Twelve Champions

Twelve Champions: Peter Whitfield. Wychwood 2007. 260 pages paperback, £11.99

Peter Whitfield's first book, The Condor Years , was greeted by those lucky enough to read it as a unique, well-written and lavishly-illustrated record of Britain's domestic racing scene from the end of the war until the Millennium. His new book expands the lives and careers of a dozen of those who, despite their great achievements, could be spared only limited space in the earlier history. Given the limit of twelve, few of us will want to quarrel with the selection: Eileen Sheridan, Crimes and Arnold, Booty, Colden, West, Roach, Griffiths, Engers, Cammish and Beryl Burton. What do they have in common? All of them are or were extraordinary people and extraordinary athletes and for me one of the great pleasures of the book is the emphasis on their uniqueness, in marked contrast to the current tabloid obsession with ordinariness. Yes, Eileen was possibly the second ‘Housewife Superstar' (after Fanny Blankers-Koen), but there was absolutely nothing ordinary about her physical and mental abilities, and she must count as one of the most remarkable of all endurance athletes. Her achievements were wonderful, but what could she have done today, a full-time athlete with proper support and backing?

Because even though she turned professional for Hercules to attack road records, she shares with all the others in this book (and despite their being ‘home' professionals) an approach to cycling that is fundamentally amateur, a love of the sport. Who could have been greater amateurs than John Arnold or Ray Booty? The ignorance of the huge contribution of amateurs in sport is a great lack in so many commentaries and histories. Many of their achievements stand comparison with those of the professionals – and they did it all alongside a full-time job!

It isn't all sweetness and light: Sheridan, Arnold, Booty, West, Barras are easy-going, laid back, taking their successes apparently in their stride. But some of the others are further along the continuum towards the quest for ultimate perfection, obsession even. Frank Colden, afflicted by multiple food allergies, showed what single-minded dedication could do, averaging 400 miles a week of hard training from October 1961 to spring 1962. Like most of his contemporaries, all this was done on top of his daily work, and quite unsupported by any agency. In September, having achieved his goal, Colden left the sport for good.

Alf Engers' obsessive pursuit of the 25-mile record is as well-known as his fights with the RTTC officials whose attempts to get him off the road were equally obsessive. Indeed, British race officials come pretty badly out of most of the stories: the shameful non-selection of Les West for the Tokyo Olympics; a Sheridan record, professionally-sponsored disallowed because, horror of horrors, there had been advance publicity : the difficulties experienced by anyone at all out of the ordinary run (Engers, Roach, Griffiths). Officials in both governing bodies were concerned more about their own bit of power than the needs of cyclists, selection was based on nepotism, and Britain lost many of its potential internationals to the lure of racing up and down dual carriageways in the quest of speed which they couldn't reproduce in international competition. Roach, who could have been a great roadman, is a typical example.

It's easy to forget how poorly-supported British international cyclists were in the 1960s. When we went to the Tour of Holland, where Les first showed his great talent, we received no spare bikes, equipment, tyres, or tracksuits – just two jerseys to last eight days. We cut a shabby figure alongside the Dutch sponsored teams, to all intents professional squads, complete with manager, driver, mechanic, soigneur, team car and briefcases full of amphetamines.

Like West, Roach was shabbily treated by the usual out-of-touch selectors, clearly seen as a maverick, a non-conformist. Another lifelong amateur, he opposed sponsored clubs as backdoor professionalism and deprecated the national obsession with dragstrips and times. It is a matter of fact that he has been proved right on all counts: the days of the dragstrips are numbered, poorly-thought-out sponsorship has hastened the decline of British club cycling without any commensurate benefits, and the governing bodies no longer have anything to do with international selection.

Most remarkable of all is the tragic figure of Beryl Burton, arguably the finest athlete the world has ever seen, whose determination became obsessive to the point of destruction. It's difficult to quarrel with Whitfield's chapter title: ‘A Life Sacrificed'.

Everyone could add more champions, and there are some who should be honoured alongside those in this book: Holmes, Bradley, Metcalfe, Longland, the amazing Peter Hill, and we may hope that their histories may be presented in another volume. But for the time being you'll have to make do with this outstanding work.

Ray Minovi