‘jumping’ – that is, opening our sprint – at the same time. The whole point of coming from behind is that you should have the element of surprise. But to gain the advantage you have to jump first, preferably without your opponent seeing you. If you both jump at the same time, and are going at more or less the same speed, it’s extremely hard to come around the other rider, since he has the inside line, and therefore less distance to travel.

‘Look,’ said Jan. ‘You’re one-nil down, so you’ve got nothing to lose. I don’t care about the outcome. I just want to see you try to execute this race tactically.’

Why did I lack the confidence to go from the back? The problem, I think, was that I had bought into the misconception that the guy at the front controls the race. It’s very difficult to hold back, to be patient and sit a couple of lengths behind someone, maintaining your place high on the banking and waiting for the right time to make your move. But what Jan kept drilling into me was the idea that the guy at the back can be the one dictating the tactics; and, as he told me now, my second-round match against Bourgain offered the ideal opportunity to test this theory. As he kept saying, I had nothing to lose.

I knew it was true, but it’s a difficult mindset to take into a race. I was determined, however, to follow Jan’s instructions, to force Bourgain to the front and then attack him. From behind I was able to force him to commit early, while I waited and waited and – going against my instincts – waited some more. Coming into the bell lap I was quite a bit down, but he was going full gas, while I was still winding it up. Even coming off the back straight I was still about a length behind, but I was gaining, and I remember thinking, I’m going to pass him here. And I did, eating up the gap on the home straight, crossing the line first and thinking: that was easy. Although it only levelled the contest at 1–1, I knew that was the turning point. Suddenly, I had the momentum – the upper hand.

There was only a 10-minute break between the second and third rides – hardly even enough time to vomit – and I was feeling completely exhausted by now; as if I didn’t have another effort in my legs. But I suspected that Bourgain – though he hadn’t had as busy a weekend as me, missing the previous day’s keirin – would be feeling pretty tired as well. It’s at this stage of the competition that the mind games come in. You’re in the track centre, warming up in full view of your opponents, and the trick is to appear less tired than you actually feel (and, if you’re going to throw up, to do so secretly).

I rode slowly around the track centre, preparing for that third ride, with Bourgain himself following the same routine just yards away, and then I made sure I went up to the start first. I wasn’t going to be seen delaying it, buying some more recovery time. When we were called, I was straight there, and I made sure I didn’t slouch in the chair as we waited to go to the line.

When Bourgain came and sat beside me he was shaking his legs out, and stretching them, clearly trying to revive them. Beside him, I sat perfectly still and bolt upright, trying to send out the message that I was fresh, that I was up for it. A pre-race ritual is the presentation of the ‘pegs’ that determine the starting order: peg one means you are on the inside, and lead the sprint off, with peg two giving you the rear position. I picked peg one and sprang up, heading straight to the start. My legs were screaming, but it was all about bluffing it at this point. I’ve no idea whether any of this psychological warfare had any effect.

Following Jan’s advice again, I used the same tactic in the third ride. Once I had forced Bourgain to the front he tried to get me to go past him again, slowing right down, almost coming to a standstill. I could have gone early – and in previous races probably would have panicked and done exactly that – but I stuck to the tactic of sitting patiently behind him, keeping high up the banking, forcing Bourgain to make the first move. Then, again as in the second ride, I swept past him to win, and make the final.

I lost the final to Sireau – after another embarrassment, when I managed to fall off the rollers while ‘revving out’ during my pre-race warm up, pedalling at about 250rpm, and clattering very noisily to the floor – but I didn’t mind too much about losing. Like Bourgain, Sireau had had a day off the previous day. He was relatively fresh, whereas I was on my last legs. It was the race against Bourgain that had been important. To have executed it the way Jan wanted me to – that was the breakthrough.

Shane knew it immediately. So did I. I don’t mean that I suddenly thought I could win the sprint title at the world championships, far less the Olympics, but I felt I’d cracked it, to a certain extent. There was this mythology around the sprint – it seemed like a bit of a black art. As a kilo rider, I was seen as a bit of a diesel engine, with plenty of power, but without the gift of great acceleration, and no tactical nous. If I beat someone in a sprint I was often told it was ‘just gas’ – just power – though Shane had always told me I could be a good sprinter, if I just put my mind to it.

