Beryl Burton was once described as the greatest British sportsperson you've probably never heard of.
"Beryl who?" I hear you ask. Which rather proves the point.
But when the history of British women's cycling is written, the achievements of Burton will cast the efforts of Victoria Pendleton, Laura Trott and Becky James into the shade. Burton dominated the sport for a quarter of a century, between 1955 and 1980, won seven world titles and more than 90 national championships, and set a stack of time and distance records, many of which still stand today.
Burton was even chosen alongside her daughter, Denise, in the GB team for the 1972 world championships. But her greatest moment had been five years earlier, in the national 12-hour time trial, when she set a new distance record of 277.25 miles. In doing so, she beat the men's record by 0.73 miles, an achievement that was not bettered by any man for another two years.
All of which is laudable enough, but the feat stands out for another reason. In the course of it, Burton overtook Mike McNamara – who would set a new men's record that day – a moment that should probably count as one of the greatest in the history of sport, but which acquired a rather surreal dimension, as Burton would later explain in her autobiography, Personal Best.
"Mac raised his head slightly and looked at me," Burton wrote. "Goodness knows what was going on in his mind, but I thought some gesture was required on my part. I was carrying a bag of Liquorice Allsorts in the pocket of my jersey and, on impulse, I groped in my bag and pulled one out.
"I can still remember that it was one of those Swiss-roll shaped ones, white with a coating of black liquorice. 'Liquorice Allsort, Mac?' I shouted, and held it towards him. 'Ta, love,' he said, popping the sweet into his mouth. I put my head down and drew away."
Cycling magazine's breathless report included the news that her blistering second lap of the 15-mile circuit had even included "a stop over a hedge," which may have been more information than her followers really wanted just then. Personally, I'd rather dwell on the Liquorice Allsort exchange, although when I picture the scene I can't help but conjure the image of Wallace and Gromit pootling by in their sidecar combination at the critical moment of handover.
More seriously, Burton's passing manoeuvre – and here we are talking of what happened on the road rather than behind the hedge – represents one of the very few moments where a woman got the better of a man (or rather, in fairness to McNamara, many men) in a sport where being female is generally assumed to be a significant competitive disadvantage.
Yet her feat comes to mind at a time when a handful of high-profile women are showing that there are areas where gender becomes insignificant, where men and women can compete on equal terms.
Katie Walsh's involvement in the Grand National was only the most recent example of a woman reaching the top in horse racing. In eventing, women have long rubbed shoulders with, and often beaten, their male counterparts. And wasn't it splendid to see Zara Phillips win her team silver medal at the Olympics last year? Just shows what the daughter of a single mother living on state handouts can do with a little bit of determination on her side.
Horsepower of a different kind is fuelling the careers of other women. Oban's own Susie Wolff, already a development driver with Williams, looks set to become the next female F1 driver, while great things are expected of Alice Powell, the first female to win the Formula Renault championship, a recognised nursery of future motor racing stars.
Power to their elbows/fetlocks/crankshafts/whatever. But in celebrating equality where it can and should occur, it would be stupid to lose sight of the fact that in many areas of adult sport, it is fair and sensible to separate the genders. In other words, let men compete against men and women compete against women.
It is almost exactly 10 years since Michelle Wie, then just 13 years old, became the youngest player to make the cut at an LPGA event, when she tied for ninth at the Kraft Nabisco Championship. Given its place in the calendar, and the fact that Annika Sorenstam had just accepted an invitation to play in a men's event, some more excitable commentators suggested that Wie could become the first woman to play in the Masters.
Sadly, Wie seemed just as excitable, happily telling all and sundry that she had her sights set on Augusta. A flurry of invitations to man's events soon followed – as did a flurry of missed cuts.
It is impossible not to feel sorry for Wie as an individual for failing to fulfil her dreams. But in reflecting on the silliness of a decade ago, it is also easy to feel relieved that neither she, nor Sorenstam, nor any other female golfer broke off from the sisterhood and achieved success in the men's game.
Because far from striking a blow for equality, they would have stripped the women's game, and the vast majority of women players, of value. And if a female player had the right to play on the men's tour, then on what principle could a man's entry into a women's event be blocked? In sport, as in most things, it is dangerous to think that some are more equal than others.
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