Preface
In 1963 the British racing cyclist Tom
Simpson won the Bordeaux Paris road race. But Mr Tom was not the first
British rider to win that race. A lifetime before there was Choppy
Warburton and his little black bottle.
Paris – Winter 1904
Jimmy’s dead? From Drink I bet. All
that money did him no good in the end then. Well don’t expect tears from me. When
I first opened this little bar people would come just to talk about Jimmy,
Choppy and Arthur. Now we are all forgotten. The sport has changed and there
are new heroes. So why are you interested? You work for the papers I think? Am I right?
Of course I am. Don’t look so worried, I am happy to give my side. It is funny
don’t you think that it was drink that killed him. The poison got him in the
end. It just took eight years.
Choppy was our manager, and the
best coach in Britain. I never met better from Europe or America either. He was
a big man, not tall or fat. He was big, you felt presence. Behind the moustache
and those heavy eyes there was so much knowledge and plenty of wisdom. He knew
how to prepare a rider. He set our training, what we should eat, drink, what exercises
we should do. He also knew how to promote a
rider. When he took me to Paris, he had me race a horse from Buffalo Bill’s
circus, just so people would know who Tom Linton was.
1896 should have been a great year
but it was the start of so many bad things. It came to a head at the Chain Race
but the trouble started months before.
Bordeaux Paris was a brutal race,
369 miles. And my brother, Arthur Linton was leading.
Orleans 1896
It was just gone midnight when we
reached Tours. I could tell that my
brother was in trouble, he was fighting his bike. When he made the feed station
Choppy was there to catch him. His eyes were dead and his legs were gone. His
glassy stare and tottering limbs told us it was all over. He was a boxer still flailing
but dazed from the blows.
Choppy threw a blanket around him,
but Arthur would not give in.
‘God damn you, I am going on.’ He
fought off Choppy’s embrace. We never heard my brother swear. I was the hot
head. But that night he was in a state of terrible distress.
‘Ok son, you’re going on.’ Choppy’s
voice was full of worry as he wiped my brother’s face. When he pushed Arthur
off back into the night I did not say anything. I feared for him. I wanted him
to win but I wanted him safe more.
Things were far worse at 5 a.m. in
Orleans. Gaston Rivierre had overtaken him and now Arthur was a corpse on his
bike. Again Choppy spoke to him gently, wiping him down. From his coat he
produced the little black bottle.
‘Drink this down boy.’
Choppy poured the drink down my
Brothers throat. Normal men would have been finished but Arthur found some heart,
energy or pluck whatever you would call it. He found enough of those things to make
back 18 minutes over the last four and a half miles. He caught Rivierre two
miles before the finish.
Arthur had won Bordeaux/Paris, the
finest cycle race in the world. He could claim to be the champion cyclist of
the world.
Even as Choppy had his arms around us roaring
‘Arthur World Champion, Tom we did it’, the French were kicking up a fuss.
Rivierre’s people had cooked up a story. They said that Arthur had taken a
short cut. It was nonsense but it was a French race and Rivierre was the local
favourite. Arthur had to settle for being declared the joint winner.
Having to share the victory was a
bitter pill. But soon after the race rumours started to spread about what
happened in Orleans, about Choppy’s little black bottle.
We were young men who liked to
race, we liked to win and we liked to make money. But Choppy would always keep
us in check.
‘You need to rest. A rider only has
so many hard efforts in him, like matches. Don’t burn them unless you have to. You
need to take time to recover.’
I listened, but Arthur was
stubborn. He wanted to keep racing now, make the most of his status. I think he
wanted to make as much as he could and then get back home. I was happy sleeping
on a different bed every night, hearing strange tongues. Arthur never really
liked being away from Aberaman.
The team had talked of going to
America. Choppy knew there was money to be made and had connections. But Arthur
was newly married and would not go. Without our champion we could not go. We
all agreed that but Jimmy did not like it.
This was the start of our problems
with Jimmy. We had grown up with Jimmy Michael. He lived in the same street, we
were in the same cycle club growing up, went to the same school. He only stood
five foot but he was powerful and taut like a banjo. Jimmy
like me followed Arthur in signing up with Choppy. It was Arthur who got him
where he was, firstly back in Wales lending him his bike for big races, then when
Jimmy first came to London making sure he had proper support. I paced him in his first big race because
Arthur asked me too. It was Arthur who
introduced him to Choppy.
Jimmy had won the official World Championship
in Cologne earlier in the year. That Choppy and the public continued to talk of
Arthur as the Champion got under his skin. The fact that they were both on the
same team made the atmosphere bad.
For his part Arthur was now
desperate to prove he really was the champion cyclist of the world. He did not
rest, he kept racing. Sometimes it was brilliant, he won national titles but
there were times when he was just ill. This entire time people were whispering
about how Choppy prepared his riders, what he was giving them to drink.
So we all came together for the
Chain Races in June and we had to put in a strong showing for our sponsor.
The Simpson Lever Chain
The Simpson Lever Chain did nothing
to make a bike go faster. But to be fair it didn’t make it any slower either.
William Spears Simpson, the inventor of this contraption became our sponsor and
he had complete confidence. He was going to prove his chain worked best in a
series of races. His lever chain would be pitched against riders using the
regular kind. Simpson was no fool though. He had engaged Choppy Warburton’s
Gladiator Racing Team. This team that included me, and our two ‘World
Champions.’ So on 6th June in front of 12000 people at Catford Velodrome
we were due to prove Simpson right.