Defeating Bourgain was significant because I was beating a tactically ‘better’ rider, and someone who’d qualified faster than me. It wasn’t gas – I was doing what a successful sprinter has to do: imposing myself on the race, and on my opponent. Match sprinting is cycling’s equivalent of a boxing match, with two opponents going head-to-head, or toe-to-toe; it is as much a battle of wills, and confidence, as a test of speed. Finally I had beaten an accomplished sprinter, and it came simply from not letting my opponent do what he wanted to do.

Four weeks later I surprised a lot of people by beating Theo Bos, also by two rides to one, on my way to reaching the final of the sprint at the world championships in Manchester. I then went on to surprise more people – including myself, I think – by beating Sireau in the final to become the first British rider since Reg Harris to be crowned world sprint champion. Harris, whose legendary status is acknowledged in the shape of an impressive bronze statue overlooking the home straight at the Manchester Velodrome, won the last of his five world sprint titles in 1954. Fifty-four years we had waited to claim the title again – and I was as shocked as anyone.

And now here I was in Beijing, with a chance of adding the Olympic sprint title – something no British cyclist, not even the great Harris, had ever achieved. Given all that was at stake it was just as well, really, that as I ate breakfast with Jason, then spent time talking tactics with Jan, I didn’t allow myself to think about the possible ramifications of success. It is one of the golden rules in the British team, drilled into us by our psychiatrist, Steve Peters: focus on the process, not the outcome.

Even now, with only hours left of the Olympic track cycling programme, I didn’t for a second consider the possibility of three gold medals, or the reaction back home to the success we – Team GB in general, the British cycling team in particular – were enjoying in Beijing. Any thoughts I might have had about how life could change in the event of winning that third gold medal would have been about as helpful as a puncture.

At this point, there was only one thing occupying my mind: my semi-final against Bourgain …

2

Pimped-up Rides and Broken Hearts

As a sports-obsessed seven-year-old boy Olympic gold medals were a long way from my thoughts, but bikes were not. Bikes were in my thoughts all the time during my childhood in Edinburgh; they occupied every waking hour, with the evidence plastered all over my school jotters, which were filled with poems about bikes, essays about bikes and detailed drawings of my ‘dream machine’.

It’s probably more accurate, however, to say that cycling occupied every waking hour when I wasn’t thinking about football, and obsessing over my favourite team, Hearts (as in Heart of Midlothian), or later, when I was a teenager, when I wasn’t thinking about rugby, and then rowing.

You get the picture: life revolved around sport. I have no idea how I found the time to do anything else. Such as chess, for example. Chess was my first passion, and in my first day at school, George Watson’s College in Edinburgh, I made a point of asking the head teacher how I might join the school chess club. I had been introduced to the game at the age of four by my uncle Derek, who had what was then an unbelievably modern piece of kit – an electronic chess board. I think I was fascinated both by the game and the novelty of the technology, and played my dad all the time; he let me win initially, before his competitive instincts kicked in. Sadly, my chess playing became a casualty of my all-consuming interest in more physical pursuits. But I’m really not sure I was Grandmaster material.

There’s a story which has been told quite a few times now about how I was inspired to take up BMXing after seeing the bike chase scene in E.T., when it came out in 1984, and I was an impressionable seven-year-old. In fact, it has now appeared in the media so often that I’m sure many people’s instinctive reaction would be to assume that it isn’t true – or am I betraying my relatively newfound cynicism?

It comes as a relief to be able set the record straight at last. It’s true. I was inspired by E.T. to take up BMXing. So thank you Elliott, thank you Steven Spielberg … though I suspect my love affair with cycling would probably have blossomed anyway, sooner or later.

Whether it would have started without BMXs is another question. I really don’t know. All I know is that – thanks originally to what I saw in E.T. – BMXs looked like great fun. What’s more, they were the epitome of cool for a seven-year-old kid.

It wasn’t just the bikes – though they were pretty cool. The padded outfits, complete with motorcycle-style helmets, were cool too, and the tracks were magical places, even the rudimentary ones, of which there were a few in Edinburgh. Not too far from my parents’ home, in Murrayfield, there were cinder tracks at Lochend and Danderhall. Lochend had been virtually destroyed, and Danderhall didn’t have a proper gate, but they were still great fun to tear around on our bikes. The nearest track with a proper start gate was in Livingston, a new town about 15 miles west of Edinburgh, and six or seven of us would travel out there midweek, usually on a Wednesday evening, to do gate practice – the start was critical in a BMX race, and it was my killer weapon.

