BY DENE BEBBINGTON
Thirty years ago, when Beryl Burton passed away at the age of 58 while on her bike, my own cycling days were already over. Nearing 30, I’d spent too many hours sitting at a computer, and the convenience of owning a car had left my muscles and willpower weak. Had I tried to cycle with Beryl—even in her late 50s—I’d have been left miles behind, gasping for breath.
Whether top athletes are born or made is debatable. The right genes certainly help, but Beryl’s story shows that bloody-mindedness matters too, even if she occasionally took it to an extreme. Born in Harehills, Leeds, in 1937, she knew austerity from an early age due to wartime rationing. If there’s truth in the reputation of Yorkshire folk taking a no-nonsense approach to life, then she was the epitome—perversely preferring to be in class rather than enjoying herself during school holidays.
A severe illness at a young age, brought on by an inability to answer any questions on the Eleven-plus exam, tested her mettle and instilled an indomitable spirit. Until then, she’d done well at school; her real-life exam failure—normally the stuff of anxiety dreams—seems to have caused Sydenham’s chorea (once known as St Vitus’ Dance) and fever, leaving her half-paralysed and bedridden for nine months. From that mental and physical trauma, a world champion cyclist emerged.
She met Charlie Burton by chance while working in a tailor’s factory. He was a member of Morley Cycling Club, and she was attracted to this man seven years her senior—despite initially thinking he had a deformity. In fact, his awkward walk was only due to wearing cycling shoes.
She ignored a doctor’s advice not to ride uphill or get severely out of breath, and was so unfit for a time that others had to push her up inclines. The cycling bug soon took hold, and she entered a time trial at age 16. Though a modest result didn’t hint at future greatness, an overarching impulse to excel against all comers had taken root.
Fortuitously meeting and then marrying Charlie in 1955 allowed her to make the most of this newfound passion. Once her talent could no longer be denied—such as when she bested the Morley club members—the couple agreed that she would race while he maintained the bike and served as her one-man support team.
Professional cycling was a chauvinistic man’s world in the 1950s and ’60s, and it took campaigning in Britain and abroad to secure a women’s event at the 1958 World Championships. Some men may have rued this when Beryl beat one of their records. Her first medal came in 1957 at a national 100-mile time trial, and she won her first women’s world championship in 1960. Seven years later, she surpassed the men’s 12-hour time trial distance record by three-quarters of a mile over Mike McNamara—at one point offering him a liquorice allsort as she caught and passed him.
Although Beryl’s races rarely made the TV limelight, she surprised many by being voted second place in the BBC’s 1967 Sports Personality of the Year. Off the bike, her achievements were recognised with an MBE in 1964, followed by an OBE four years later.
Revered by those in the know and feared by her rivals, Beryl’s hard-nosed attitude arguably went too far at times. Instead of showing motherly pride when beaten into second place by her daughter Denise in the 1976 British National Road Race Championships, she refused to shake hands on the podium and threw an adult tantrum in the dressing room. As she admitted, winning was everything.
So what made Beryl such a great cyclist? Not tactical nous—she lacked that. Her simple approach was to power ahead of others and try to stay in front. Perhaps this Yorkshire lass was right that a harder life in the north of England gave her an edge, compared to southerners having an easier time off the bike. Doing arduous work on a rhubarb farm owned by Nim Carline—himself a successful competitive cyclist—kept her muscles working while out of the saddle. “Put in the miles” was her mantra. Training meant fast, long slogs, with her quirky riding position: right hand a little higher on the handlebars than the left.
As in any sport, success requires more than sheer physical power. Mindset matters at least as much, and Beryl seemed fuelled by past events. She once said you need “that bit of bitterness” to win. Perhaps that bitterness stemmed from failing her Eleven-plus and being ill for so long, but she preferred not to reveal its source. She also used a bike for everyday transport rather than relying on a car or public transport.
If even a champion like Mike McNamara couldn’t keep up with Beryl Burton, it’s no wonder her 12-hour time trial distance record from 1967 wasn’t broken by a man for two years—and it was a staggering fifty years before a woman broke it. Cycling journalist Sidney Saltmarsh’s comments—that allowing a women’s event was just to give men “peace and quiet” and that women would make themselves “look ridiculous”—didn’t age well given Beryl’s achievements.
Sadly, a price had to be paid for decades of gruelling leg work and relentless pressure on the heart. One day in May 1996, she mounted her bike for the umpteenth time and cycled towards Denise’s house to deliver a birthday party invitation. She never made it; her heart gave out en route.
If I’d known that liquorice allsorts were a champion’s sweet of choice during my tiring cycling holidays, I might have scoffed packets of them.
Dene Bebbington is retired and writes in his spare time for various magazines. His website can be accessed here.