In the lead up a guy called Tom Eck
started hanging around. He was another coach, an American, big voice with lots
of talk. We heard the rumours. Eck was trying to poach Jimmy. I saw them
talking at Velodrome d’Hiver. He was telling Jimmy he was not getting his fair
share, promising him ‘big bucks’ to ride in America.
Jimmy was still a boy, and Eck knew
how to turn his head. Soon Jimmy was getting into big rows with Choppy about
money. There were nasty fights with the other riders on the team about who was
the best. He wanted out of his contract, but Choppy would have nothing of it.
Catford 1896- The Chain Race
When you see a bicycle race in a
velodrome you can hear the cheers of the crowd moving around the stadium like a
wave as the leaders flash past. Shouting banging the boards, it roars towards
you then washes over. The bikes themselves thunder and swoosh as they come past
on the banking. When you are racing you don’t hear this. The shouting and
banging becomes one long continuous roar, driving you on. That is what it was
like at Catford that day the crowd chasing us like Cutty Sark.
I was against Joe Stocks in the
hour race. One hour of pain. Whoever goes furthest in that hour wins. Simple
but never easy. Stocks was strong, he began to pull ahead. Maybe he was stronger,
but my team was better. Slowly, painfully I began to drag him back, edge ahead.
I felt my legs about to explode, I was drowning fresh air, but I kept at it,
clawing an advantage.
When the hour bell rang I had won.
29 miles, no new record but the crowd had loved the battle. For the first time
that day they bathed the riders in applause. Arthur had not been able show his
form in the two mile race. He was just too tired then Jimmy had ridden poorly in
his. He had started fine but quickly
faded. When he came off he was looking grey. So Simpson and Choppy were very
relieved that I had put on a show worthy of the event. In moments like that I
loved being a racing cyclist. My body still hearing the echoes of pain but this
becoming part of the chorus of elation. The elation that only victory can
bring.
When I got back in the marquee Jimmy
was causing trouble.
I am not short of things to say,
and don’t dodge a fight but Jimmy was kicking up a right old stink.
‘I tell you all, that drink he gave
me was poison!’ Jimmy was shouting. There were people from the National Cycling
Union there and the press.
‘Don’t talk daft Jimmy, it was only
water.’ Jenny Walters, another of Choppy’s boys was giving it back. ‘Your problem
is too much marital coupling; it has drained your speed.’
Jimmy looked like he was going to
hit Walters.
‘Choppy has been betting against me
and he poisoned me to make sure I did not win!’
‘Don’t talk daft boy.’
I could see Choppy was getting
angry now. I was angry, I had just completed a great win and everyone was
arguing about a race that Jimmy had thrown. Choppy was a cunning man but he
looked after his riders. We went home to Wales every Christmas with plenty of
trophies and money. Arthur died with £24,000 in the bank. He would have earned
a £1 a week down the mine.
But I could see the NCU men were
taking it all seriously, and your mates in the press were scribbling away.
Everyone had heard the story about Choppy’s bottle. Whatever was in Choppy’s little
black bottle had done me no harm. I could not believe he would try to harm one
of his boys. Stood in his long black coat brooding behind those dark eyes
Choppy loomed over Jimmy. But Jimmy would not keep quiet.
Soon Mr Eck appeared. He took up
Jimmy’s part, saying that he could see in his eyes he had been poisoned.
Jimmy stormed out of the marquee.
He was still in theory under contract to Choppy but he moved out of the
Gladiator team hostel. He took to sounding off in the press that he could beat
both Arthur and I over 100km even if we had two laps start.
After
The rumours would not go away. Then
my brother died. It was July, but he had never been well since the Chain Race.
He had raced himself to death. It hit
Choppy hard; he loved Arthur like a son. But the NCU had been unhappy about all
the stories that Jimmy had been spreading and the tales of Choppy’s little
black bottle. There had been lots of rumours about why Arthur had died; people
who claim to have seen things at Bordeaux Paris. He had broken no rules but Jimmy’s
complaints would not go away. Their
decision was cruel.
“That no permit in future will be
granted to any club, nor will any races under the NCU rules be permitted to
place on any track where J.S Warburton is allowed to enter the enclosure or
dressing rooms.”
With that Choppy was basically
banned from being a coach, they took his livelihood away. If he could not be with
his riders what could he do? Jimmy on
the other hand did fine. He got his racing licence back and had the excuse he
needed to weasel his way out of his contract. That they used my brothers death
to smear Choppy is something that I will never forgive. So Jimmy signed up for Tom Eck. My
brother was not cold in the ground when Jimmy got on a boat for America, a fat
new contract in his case. I knew the cure for grief, hard
work. I got back to racing. Choppy tried to clear his name and I wanted to stay
loyal. If there was anyone who should bare him a grudge it was me. I had lost
my brother, but I knew that he was loyal to us. He would never have done
anything to cause us harm. My brother died of typhoid pure and simple. But the
truth did not matter. Soon Choppy became ill. He had
problems with his heart. I had heard he was back in London for a hearing. He
was taking Jimmy to Court for libel. The case never got to Court. The night
before it was to be heard Choppy was staying with friends. He stayed up late
talking. He went to bed but never got up in the morning. There were not many at
his funeral. After he was banned people did not like to be seen in his company.
He had family but he had left them behind years ago. So when I hear Jimmy Michaels is
dead I cannot be sorry. We could have conquered the world together. Now they
are all gone. An athlete’s career is a short one.
I saved my money, and bought this little bar.
Paris 12th November 1915
Tom Linton racing cyclist died of
typhoid.
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