My mum got me my first bike, for a fiver from a church jumble sale, and my dad went to work upgrading it – pimping my ride, you could say. As a youngster my dad, David, had been quite into bikes himself, or, more accurately, into taking them apart and reassembling them. He built himself a bike out of old parts, which he used for his paper round in Edinburgh (he grew up there too), and when I became interested in bikes he was delighted, because it allowed him to indulge his passion. As I got better and better bikes – having broken the original one doing jumps on a home-made ramp in the garden – my dad’s role as mechanic became even more important. Once a week he’d strip the bike down, clean all the parts, and put it back together, often using the kitchen table as his workbench. My mum, Carol, was remarkably understanding … most of the time.

But at that time the BMX was vying with football for my attention and affection. George Watson’s, a mixed-sex independent school, both primary and secondary, owed much of its reputation to its illustrious rugby-playing former pupils – the Hastings brothers, Gavin and Scott, foremost among them. I played football, which was, if not frowned upon, then not exactly a core part of the curriculum. But we were allowed to play for one year, before being introduced to rugby, and when I was eight I was part of the school team.

We were unusual – ahead of our time, perhaps – in that we had a female coach, even if Miss Paton probably assumed the position by default. I don’t think any other teachers were particularly interested in football, so I think it fell to her to run the team. And yes, we had the mickey taken out of us by other teams for having a female coach in those unenlightened times, but she was clearly a fan of the beautiful game.

As were we too, but that didn’t stop us from being rubbish. I cringe now in recalling some of the beatings we suffered at the hands of other schools. We weren’t just beaten; we were usually – to use a good Scottish word – gubbed. A seven-nil defeat by Juniper Green sticks in my mind for some reason, but I don’t know why, because that wasn’t too unusual. There was only one team in the whole of Edinburgh that we seemed to be able to beat: poor, hapless Bonaly.

Despite all that, I loved football. I played midfield, though positions were fairly arbitrary. We played on these big old pitches, with no nets in the goal. It was ridiculous, no concession being made to the fact that we were about four feet tall, with tiny little legs. On the full-sized pitches we looked like the Lilliputians from Gulliver’s Travels, and games would consist of the ludicrous spectacle of 20 eight-year-olds chasing the ball, like bees swarming around honey. It didn’t matter what position you were supposed to play in, there was only one place to be – as close to the ball as possible. It was like one of those medieval games of street football, involving hundreds of people, a free-for-all with no organization. As for passing – forget it. Poor Miss Paton, who could often be seen enjoying a cigarette on the touchline, wasn’t really able to impart any tactical instructions, or strategy – though I suppose you could say that we were allowed to express ourselves!

As well as playing myself, after a fashion, I became absolutely obsessed with Heart of Midlothian, the team that played about half a mile from my house, at Tynecastle Stadium. ‘H-E-A … R-T-S, if you cannae spell it, then here’s what it says … Hearts, Hearts, glorious Hearts,’ as the club song goes. I was a committed Jambo – Jambo being an abbreviation of ‘Jam Tarts’, the team’s other name – and occasionally went to games with the son of our local butcher, Bob the butcher. I didn’t go with my dad, because he was a supporter of Hibs, or Hibernian, the other Edinburgh club. When I didn’t go to games I’d listen on the radio, or watch the results coming in on the BBC’s teleprinter at 4.45 in the afternoon. The Hearts score that spewed out of that machine could make or break my Saturday evening. Not that, as a seven-year-old, I had particularly exciting plans most Saturday evenings.

The worst season was 1985/86, and it had a profound effect on me. I was nine going on ten, and at the zenith of my Hearts obsession. Now, anyone who knows anything at all about Scottish football, and especially Hearts, will not need to be told about the 1985/86 season. But for a nine-going-onten-year-old it was traumatic, to say the least.

The players, scores and games are burnt into my memory, engraved on my consciousness. To this day, I can still name the 1985/86 team: Henry Smith, Walter Kidd, Sandy Jardine, Craig Levein, Brian Whittaker, Gary Mackay, Neil Berry, Kenny Black, John Colquhoun, Sandy Clark, John Robertson.

These players, whom I wouldn’t hesitate to call my boyhood idols – with John ‘Robbo’ Robertson, Gary Mackay and John Colquhoun particular favourites – took Hearts to the top of the Scottish Premier Division, and within one game of winning the league title for the first time in 26 years. There was no better time to be a Jambo. And, ultimately, no worse time. On the final day of the season Hearts were leading Celtic by two points. All they needed was a draw against midtable Dundee. All they needed to do, most of us imagined, was to turn up.

