I can’t continue the lie.
All this time I’ve been masquerading as a short, overweight, unfit former journalist called John Martin.
But my real name is Urs Freuler — and in the 1980s and 1990s I was one of the world’s greatest cyclists.
Six foot two. Muscles on muscles. Legs like tree trunks. Born in the German-speaking part of Switzerland, years before I grew a moustache excellent and started pumping pedals at terrifying speed.
I represented Switzerland at the Moscow Olympics in 1980, turned professional, and took the cycling world by storm — road and track.
I won a stage of the Tour de France in 1981, took 16 stages in the Giro d’Italia, won the world keirin title twice, the world points race eight times, and claimed victory in 21 international six-day races.
Um.
Why do I get the feeling no one believes me?
That I really am Urs Freuler?
Sort of.
Let me explain.
In 1984 I was a sports reporter at The Examiner in Launceston.
Most of the work was mundane reporting. There was room for colour but you still had to provide the nuts and bolts as well.
My chance to spread my more imaginative wings came when I was asked to ghost-write the columns of well-known footballers, rowers and other sportsmen.
One such opportunity arose when I covered the Christmas and New Year sports carnivals on the north-west coast.
Every year carnival organisers flew in overseas athletes — escaping winter, earning some extra cash. Being contracted to “write” a column helped.
I loved these jobs.
You’d talk to the sportsperson for half an hour, steer them towards something that sold papers, then become them — until today’s column became tomorrow’s fish-and-chip wrapper.
Some celebrities vetted every word. Others just wanted an outline of what you planned to write. Some didn’t care at all, as long as the cheque cleared.
But Urs Freuler was the first who vanished on me.
On New Year’s Eve.
This was before mobile phones.
We had a plan. I was in Launceston. He was in Burnie. I’d ring him at a set time for our usual chat. I’d already ghosted several of his columns — harmless stuff, vague predictions, a few German words and messed-up syntax for flavour.
Then: nothing.
I went into a spin.
I rang everyone in my cycling contacts. Didn’t matter if they were near Burnie. Or even knew Urs Freuler.
One bloke turned out to be dead, so I tried contacting him with a Ouija board. That’s how desperate I was.
I faced a moral dilemma.
But the paper had already paid for TV ads:
“Urs Freuler writes exclusively for The Examiner on New Year’s Day.”
Journalism teaches you: when in doubt, leave it out. Don’t invent. Don’t assume.
The ethical option, however, was a big white hole on the back page.
I couldn’t have that. It wouldn’t go down well with anyone. Not my employers nor the readers.
Besides, Urs’ cheque was probably already in the mail.
So I wrote the column myself.
That was my New Year’s resolution.
Stronger. Taller. Faster.
I became Urs Freuler.
Jawohl.
I even started shaving my legs.
Don’t worry — I still eat meat pies and swing on Hills Hoists.
But I’m not convinced my inner Urs Freuler has ever fully retired .
JOHN MARTIN 