The Olympic cyclist on eating 15 Danish pastries while training, plus the food hell of the 1996 Moscow games
I was desperate to get a black and gold Raleigh Super Burner when I was six but the price was £105, which felt like a million. My parents said they’d contribute half if I raised the other, to teach me the value of money and hard work. What I did was wait until guests at my parents’ dinner parties had drunk a few glasses of wine, then I’d walk in – ready for bed in my dressing gown – and show them a catalogue and say: “This is the bike I’m saving for, but I’ve only got £2.50 so far.” They’d give me fivers and I had the Burner in no time.
Mum was a nurse and worked night shifts, but cooked all our evening meals and breakfasts. Once she went to Greece but was terrified that me, Dad and my sister would get malnutrition and not survive her absence. So, a microwave appeared and she home-cooked and froze two weeks’ worth of hearty meals. I remember her saying, “Wait for the ping, then eat.” Without Mum knowing, during many of her night shifts, Dad and I would use the wooden kitchen table we ate meals at as our workbench, rather than strip down my mountain bike in the dark outside. There were hanging lights we’d raise up and the bike could go upside down on the table. Each time there’d be mud, grease and oil everywhere, but we’d elaborately clear up the mess and then I’d take the bike – gleaming – to my bedroom and fall asleep gazing at it. Sometimes, Mum would spot a smear at breakfast and ask, “How did that get there?” and we’d say, “We’ve absolutely no idea.”
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