In those days, it was two points, rather than three, for a win. Going into that final day, Hearts also had a goal-difference advantage on Celtic – they were on plus-28, with Celtic on plus-24. So if, in the worst-case scenario, Hearts lost and Celtic won their game against St Mirren, the Glasgow club would have to do so by at least three goals, unless Hearts lost by more than one. Got that?

On the day, Celtic won 5–0. And Hearts lost 2–0. The impossible, in other words, happened. And thousands of scarves and T-shirts, already emblazoned with ‘Heart of Midlothian, League Champions 1985–86’, had to be discarded. Talk about snatching defeat from the jaws of victory. And don’t even get me started on the conspiracy theories …

I was crushed – and if I hadn’t been, then I would be a few days later, when Hearts faced Aberdeen in the Scottish Cup Final, only to lose 3–0. It was bordering on cruelty. And, to be honest, I don’t know if I ever really rediscovered my passion for football. These days, I couldn’t name a single player in the Hearts team, which is a shame, because I would have liked to keep my interest going. But I feel that football has changed so much, and that a lot of what was so great about it – games packed with genuine and committed fans watching players they could identify with – has disappeared.

If anything positive came of the experience of following Hearts through that rollercoaster season, then it was in the form of an important lesson, and a good one to learn when you’re young. It could be summed up thus: don’t get your hopes up; don’t take anything for granted; expect nothing. These, as I would find out, would be useful mottos for any Hearts fan, or, for that matter, Scotland fan – when it came to either football or rugby.

There’s a postscript to my interest in, or obsession with, that legendary Hearts team – and they remain club legends, in part because we’re still waiting for a first league title since 1960.

Ten years later, John Robertson came into the Texaco garage where I, by now an 18-year-old about to head off to university, was working. ‘Robbo’ had been my ultimate hero, as he was to most Hearts fans – he is the most prolific goal-scorer in the club’s history. And here he was walking across the forecourt and into my shop! I was completely star-struck, and as he walked towards me I realized something else: he was tiny. He could barely see over the counter.

Still, it was quite a thrill to meet my boyhood hero, even if I was a little over-awed. In my flustered state I think all I managed to say was, ‘Pump four, mate? That’ll be sixteen quid.’

After our brief and largely unsuccessful foray into football, rugby took over. Rugby was a big part of the culture of the school, though there was no particular pressure to play, and it wasn’t cliquey, as I know it can be at some schools. Watson’s was a nice school, with a good atmosphere. There was a real cross-section of people among the teachers and pupils, and I felt fortunate to go there.

My parents weren’t wealthy – Dad working in the building industry, eventually as a chartered surveyor, Mum as a nurse – and I know they had to make sacrifices to send my sister, Carrie, and me there. Not that they were explicit about that to us, but we were made aware that we were lucky to go to a good school, and we both knew, I think, that we shouldn’t waste the opportunities available to us there. I tried to do the best I could, because I was also aware, from a young age, that although sport seemed the most important thing in my life, ultimately education would be more important. After all, as I was later told by my school’s careers adviser, ‘You’re not going to make a living out of sport.’ (OK, so this turned out to be bad advice … but I wasn’t to know it at the time – and neither, to be fair, was he.)

As far as the rugby went, there was no pressure to play, either from the teaching staff or from my peers. I suppose some implicit ‘pressure’ was applied by the roll call of illustrious rugby players among the school’s former pupils, headed by the Hastings brothers. But there are other notable alumni, too, including Martin Bell, the Olympic skier, Martha Kearney, the broadcaster, the MPs Malcolm Rifkind, David Steel and Chris Smith, the mountaineer Robin Smith, the architect Sir Basil Spence, and Mylo, the singer-songwriter. A pretty eclectic bunch – and even the three politicians all represent different parties.

When I was at school, there were future Scottish rugby internationals Jamie Mayer, Marcus Di Rollo and Jason White, who would go on to captain the national side.

When I started playing rugby we were coached by Mr French, a Rangers fan, but still a good guy. In those days it was straight into the full game, no mini rugby to break us in. And initially it was similar to the football in many regards, with 15 of us all chasing after the ball. Loosely speaking there were backs and forwards, but we didn’t stick too rigidly to that.

