The London Velodrome sits poised and elegant on the Olympic stage, ready for the starter’s gun and the world’s cameras; but in architecture terms, the structure is far more method actor than glittering celebrity, as I found out talking to Mike Taylor, who led the design team for Hopkins Architects.
For rather than directing focus to the brief, glamorous moments in the spotlight, the team initiated the design process by working ‘from the inside out’ – like a silkworm making its cocoon – creating a streamlined sustainable container that will fulfil its function to minimalist perfection, and continue to inspire long after the cameras have moved on. It is the long-term Olympics’ vision that is highlighted in this modest but beautiful structure, and a kind of truth in design: each element is there for a reason; there is nothing superfluous or self-indulgent, and maybe this is why people love it. It is the architectural equivalent of a world-class athlete.
The design process for the Velodrome began, not with the outline of the double curve as one might imagine, but with the central core and defining purpose of the structure – the cycling track itself. ‘We designed it for the legacy, to be as efficient as possible, and then converted it for the Games. We had a bicycle in mind, not as a literal image [as in the Beijing Olympics] but as an engineering idea. A bicycle
is minimal, streamlined: we reduced the amount of materials, thereby reducing the cost and the carbon embedded in it, and we made it lightweight, we shrink-wrapped it – wrapping the 6,000 seats tightly around the track, making a building that simply defines the volume inside it, focusing on the engineering, the philosophy,’ says Taylor. This no-nonsense pragmatism is at the heart of the design, to the extent that a comment on the beauty of the Western red cedar curving into the air like a sculpture was instantly rebutted by the simple bare facts: ‘The red colour will soon fade to grey.’ There is also a strong sense, from Taylor’s comments, that the team of architects and engineers were in direct and deliberate competition with Beijing.
Using 56km of sustainable Siberian pine (shipped in 40mmx40mm cross-sections and requiring more than 350,000 nails), the track was designed by Ron Webb, who ‘works like a boat builder’ and designed tracks for Sydney, Athens and Manchester. Somewhat surprisingly, given the absolute precision of sport, Webb slightly modifies the shape each time; for 2012 ‘he tweaked the geometry of the curve’, finding a balance in pleasing the different cycling disciplines that will perform on the track.
As Taylor says, the task was then ‘to integrate the engineering and architectural thinking, to reflect the geometry of the track and to create a building that exudes dynamism… We went for a light structure [the roof structure weighs less than half that of the Beijing velodrome] and the double-curving structure is very efficient; it’s a saddle shape that cuts down on the cladding, and it’s as flat as possible: the roof across the suspended part dips by 8m and the arch is only 4m, so the length between the tallest and lowest parts is only 12m…. We were also mindful that the building is a piece of sculpture in the Olympic Park and that the perception of its form will change as you move around. The curves pick up the light too,’ he adds, almost as an afterthought.
Sustainable materials were used throughout, according to ‘the ambitious brief’ [all the wood, for example, is FSC-certified] and rainwater collection forms part of the reduced water consumption. However, Taylor is quick to point out that a successful sustainable design is not the result of ticking a sequence of given boxes, but one that evolves as an intrinsic part of the engineering, architecture and philosophical processes, working together like a seamless well-oiled machine: ‘You get the right individuals to work on it and then you let them get on with it. It’s not a prescriptive process; it’s a highly specific one. It’s about understanding; developing philosophical premises that enable sustainability.’
From the sky, the roof of the Velodrome looks like a slashed Fontana canvas; but again, Taylor seems only passingly concerned about the visual appearance, his emphasis being on the technical innovations and the employment of industrial and recycled materials, which obviously give him immense satisfaction. The structure is made from steel manufactured in the North West, more than 2,500 sections of steelwork, the ‘roller-coaster-shaped ring beam’ from the USA was formerly a pipe in the chemical industry, and recycled concrete has also been used. The structure of the roof follows that of the 1972 Munich stadium: a stiff beam around the outside with stretched 36mm cable net across it as a tension structure. What is new is the 300mm-thick insulation over the net, with wooden cassettes on top and the metal roof: this means that minimal energy is required to heat the building and it will be very warm inside for the Olympics. ‘Cyclists like it to be as hot as possible for competition: the thinner the air the faster they go,’ he says.
The temperature is also maintained by the grassy earth berms, which reduce heat loss; again a purely practical choice, as Taylor asserts: ‘… the ground conditions were so bad, being on the site of the old West Ham rubbish tip … it made financial sense to raise the building out of the ground.’ It was a practical solution, however, that led to a beautiful and evocative design. The earth berms form a green shelter or ‘plinth’, balanced on a glass band that runs around the building, giving a 360-degree impression of speed and lightness. There is obvious poetry here too, despite Taylor’s reluctance to say so. But talking to him more, I begin to realise that his approach is not a denial of beauty in favour of stark pragmatism; rather he treats architecture as a scientist treats nature, with the unspoken acceptance that where materials, design and function are seamlessly united, beauty is inevitable, so why go on about it?
The Velodrome is a structure that places the people who use it at the top of the list: the athletes (Sir Chris Hoy’s design input resulted in industrial air curtains to keep out the cold winter air, a strategically placed toilet for the competitors, and extended seating to ensure a noise continuum); and the spectators, both inside and outside: ‘The glass ring gives this inside-outside connection: you see glimpses of cyclists inside, and you can look out from the inside.’ There is even a point at which the athlete and spectator become one: ‘The cyclists appreciate the natural light and seeing out: at the top of the banking, they can actually look out {through the glass band]; there is transparency and natural ventilation.’
It will soon be seen if this graceful, sustainable building can actually enhance the athletes’ performance; whether the pared-down elements assembled by a team of designers and engineers to maximise performance and speed will actually result
in new world records. If so, then this is surely the right direction for a form of architecture that is ideally the bed-fellow of science (though with a touch of poetry too!).
Mike Taylor’s last words sum up the modest philosophy of the 2012 Velodrome: ‘We set out to make a highly rational, elegant, efficient structure, looking to be responsive. You need the right team, backing, materials, engineers, designers, subcontractors, and the time to evaluate all the elements. Then you have the whole package… It is a good example of integrated design – what Britain does well. Hopefully it inspires.’ We shall soon see.
The Velodrome design team was Hopkins Architects, Expedition Engineering and BDSP. It was built by contractor ISG.
With thanks to the ODA for permission to use images of the Velodrome
