I first met Tony Doyle in the lounge of a hotel near his home in Woking. He arrived early, smartly dressed and prepared to give up several hours for an interview about his cycling career. He was similarly generous with his time and wisdom during a friendship that lasted another eight or so years. He was also punctual without fail and I never saw him without a formal jacket. Tony was a proud man and the news of his death last Friday came as a shock.
I considered him a mate and I hoped the feeling was mutual. If I needed a quote, a contact or just fancied a chat, no request was too much for him. Sure, as a journalist, I was of use to Tony and he was happy to take advantage of that. But he helped me out far more often than I did him.
