Cycle Fans

The Den, Cold Blow Lane. Home to Millwall FC. (The 80s)
Saturday afternoon and the throng strides purposefully in the direction of the ground. Through railway arches and along cold cobbled streets. Past burger vans, the smell of frying onions almost tempting. Five pounds got you through the turnstiles in those days, into the ramshackle Den. Blue and white peeling paint, barbed wire and fencing everywhere. Find the usual spot on the terrace near the halfway line and nod to the regulars who frequent this little piece of heaven. A bit of banter with the boys and then its time for the teams to take the pitch, the distorting PA hammering out the Millwall song.

“Let ‘em come, let ‘em come, let ‘em come. Let ‘em all come down to the Den.”

I was hooked from the moment I stepped into that ground. The singing, the terrible jokes, the shouting, the inedible pies, the disgusting toilets. Overweight, pissed-up Bermondsey boys hurling abuse at the cowering away supporters, corralled in the corner. Nylon replica shirts, straining over beer-bellies, matched—or mismatched—with the casual labels of the day. Thousands of braying beasts in blue and Burberry.

To describe the appeal of a live football match—especially at Millwall, where the entertainment is of dubious quality—is not easy. Watching it on the telly is a second-best, vicarious experience. Having a few mates round and getting the beers in will help—leaping round the room, waving your arms and shouting “Yes!” feels very strange when done alone—but in no way does it replicate going to the match. Something is missing. Atmosphere, camaraderie, call it what you will. It will not be experienced sitting on the sofa.

Hup, hup. Dig, dig
White Lane is a brute of a climb. More commonly known as Titsey, this sheer escarpment on the North Downs has been home to the Bec CC hill climb since 1956. It starts off steep and, just when you think you have the measure of it, gets steeper. Riders with gears will be scrabbling around for something lower at this point. The fixed wheel jockeys just grit their teeth and get on with it.

This is where the first smattering of spectators will be stood, urging you on. “Hup, hup. Dig, dig”—those utterings peculiar to the hill climb. The road bends gently to the right and the smattering becomes an unbroken line, the noise changes from individual shouts to a roar of indecipherable racket.

And now the crowd are three deep, narrowing the road to the width of a single, skinny cyclist, baying for blood. They love to see you suffer on a hill climb and they are never disappointed. The burning sensation in your lungs as the finish line is crossed will remain long after the rest of the pain has subsided, a reminder—should it be needed—of the agony you have endured.

Spectators are now milling around, chatting and catching up with old friends over a cup of tea. Asking the riders—those capable of speaking—how their race went. The presentation of the generous prizes is a special moment, a chance for fans to show appreciation to athletes who have given everything. The Bec hill climb has to seen to be believed.

There is smoking, drinking and swearing
To catch cycling supporters at their rowdy best, you need to pop over to Belgium for one of the world cup cyclo cross races. This is where the football fan analogy becomes clear. Thousands of Belgians, with a smattering of Brits, Dutch, French and Swiss, pay to watch the best bike handlers in the world suffer in the mud. There is smoking, drinking and swearing. Each top rider has their own supporters club, clad in identical jackets, cowbells and air horns at the ready. They unfurl banners and defend their turf. Crowd trouble is not unheard of, the mixture of alcohol and rabid partisanship a familiar cocktail to a Millwall supporter.

The 2007 world championship race in Hooglede-Gits, Belgium, had it all. An amazing race, with a constantly changing lead and crashes galore. A chorus of boos from the Dutch section of the crowd as the top Belgian riders passed. An even louder chorus from the Belgians as the Dutch riders went by—no love lost there. Early in the race, one of the men in orange, clearly affected by the ill-feeling raining down on him, raised his hands from the bars and motioned to the crowd, in a ‘come and have go if you think you’re hard enough’ kind of way. They did not take up his kind offer…

No one likes us, we don’t care
The Tour de France in London pulled in two million spectators and generated £88 million for businesses in the capital. The excellent Smithfield Nocturne saw five thousand fans braving torrential rain to witness a great evening’s entertainment in the Clerkenwell meat market. Put on a spectacle and the people will come. These events show how much can be done with good organisation and strong publicity.

You get the feeling there are some in the cycling community who revel in the outsider status of our sport, much like Millwall supporters; ‘No one likes us, we don’t care.’ Thankfully, there are more people prepared to take cycling forwards and get the general public on board.

Now then, who wants the cyclo cross world championships in London? Hyde Park? Regents Park or Hampstead Heath maybe? Beer, fags, Belgians, cowbells and a bike race. These are a few of my favourite things. As they say at Millwall, “Do you want some?”