From the Cannibal to the Manx Missile - The top 10 rider nicknames in cycling history

Some of those names were born on village squares and local climbs, others in press rooms and team buses, but the best of them stuck and slowly became part of the sport’s language. Say Cannibal, Badger or Manx Missile and you do not need a first name at all.

From quiet climbers with heavenly titles to sprinters who sound like weapons, here is our ranking of the ten greatest rider nicknames of all time.

Mario Cipollini never did subtle. The hair, the tan, the skinsuits that caused UCI headaches, the lead-outs that stretched for whole final kilometres. The Lion King suited a sprinter who seemed to treat the peloton like his personal savannah.

The name came partly from his mane of blond hair and partly from the way his teams lined out at the front, shouldering rivals aside as if a pride had taken control of the road. It is maybe the most cartoonish nickname on this list, but the spectacle that surrounded Cipollini earned it a place. Loud, dramatic, unforgettable. Just like the man.

Some nicknames create themselves. Vincenzo Nibali grew up in Messina on the Sicilian coast and built a career on patient, predatory racing. The Shark of Messina writes that story in capital letters.

A shark does not sprint from a kilometre out. It circles, waits and then strikes once. Nibali’s greatest wins fit the script. The long-range raids at the Tour, the audacious descent attacks at Il Lombardia and Milan San Remo, the way he could sense weakness and go when everyone else hesitated.

It is a rare nickname that still feels accurate from the first big win right through to the farewell lap. Nibali managed it.

Rik van Looy was not just successful. He was imperial. Multiple Monuments, world titles, and stage races done and dusted. In an era already filled with champions, he sat on his own throne. His 369 victories on the road are surpassed only by Eddy Merckx with 446.

The Emperor of Herentals anchors that dominance to his hometown. It sounds slightly tongue-in-cheek at first, then you look at his palmarès and realise there is nothing exaggerated about it. The title reflects how he ruled the classics, especially when his team controlled entire races to deliver him to the final sprint.

It is also a name full of old-world glamour. You can picture marble statues, trumpets, heralds and one very fast Belgian with a sprint that could end debates in a single bike throw.

Fabian Cancellara’s nickname could easily have slipped into parody. A modern rider named after a Thracian gladiator from Roman history sounds like a sponsor brainstorm gone wrong. Instead, Spartacus became one of the most fitting modern nicknames in the sport.

Cancellara won races in a way that felt gladiatorial. He rode on the front for hours, destroyed time trials, and ripped the field apart on the pavé of Roubaix and Flanders with long, brutal accelerations. His build added to the myth. Broad-shouldered, big engine, head rocking as he ground away in the biggest gear he could find.

Unlike some nicknames that fans use ironically, Spartacus was one he carried with obvious pride, appearing on posters, banners and even bike paint schemes. Sometimes marketing gets it right.

If you invented a climber in a novel and gave him this name, you might think you had pushed it too far. With Charly Gaul, the Angel of the Mountains almost feels like an understatement.

The small, slight Luxembourger drifted away from rivals in filthy weather while others hunched over their bars, frozen and beaten. He attacked on long climbs in rain and snow, as if he needed the suffering to switch something on inside him. The nickname caught both the way he rode and the slightly ghostly aura that hangs around his legend.

Like many grand nicknames, it hinted at power, but it also carried a trace of fragility. Angels are not untouchable. Gaul’s career rose and crashed as sharply as the climbs he loved, which makes the name feel oddly human.

Straight line speed deserves a straight line nickname. Mark Cavendish was born on the Isle of Man, and he launched sprints like a rocket fired from a very angry launchpad. The Manx Missile seemed almost inevitable.

The name works because it is so clear. It gives you geography, discipline and style in three words. You know he is from the island between Britain and Ireland, you know he is a sprinter, and you know that when he goes, there is no second wave. His best wins look like a missile launch. One burst, no margin.

As the Tour stage record built, the nickname followed him from early HTC trains to his later comebacks. New lead-out riders arrived, rivals changed, teams rebranded, yet the Manx Missile label remained welded to his top tube. 

In 2024, he used it to full effect one more time, taking his 35th Tour stage and finally pushing past Eddy Merckx’s long-standing record of 34.