That said, I quickly settled on the position of stand-off, and I became the kicker. There was a lot of pressure involved in being the kicker. As with the football, there was no concession made to the fact we were small, with puny legs: we played on full-size pitches, with full-size goals. So kicking was a challenge, and my record wasn’t quite as impressive as Chris Paterson’s.

Like Paterson, I often managed 100 per cent, but that would be either 100 per cent over, or 100 per cent missed, with the ball invariably skidding along the ground. If I got the first conversion over, then I was fine; it would relax me, and I’d have a good game. But the kicking tended to mirror the game: if I kicked well, I played well; if I kicked badly, I found that it played on my mind and destroyed my game. I had some horrendous games.

It’s funny, though, that kicking seems to be something that attracts the individualist. Think of Jonny Wilkinson and Paterson, and you tend to think of them obsessively practising the art of kicking, long after their team-mates have left the training pitch. Paterson has even spoken in the past about being given a hard time at school for spending so long on his own, practising his kicking. As an aspiring young rugby player I was similar, I suppose. If I’d kicked badly in a match, the following day would see me in one of our two local parks, with my dad, practising until it got dark – or until my dad got bored.

But the problem – and this would be something of a recurring theme for me in my sporting life – was that all that practice didn’t really make much difference. Nobody ever really showed me how to kick. My dad knew the basics, but I had no one to help me with my technique. It’s a bit like having a bad golf swing: you can practise as much as you like, but without expert help you’re not going to get any better. It was also like golf in another sense, though. If I stuck one through the posts every once in a while it gave me a real buzz – and kept me practising just a little bit longer.

My kick-offs were just as erratic as my conversion attempts. I had this knack of picking out the biggest guy in the opposing team, and I’d be confronted with the sight of this – relatively speaking – huge second row catching it and running straight back towards me. Thus, within the first minute of most games, I’d suffer a big bang to the head. But I only suffered concussion on one occasion, in training. I’d broken through and was running towards the try line; and I thought I was clear, so I throttled back as I neared the posts, and was cruising towards the line, oblivious to the fact that an opposing winger had chased me all the way. He dived and clipped my ankles, and I, clutching the ball to my chest, hit the ground like a sack of spuds. The ball ‘broke’ my fall, but it caused a whiplash effect, my head bouncing off the ground. I had no idea where I was, what day it was or what I was doing.

Remarkably, the only other serious injury I suffered on the rugby pitch was a broken thumb. It was the first and only time my dad missed a game – an omen, perhaps. I was in fourth year at secondary school, it was on the eve of my first important exams, the Standard Grade (the Scottish equivalent to ‘O’ levels) prelims, when, in the early minutes of a game against Heriot’s, I went to hand off a big prop and felt my thumb bend right back. It was excruciating, but I gave it a shake and carried on playing. Until the next scrum, when I received a pass. Suffice to say that the resulting scream could probably be heard by my parents, who were out of town for the weekend. The result was an arm in plaster from hand to elbow, which meant I was assigned a ‘scribe’ – some poor sixth year – for the exams. This wasn’t as inconvenient as it sounds, because I remember my ‘scribe’ being pretty helpful with the multiple-choice questions on my Chemistry paper. If I said ‘C’ he’d say: ‘Do you want to think about that r-e-a-l-l-y c-a-r-e-f-u-l-l-y?’

The high point of my rugby career came when I was selected to captain the Edinburgh Schools under-15 team against the North of Scotland. It felt amazing to pull on the navy blue kit – which bore an uncanny resemblance to the Scotland jersey – for a match played up in Inverness, and which we won, with me kicking three out of three conversions. Eat your heart out, Chris Paterson. It was quite an eye-opener playing with kids from other schools, and there was a seriousness of purpose about us; it came, I suppose, from the sense of pride, and responsibility, we all felt representing not only our schools, but our city. I remember a prop from Musselburgh displaying a particularly impressive attitude for a 14-year-old. After he scored the first try he jogged back with the ball, and threw it at me – hard – with the instruction: ‘Make it count!’ No wonder I felt such relief at seeing that first one sail through the posts. He was a big guy.

And I, by contrast, was small for my age. I had been big for my year in primary school, but found myself being overtaken by a lot of the others in high school. By third year, my last year in the rugby team, I was the second smallest in the team, which put me at a serious disadvantage. By the time I was 15 everyone had been growing and I hadn’t really started – I was a little shrimp, a Smurf. Only the scrum-half was smaller than me, and I used to take a real pasting in games.

