Jacques Pistard

Today would have been Beryl Burton’s 80th birthday.  An absolute machine on a bike, with over ninety domestic titles and seven world championships to her palmarès, she was the Best British All Rounder for twenty five consecutive years. Had cycling been introduced into the Olympic Games sooner (Beryl was 47 when it arrived) there is no doubt she’d have achieved a lot more.  Strong mentally and strong physically, she specialised in the solitary hell of time trials. In 1967 she set a new world record for the 12 hour time trial with a time so fast, it exceeded the men’s record and continued to do so for over two years. It remains the women’s record at 277.25 miles to this day and many other records of hers stood for decades before falling.  On the way to her record breaking ride, she caught and overtook Mike McNamara who was well on the way to setting the men’s record (who also won the men’s Best British All Rounder that same year) and, as she passed him, she gave him a liquorice allsort because “the poor dear seemed to be struggling a bit”. The poor fucker, not only was his record beaten and overshadowed, it was overshadowed with real style and by a woman which was a big deal in those days. (It still is for some people. Whiny little pricks crying at the cafe about being ‘chicked’ on the club run so it shows that despite all her great work, we still have a way to go.)  Beryl died as she lived, riding her bicycle, whilst hand delivering invitations to her 59th birthday party.  She is undoubtedly one of the greatest athletes that has ever lived. 

Michael Hübner. A world champion in the sprint, team sprint and Keirin. He was so strong that when he raced in Japan, he would regularly break their NJS stems. Eventually, the officials relented and he was allowed to use his own Bierhahn - Vorbau. The beer pump stem. No wonder they called him ‘The Beast From The East.’

Tomorrow is the 70th edition of the Vuelta and I am excited.

Henri Van Lerberghe. In 1919, four months after the end of the first world war, this demented bastard arrived at the start line of the Tour of Flanders straight from the trenches and with no bike. He borrowed one and announced to all the other riders that he’d “ride them all to hell.” They laughed at him. He waited until they rode past the favourite’s own home before attacking him and rode off into the wind alone. Then he stopped in sight of the velodrome for a couple of beers before the finish. In the end, he had to be persuaded to leave the pub and finish the race. He came first, 14 minutes ahead of the field (which is still the largest winning margin in the Tour of Flanders) and was so drunk he had to complete his lap of honour on foot. What a fucking champion. He was also known as ‘The Deathrider from Lichtervelde’ and you don’t get a nickname like that for getting a few Strava KOMs on your commute.

1980 saw the worst weather Liege-Bastogne-Liege (La Doyenne) had ever seen. There was a blizzard on the start line and, within the first hour, half the peloton had already retired. (Some signed in and didn’t even start such was the severity of the weather.) Two riders had broken away and somehow managed to get a lead of just over two minutes. Bernard Hinault however, wasn’t taking any of this shit and kept increasing the pace until most of the frozen peloton couldn’t keep up, dropped them and starting bridging the gap with the only two others who could stay with him. (God knows how they managed it.) Over the next 20km the three battled through the freezing conditions and eventually caught the breakaway on the Haute Levee climb. Hinault wound up some more, smashed through them and, with 80km still to go, didn’t look back and ploughed the rest of the way alone through the blizzard to finish with a margin of over nine minutes. Out of 174 starters, only 21 finished. Duclos-Lassalle (11th) was so delirious by the end that he doesn’t even remember finishing and Hinault froze his hands so badly that feeling never returned to some of his fingers. Some men are born Belgian, some men achieve Belgianness, some men have Belgainness thrust upon them and then there are men who kick everyone to death and just fucking take it. 

Laurens Ten Dam showing some real spirit. After crashing on stage 14 of the 2011 Tour - going over the bars and into a ditch on a descent of the Col d'Agnes - he got back up, wrapped some bandages around his face to hold it together and finished the stage.  Eight stitches and he was back in the saddle the next day. Some days you’re the hammer and some days you’re the nail. A very fucking hard nail. 

Andy Hampsten emerging from the abyss on the Gavia in 1988, the day he rode himself into history, into pink and everyone else into the ground. Not bad for a kid from the flats of North Dakota, living with others six in a room above a bar so they could race. No mattresses and special motor homes for these guys - forget marginal gains, sometimes you’ve either got it or you haven’t and Andy certainly had it. A whole fucktonne of it.  Here’s an account in his own words: http://italiancyclingjournal.blogspot.nl/2013/05/recalling-1988-giro-ditalia-hampstens.html