Technically, Il Campionissimo is more title than a nickname. It was used for Costante Girardengo too, but over time it fused most strongly with Fausto Coppi, the rider whose image still defines mid-century Italian cycling.

Campionissimo means the champion above champions. It is a statement as much as a name, awarded by popular consent rather than marketing. Coppi’s dominance across Grand Tours, world titles and one-day races made it feel earned. His rivalry with Gino Bartali only sharpened the edges. If Bartali was the devout national hero, Coppi was the cool modernist, all angles and efficiency, thinking about watts and weight long before anyone called it sports science.

As nicknames go, it lacks the animal imagery and humour of others on this list, yet for pure weight it is impossible to ignore. When people talk about someone as the next Campionissimo, the reference is still Coppi. That kind of shadow is exactly what a great nickname should cast.

Few nicknames are woven quite so tightly into a rider’s visual identity as Il Pirata for Marco Pantani. The bandana, the earrings, the shaved head and goatee. It all fed the pirate image. But the real reason the name stuck was how he attacked.

Pantani’s best days were full of sudden raids on high mountain stages. He jumped early on the climb, rode by feel rather than numbers and tried to hit the summit with nothing left. It was a blunt, all-or-nothing way to race. Rivals slipped off his wheel while Pantani kept rising out of the saddle, the road lined with fans close enough to reach for his bandana.

The story of Pantani’s life and death makes the nickname feel bittersweet now, yet it remains one of the most instantly recognisable in cycling. Say Il Pirata, and you think of dancing accelerations on steep gradients and a fragile, fearless climber who rode as if tomorrow did not exist.

There are many animals in this list, but only one that really bites. Bernard Hinault did not earn The Badger because someone liked woodland wildlife. He earned it because of how he raced and how he behaved when challenged.

Badgers do not back down easily. Neither did Hinault. Five Tours, three Giros, two Vueltas, classics, world titles, all built on an attitude that treated bike racing like a series of personal duels. Attack first, negotiate later. He fought rivals, officials, snowstorms and sometimes his own teammates with exactly the same glare.

The power of the nickname lies in its accuracy. You can watch almost any Hinault clip and see the animal in the way he grips the bars, the set of his jaw, the refusal to show weakness. It is no surprise that entire books about him now carry the name on the cover.

There was never really any doubt. Eddy Merckx is widely regarded as the greatest cyclist of all time, and his nickname may be the most brutally perfect in sport. The Cannibal does not suggest elegance or style. It suggests appetite.

Merckx won everywhere. Grand Tours, Monuments, world championships, small races on rainy weekdays. He chased victory on every terrain and in almost every start number he pinned on. Rivals complained that he never left them scraps. 

According to the most repeated version of the story, the nickname came from Catherine, the young daughter of his Peugeot teammate Christian Raymond, who was told that Merckx never let anyone else win. Her verdict was simple. He was a cannibal. The label stuck because it described exactly what fans saw.

What makes The Cannibal unbeatable is how simple it is. No location, no animal species to decode. Just one word that captures a career-long refusal to settle for second place. You can see it written under old photos, printed on posters, painted on banners at modern races whenever he appears in a car or on a podium. The results sheet says Eddy Merckx, but the myth that lives on is Cannibal.

Lists always leave good names on the cutting room floor. If your favourite is missing, you are in good company. Here are a few more nicknames that could easily headline their own version of this ranking.

• Laurent Fignon – The Professor, a perfect blend of round glasses, intellectual bearing and cold-blooded race craft.
• Sean Kelly – King Kelly, short and regal and entirely deserved.
• Paolo Bettini – The Cricket, tiny, jumpy, always ready to spring for one more punchy attack.
• Tom Boonen – Tommeke, the affectionate chant that rolled across Flanders whenever the cobbles belonged to him.
• Federico Bahamontes – The Eagle of Toledo, forever circling above the race, wearily waiting for the next climb.

Nicknames in cycling are never finished. New generations bring new stories and fresh attempts at myth-making. Somewhere, a junior is already picking up a label in a local race that will follow them to the biggest podiums in the world.

Give it a decade, and we may need to rewrite this list. For now, though, the Lion King, the Shark, the Badger and above all the Cannibal still rule the kingdom.