I loved going to rugby matches as well, and attended virtually all of Scotland’s Five Nations home games, sitting in the schoolboy enclosure and then running on to the pitch at the end of the match. After one game against Ireland, which Scotland won, I was the first on to the pitch – a sign of my promise as a sprinter, possibly – and ran up to Damian Cronin, the big second row, as he was filmed leaving the pitch. I ended up on TV, very visible in my yellow anorak, with my mop of almost matching hair, patting Cronin on the back.

One of the greatest games in Scotland’s history – and arguably my greatest sporting memory – was the 1990 Five Nations decider against England at Murrayfield, the national stadium that was a stone’s throw from my house. It was the Grand Slam decider, with both teams in contention, but England almost certain to win. Or so they thought.

Scotland, led out by David Sole, set the tone by entering the field at a slow, almost funereal, pace. England, led by Will Carling, had looked super confident, but – as crazy as it sounds – the way that Scotland walked on to the pitch seemed to say: we’re in charge. It gave them the impetus, and they sustained that in the game itself; you could see and almost feel how pumped up the Scotland team was as they got stuck into their opponents, and they won 13–7 to give Scotland the Calcutta Cup, Triple Crown and Grand Slam. All in all, it was a pretty good afternoon – one of the proudest in Scotland’s sporting history.

Watching Sole’s slow march gives me goosebumps, even now, but the irony was that, having attended so many games at Murrayfield, I missed that one. I had a ticket, but I had faced a huge dilemma: go to the game or compete in a BMX race in Paris. I opted to travel to France, but I watched the video of the game when I got home the next day, and watched it again and again, until the tape wore out.

Eighteen years later, I had the honour, and the unforgettable experience, of making my own appearance at Murrayfield for a Scotland international. It was the 2008 Autumn Test against the mighty All Blacks, who had just finished their haka when I was expected to perform the daunting task of delivering the match ball.

My only hope was that it would prove more successful than my previous ‘guest’ appearance on a rugby pitch, during the half-time break of an Edinburgh Gunners match in 2002, following my gold medal at the Manchester Commonwealth Games.

On that occasion, having been introduced and interviewed in the middle of the pitch, I was asked if I was a big rugby fan.

‘Oh yeah,’ I said. ‘I played at school, went to Murrayfield a lot – I love it.’

‘OK, Chris, a final question,’ said the MC. ‘Who are you supporting today?’

‘Well, no surprises there, I’m an Edinburgh boy, so I’m backing THE REIVERS!’

I was hoping to get a big cheer from the 5,000 in the crowd. Instead, and much to my surprise, there was a stunned silence, then a chorus of boos. Unbeknown to me, six months earlier, the city’s professional rugby club had changed its name from the Edinburgh Reivers to the Gunners. Which might sound innocuous enough, but in the highly politicized and heavily factionalized world of Scottish rugby, it was significant – they had only been the Reivers after an amalgamation, of sorts, with the Borders regional team. And now the name had been reassigned to the Borders; so ‘the Reivers’ referred not to Edinburgh, but to their bitterest rivals. What I had done was a bit like shouting ‘Come on, City!’ at Old Trafford – though fortunately rugby supporters are a little less partisan, and a lot more forgiving.

There was no such faux pas at Murrayfield in November 2008. Wearing a Scotland shirt with ‘3’ and ‘Hoy’ on the back, and with my three Olympic gold medals hanging from my neck, I was introduced to the crowd and walked into a wall of noise, plonking the ball down in the middle, then turning to the Scotland team and making what I hoped would be a series of rousing, fist-clenched gestures. I may even have shouted ‘Go onnnnnnnn!’ or something similarly encouraging. There was nothing planned or rehearsed about it; it was completely spontaneous, inspired by the noise of the crowd and the exhilarating sense of anticipation, expectation and sheer drama inside Murrayfield Stadium. It didn’t work, unfortunately – Scotland lost, after a decent performance – but the response from the crowd had a similar effect on me to that of David Sole’s famous slow march: the hairs on the back of my neck stood up. I was stunned. In all my previous visits to Murrayfield, most of them in the schoolboy enclosure, I could never have imagined that one day a cyclist would receive such a reception.

My souvenir Scotland shirt now hangs in a frame in my house, a memento of an unforgettable experience, and a reminder of my boyhood dream of one day playing for my country.

The time has probably come to admit that it is the closest I’ll ever get to fulfilling it.

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