Two-time world champion thrived as most successful Briton in six-day racing and will be remembered fondly for his fight
I first met Tony Doyle in the lounge of a hotel near his home in Woking. He arrived early, smartly dressed and prepared to give up several hours for an interview about his cycling career. He was similarly generous with his time and wisdom during a friendship that lasted another eight or so years. He was also punctual without fail and I never saw him without a formal jacket. Tony was a proud man and the news of his death last Friday came as a shock.
I considered him a mate and I hoped the feeling was mutual. If I needed a quote, a contact or just fancied a chat, no request was too much for him. Sure, as a journalist, I was of use to Tony and he was happy to take advantage of that. But he helped me out far more often than I did him.
When a personal situation of mine had not quite worked out, he was sympathetic, nonjudgmental and robust in his advice. He offered compliments, too, and I knew them to be heartfelt because Tony was just as quick to point out my shortcomings. With Tony, you valued his frankness even when it stung. I could see why he was a valued mentor to young cyclists.
For some reason I could never help him in quite the same way, though I had known about his mental-health struggles since that first meeting in the Premier Inn. At the time he admitted that he had not long emerged from a difficult spell. Quite sensibly he divulged this off the record, but said that he planned to discuss it in an autobiography. He wanted to demonstrate to fellow sufferers how they might come out the other side.
The last I heard, the book was unfinished. With the help of his wife Adriana, a teacher, Tony had written several chapters. But without the motivation of a publisher’s advance, they had not managed to finish it.
This was a shame. Tony led a storied life. He was twice a world champion in the individual pursuit, in 1980 and 1986, an exceptional achievement when cycling was of strictly minority interest in Britain. Tony recalled training alone on Herne Hill’s outdoor velodrome in the depths of winter. As a young rider he made the commute from his suburban home to a job in central London part of his training programme, improvising an interval session en route. It was hardly scientific but the roads were at least less busy back then.
As a professional he was among the main men on the domestic road racing scene. It made a brief appearance on the mainstream in the 1980s through the Kellogg’s criterium series but the real money was abroad, both on road and track. Tony chose the latter, submitting himself to the six-day racing scene. Part indoor entertainment, part brutally-demanding athletic event, it involved several days of near-constant riding across the continent. It required stamina, track craft and, with only a limited number of racing slots available, a strong personality.
Tony thrived on it. He became part of the Blue Train of riders who were invited to every meeting and commanded the biggest fees. He won 23 events, the most of any Briton. An imposing, athletic figure, he was known for his fluid, quick pedalling style. He had offers to join European road-race teams but he was doing too well to compromise his career on this winter circuit.
In 1989 he crashed at the Munich Six-Day and suffered a terrible head injury. He ended up in a coma and was read the last rites. Even once he came from the brink the doctors feared brain damage, but Tony pulled through and submitted himself to months of rehab.
Physically he appeared to make a full recovery, helping Britain win silver in the team pursuit at the 1994 Commonwealth Games, but he wondered if the accident had affected the wiring of his brain. Though purely a self-diagnosis, he said his consistently upbeat approach to life might have been checked.
He retired in 1995, aged 37, and turned his focus to the administrative side of the sport. Later that year he was elected president of British Cycling on a platform which, he said, would bring increased transparency to the executive. The ruling body was acutely political back then, however, and he resigned only months afterwards following a dispute with the board.
Fortunately, Tony could work a room. He was quick-witted, charming and outgoing. He was unafraid to call a politician, cycling executive or journalist in an attempt to network them. He was diligent and persistent too, qualities that presumably helped him find employment elsewhere in the industry, including his role in helping to set up the Tour of Britain and occasional commentary work on Eurosport.
He would have liked a formal position supporting elite cyclists but could not quite crack the new generation’s circle of trust. Perhaps he should have served a coaching apprenticeship. Maybe he had not made the right friends. Whatever the truth, his complaint that his knowledge was going to waste seemed reasonable.
He once told me about the time he worked on London 2012, serving as the chairman of the Olympic delivery board for Southwark, and was struck by a bout of depression. In one important meeting, he had struggled not to walk out, such was his inner turmoil. I hope his family do not mind my recounting such personal detail, but the point is this: he stayed. This is partly how I will remember Tony. For his fight.
In 2019, a few weeks after his 60th birthday, he told me that the landmark should not denote a shift in this mindset. He retained his “passion” for the sport and still had much to give to it. I was concerned about a year ago, then, when he stopped returning calls. It turned out that the enthusiasm that had fuelled him for so long, taking him from training on the A roads of Middlesex to the summit of his sport, had been extinguished. I hoped it would prove temporary.
I wrote to him knowing that he was still reading messages. But I didn’t know he had been taken ill. Few of us did. Possibly there should be some comfort in the knowledge that he went quickly and lived with his cancer diagnosis for only a month. But right now it does not feel like it. Travel well, old friend.
Robert Dineen is a sports journalist who has worked for, among others, the Daily Telegraph and the Mail on Sunday. He is the author of Kings of the Road: A Journey Into The Heart of British Cycling