There are two kinds of farewell tours. One is the kind where nostalgia drips from the ceiling as an octogenarian daunders around the stage hoping they can be heard above the din of the singalong.
Then there is this kind.
Not content with having redefined cycling, Sir Chris Hoy is now redefining hope. Radiating positivity like Doddie Weir did in the final chapters of his life, he is riding into a sunset that seems sure to leave a stunning glow across the sky.
Is this actually a farewell tour, though?
Thanks to Sir Chris and Doddie before him, another thing being redefined is how we describe our sporting heroes. Take the term ‘living legend’. Hoy is a living legend in ways that the cliché has not – until now – been able to convey.
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Sir Chris Hoy discussed the highs of his career in front of a sellout audience in Glasgow
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Sir Chris Hoy was in conversation with journalist Eilidh Barbour
A man with Stage 4 cancer who has responded to his diagnosis with the same defiance as when his favourite race was taken away, and he responded by winning three different races at the next Olympics.
Wearing a cold cap throughout chemotherapy, subjecting himself to intense pain for 2-4 hours at a time, just so that his son would not have to adjust to Dad arriving at the school gate one day with a bald head.
Continuing to work, including the writing of a book that reads like a bible for anyone who finds their life darkened by terminal illness, and more than a little triggering for those who have accompanied someone down that tunnel, because it’s all so honest and true. And yet, it’s a book that introduces a new kind of hope.
And now the farewell tour, which reached Glasgow on Monday night when admirers filled the Royal Concert Hall to hear a dying man explain why he is here when he could be at home cuddling his wife and kids.
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Sir Chris Hoy is determined to promote awareness of prostate cancer following his diagnosis
To explain why he will continue doing as much as he can, for as long as he can, to help as many people as he can.
It turns out not to be very complicated, and quite within the character of this charming and funny 49-year-old, who always stayed grounded despite the superhuman physiology and iron will that took him to the top of his sport.
Don’t forget, as an athlete Hoy was relentless. He could not conceivably have won much more than he did. Now he approaches life with the same stubbornness, determined not to lose any battle it is possible for him to win.
Stubbornness was critical to the formation of the Hoy legend. In the early years of his career, he was a kilo specialist, picking his battles carefully in the time trial. One thousand metres around a circle in about 60 seconds. His ‘pet’ event.
I had the privilege of being in Manchester reporting on Hoy’s first big individual win – Commonwealth gold in 2002. Not long afterwards, he added the world title in Copenhagen, and because text messages were now a thing, we had a brief exchange about celebrating with a few Carlsbergs. A trivial dialogue with a man who was about to redefine cycling.
Hoy won his first Olympic title in glorious scenes in Athens – before the kilo was abruptly cancelled by the International Cycling Union. At first, the totemic Edinburgh man was consumed with anger. Then he circled back around and had another look at the track scene, spoke to various high-performance experts about his options, and decided not only to redirect his energy but transform an unwanted change into a career-defining turning point.
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Sir Chris Hoy won six Olympic golds in his glittering cycling career
Twenty years on, Hoy is today competing in a very different kind of time trial. But with the exact same rugged determination, and the same broad smile.
While the auditorium is empty, there is a chance to meet and greet the winner of 13 world titles and six Olympic golds. The opportunity to say hi to Sir Chris and pose for a photo is irresistible for about 100 people who chat softly in the front three rows as they wait.
‘Just an inspiration,’ says one to their neighbour.
‘I know! I’m sitting here worrying about a leak in my toilet and look what he’s going through.’
A Scouse presenter comes out to whip up the crowd, and this feels incongruous because they may have come here expecting a poignant encounter with their hero. One who, for all his courage, one might expect to be a little worn and weakened after a long 18 months.
Someone asks if Sir Chris will be signing his book, All That Matters, and the answer is a polite no because there will only be time for photos, because there are so many people here. After that nobody knows quite what to expect. Then the great champion strides on to the stage, dressed in a tight black T-shirt that complements his arm wrestler biceps, black jeans and polished brown ankle boots.
Each of us lines up for the chance to step across the stage, and even before I get to Chris he has recognised me from back in the day, and welcomed me by name. This is another reminder of the great champion’s class. Apart from a few phone interviews, we haven’t actually met since sharing a pizza on Leith Walk 23 years ago.
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Sir Chris Hoy wins the Men’s Keirin final at the 2012 London Olympics
I decline the photo, having come here to reconnect with an athlete I could not admire more, and because every moment of this very brief catch-up is priceless, and because any second now it will be someone else’s turn. Chris insists that we take the photo anyway. Maybe next time I’ll ask him to sign the book in my bag.
An Evening With Chris Hoy is a very meaningful thing to be doing on a Monday. As the hall fills, there is a steady hum of positivity and appreciation; isn’t he amazing given that most of us are older than him, and yet healthier than him, and yet here he is, and how lucky we are.
There is a standing ovation when the man in black enters the room, followed closely by Eilidh Barbour, who gets straight to the point of the matter.
“So how are you?”
Hoy takes a minute to find his rhythm. He is not here to talk in grave detail about diagnosis day, or the future of Sarra, Calum and Chloe, or to relive the horrors and fears revealed in the book. But cancer, as he put it, “was an uninvited guest and now it stays with us”.
He knows there is a need for authenticity here, but it has to be about hope. The insistence that he is genuinely doing very well in the circumstances provides succour.
From that point, the stories flow. Athens 2004. Beijing 2008. London 2012. Glasgow 2014, the Opening Ceremony with Queen Elizabeth II and his Uncle Andy – a sprinter and former PoW who would caddy for Japanese golfers at Carnoustie and speak to them in their native tongue, and then lie that he used to travel to Tokyo on business.
Six-time Olympic champions do not raise themselves and they do not train alone. Hoy is abundantly grateful for the people who helped him along the way, abundantly grateful for the life he continues to lead. He expresses all of this with sincerity and humility, but keeps people laughing and smiling, too.
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Cycling legend Sir Chris Hoy at the Glasgow velodrome that bears his name
Up through the gears we go again. The dalliance with motor sport. The velodrome with his name on it. Words of advice for a 76-year-old who has lost her confidence on two wheels.
And finally, to the legacy he wants to leave: that fewer men will die from prostate cancer in future. The massive fundraising effort around Tour de Four, which will turn Glasgow’s East End into a blizzard of bikes on September 6.
The message of the evening is unmissable. Chris is still here and he is here to help. In fact, he can’t help himself.
There is a moment of urgency during the show when a man seems to collapse in the centre of the second row. The person with the terminal illness is the first out of his seat, looking for a medic. Two doctors emerge from the crowd and the man is helped away, parting with a Hoy handshake.
This may be a farewell tour, but there is a ray of hope that Sir Chris Hoy might have at least another one in him.
