Chris Hoy: The Autobiography

Eighteen years later, I had the honour, and the unforgettable experience, of making my own appearance at Murrayfield for a Scotland international. It was the 2008 Autumn Test against the mighty All Blacks, who had just finished their haka when I was expected to perform the daunting task of delivering the match ball.

My only hope was that it would prove more successful than my previous ‘guest’ appearance on a rugby pitch, during the half-time break of an Edinburgh Gunners match in 2002, following my gold medal at the Manchester Commonwealth Games.

On that occasion, having been introduced and interviewed in the middle of the pitch, I was asked if I was a big rugby fan.

‘Oh yeah,’ I said. ‘I played at school, went to Murrayfield a lot – I love it.’

‘OK, Chris, a final question,’ said the MC. ‘Who are you supporting today?’

‘Well, no surprises there, I’m an Edinburgh boy, so I’m backing THE REIVERS!’

I was hoping to get a big cheer from the 5,000 in the crowd. Instead, and much to my surprise, there was a stunned silence, then a chorus of boos. Unbeknown to me, six months earlier, the city’s professional rugby club had changed its name from the Edinburgh Reivers to the Gunners. Which might sound innocuous enough, but in the highly politicized and heavily factionalized world of Scottish rugby, it was significant – they had only been the Reivers after an amalgamation, of sorts, with the Borders regional team. And now the name had been reassigned to the Borders; so ‘the Reivers’ referred not to Edinburgh, but to their bitterest rivals. What I had done was a bit like shouting ‘Come on, City!’ at Old Trafford – though fortunately rugby supporters are a little less partisan, and a lot more forgiving.

There was no such faux pas at Murrayfield in November 2008. Wearing a Scotland shirt with ‘3’ and ‘Hoy’ on the back, and with my three Olympic gold medals hanging from my neck, I was introduced to the crowd and walked into a wall of noise, plonking the ball down in the middle, then turning to the Scotland team and making what I hoped would be a series of rousing, fist-clenched gestures. I may even have shouted ‘Go onnnnnnnn!’ or something similarly encouraging. There was nothing planned or rehearsed about it; it was completely spontaneous, inspired by the noise of the crowd and the exhilarating sense of anticipation, expectation and sheer drama inside Murrayfield Stadium. It didn’t work, unfortunately – Scotland lost, after a decent performance – but the response from the crowd had a similar effect on me to that of David Sole’s famous slow march: the hairs on the back of my neck stood up. I was stunned. In all my previous visits to Murrayfield, most of them in the schoolboy enclosure, I could never have imagined that one day a cyclist would receive such a reception.

My souvenir Scotland shirt now hangs in a frame in my house, a memento of an unforgettable experience, and a reminder of my boyhood dream of one day playing for my country.

The time has probably come to admit that it is the closest I’ll ever get to fulfilling it.

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