Victoria Pendleton - Between the Lines - My Autobiography

Cycling also became more successful for me. I won lots of competitions on the grass tracks of southeast England and started to enjoy the limited amount of prize money I was given after each victorious race.

Dad kept telling me that I was improving at an extraordinary rate. He thought I had the potential to be an amazing cyclist. Dad said I might be good enough to become a world champion one day.

‘Yeah, yeah, Dad,’ I said. But I was happy Dad was happy. I stopped washing my hands more than three or four times a day. They looked pale and slender again, rather than raw and puffy.

Mum still wouldn’t allow me to race on hard tracks, in case I fell and injured myself, but Dad and I dreamed up a devious plan. He was racing on the cement at Welwyn Garden City and we decided between us that I’d also have a crack at the junior event. We did not dare tell Mum. So we sneaked my bike into the boot of the car and covered it with a blanket. Mum thought I was just going to watch Dad race when we set off for Welwyn. She had no idea that I was about to make my cement-track debut.

The track at Welwyn was organized by some very officious people – in particular a grumpy woman who was furious that I climbed onto my bike from the wrong side. Even though the track was relatively flat, and without any steep inclines, she made me get off and walk around to the apparently safe side of my bike.

‘That’s how you get on your bike at Welwyn,’ she said cuttingly.

I couldn’t believe it. I was going to show her and all her sniggering cyclists. The girl who got on her bike the wrong way would destroy the field.

And I did. I won the junior race, beating boys and girls, with ridiculous ease. I made a point of getting off my bike the wrong way. I did it the grass-track way, rather than the Welwyn way.

I was getting noticed – and by more thoughtful people than just surly ladies in Welwyn. All my results, and victories, were printed in the back pages of Cycling Weekly and, incredibly, attention was being paid to my progress; and not just by Dad.

After Welwyn I started to ride against men, in handicap races. Dad and I would turn up and they would take one look at my skinny legs and my puppy-dog face and the handicapper would decide to push all the men a few more metres back. How could a puny sixteen-year-old girl hold off the muscly hulks? They were expected to hunt me down. Most of them couldn’t. At the finish line I would still be ahead. I would go up to the presentation table, collect my trophy and prize-money, smile demurely for the local photographer and go home, to Mum, where I would say, as usual, ‘Ta-Dah!’ and show her my booty.

Yet, when it came, the telephone call just about knocked me sideways. I could tell that Dad thought it was important because he looked flushed when he handed me the phone.

‘Hello?’ I said, not guessing for a moment that my life was about to change forever. I still thought of myself as the guilty and frightened girl on the hill, chasing after Dad as hard as her spindly legs could pedal. I could not believe that anyone, seriously, thought of me in a positive way.

Marshall Thomas sounded gentle and kind. He explained that he was the assistant coach of the national track team. I was amazed that we even had a British track team – let alone a coach who had actually heard of me. Marshall had been following my results. He had even seen the details of my win in Welwyn.

I didn’t tell him that I was the girl who climbed on her bike the wrong way. Too stunned to really speak, I waited for him to continue.

‘We’d like to invite you up to Manchester,’ Marshall said, ‘if you fancy having a ride at the velodrome.’

‘I’ll pass you over to my dad,’ I said helplessly, but remembering to thank him for calling.

I had no idea there was even a velodrome in Manchester; but Dad knew. His eyes shone and he smiled when he put down the phone. He looked so proud of me. The girl on the hill, the girl who once couldn’t read a map and kept washing her hands, had made her father so happy.

‘I knew it,’ he said quietly as he pulled me towards him. ‘I knew you were good …’

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.