I have just come off the track for the final time on my first night of Track League racing at south London’s Herne Hill Velodrome, and have tuned in to the renowned commentary stylings of Phil Wright, over the tinny pitch-side PA.
I have not lit up the track, but nor have I struggled too hard to hold the wheels. I wasn’t ever among the top positions, but I did manage to come away with one of the jerseys awarded as a prize for sneaking a prime [ed – pronounced ‘preem’, the French word for gift, and awarded for intermediate sprints] in the final points race. More meaningfully I’ve been welcomed, by Joe, Rob, Swanny, Pete and the rest, into the band of ragtag riders known as “the Cs,” one of the myriad groups that help form the wider HHV community. Phil’s rascally, wry, irreverent remark to the neighbours reflects not only a love for this place that everyone here wears on their lycra sleeves, but a confidence in its continuity.
Seventeen years ago, the 132-year-old venue was in serious trouble. The track itself
