by Paul Kimmage
'Oh, okay,' he says, looking puzzled. But within minutes he has abandoned my plight and returned to Harry Potter; J. K. Rowling tells a better story; Quidditch makes more sense; but then, like the eternal lure of Mt Everest, the Tour de France is not easily explained.
I gaze at my reflection on the screen trying to remember how it was for me then: twenty-four years old, small salary, tall dreams. Is there a rider in this year's Tour who fits my identikit? Is there a kid out there as wide-eyed as I was before I discovered the sport's dark secret? What if I was to follow him for the race and explore the comparisons?
But how do I find this guy? Where do I look? The Englishman, Bradley Wiggins, is an obvious candidate but he's two years older than I was and a lot more talented. What if I stuck a pin in the starting list of riders? Yes, but how do you avoid the dopers? What if I chose the rider who draws the same number as I had in 1986? Same problem. No, the chosen one must be twenty-four years old, riding his first Tour and adamant that he will never resort to drugs. The mission for the week is to identify him.
Milton Keynes, Tuesday, 27 June: EDUCATING RICHARD
I caught a flight from Dublin to Luton this morning and took delivery of the car that will serve as our chariot for the next four weeks. It was 1993 when I last covered the Tour in its entirety – I spent a memorable three weeks in the company of my friend David Walsh and the great Irish photographer Billy Stickland, who were collaborating on a book about the Tour. Though we argued incessantly for the month our friendship survived. My travelling companion this time is a gifted young photographer called Richard Stanton. It's said that we all have some burden to carry in life and within twenty minutes of our departure for Dover I'm convinced that Richard is mine. A cycling enthusiast, he goes for long rides with his girlfriend Juliet and has travelled to the last seven Tours on his holidays. Some friend of his called Rhodri has been texting him non-stop since we left Milton Keynes: 'Don't forget to call me with the inside stories.' And then he commits the cardinal sin of asking me who I think is going to win.
'I hope you're not a fucking crotch sniffer,' I say.
'What's a crotch sniffer?' he asks.
'One of these fans whose heroes can do no wrong.'
'No, not at all.'
'What kind of bike do you ride?' I press.
'A Trek,' he replies.
'Oh Christ, I thought as much.'
'What's wrong with that?'
'Listen Richard,' I reply, trying not to crash the car, 'there are a couple of things you need to understand about me if we're going to get along: I have no interest at all in who's going to win the Tour, it's a condition I've had since the early 1990s. Now, you will probably hate the sight of me by the time we get to Paris but if we're to survive to at least Calais, please don't ask that question again.'
For the next ten minutes, I pound him with a string of shocking doping stories about a number of his heroes. The Guardian is running an interview with the Tour favourite, Ivan Basso; I throw him a copy of the newspaper in disgust: 'Here! I think this is what you're looking for.' He opens it and starts reading. 'Well, what do you think?' I snap, when he's done.
'What do you mean?' he replies, unsure.
'What do you think of the interview?'
'Basso says nothing,' he replies, cagily.
'No, you don't get it.' I fume. 'You just don't get it.'
'Get what?' he asks.
'You've read about "Operation Puerto"?' I enquire.
'Yes, the doping investigation in Madrid. It has been in the paper for weeks,' he replies.
'Okay, now take another look at the interview with Basso. How can you interview the favourite to win the Tour and not ask him about it?'
'Yes, that's a good point,' he says.
The journey to Dover is completed mostly in silence . . . think I might have been too hard on him for his first day at school.
Calais, Wednesday, 28 June: GUILTY AS CHARGED
I woke up this morning at a Holiday Inn near Calais with a sense of unshakeable déjà vu. It took me a while to put my finger on it but then, as I was returning to my room after breakfast, it struck me: in May 2004, I had walked into the lobby here with a handwritten letter for David Millar. My interest in the twenty-seven-year-old Scot had started the previous February with the arrest of six members (past and present) of his team, Cofidis, for drug trafficking. Millar – a world time-trial champion, Tour de France stage winner and the team's leader – denied any involvement in the affair but was soon implicated by the (leaked) testimony of his French teammate, Philippe Gaumont. In May, on the eve of the 'Quatre Jours de Dunkirk', I addressed the following note to Millar and delivered it to the Cofidis team hotel:
David, in a recent interview with procycling [magazine] you expressed your frustration at the lack of coverage you've been getting in the mass media. The stage is yours. I've a lot of interesting questions for you. This is my mobile number. Regards . . .
I returned to my hotel and watched my mobile phone for the evening. It never rang.
The following morning, a typically cold and grey Wednesday in northern France, I made my way to the Hôtel de Ville in Dunkirk where the first stage of the race was to begin. It was 11:30 when the Cofidis team bus arrived. It started to rain; an icy wind was blowing through the square. I listened as Millar was interviewed by a French TV crew and decided to introduce myself. 'Hi David, my name is Paul Kimmage and I work for the Sunday Times in London.' He did not seem pleased to meet me. 'What are the chances of sitting down with you at some stage this week?' I asked.
He thought about it for a moment and said: 'Emm, pretty slim to be honest.'
'Is that a slim yes or a slim no?' I pressed.
'It depends what you want to talk about,' he said, 'cycling or doping.'
'I want to talk about your career and the allegations that have been made about you.'
'You want to talk about my career!' he snorted. 'I've been a pro for eight years and you've never spoken to me once. I just find it strange that you suddenly come out of the woodwork.'
'Well,' I explained, 'David Walsh has covered the last few Tours for our paper and I've been doing other things.'
'Well, tell them to send David Walsh then,' he replied. 'I'll talk to him. I respect his work, and I've no problem talking to Jeremy Whittle [The Times] or William Fotheringham [the Guardian] but you . . . you've a bit of a reputation.'
I reminded him of Gaumont's testimony and suggested that it would be good to hear his side of the story.
'That's all bullshit,' he fumed.
He grabbed his bike and started moving away. It seemed a good moment to compromise. 'Okay,' I said, 'maybe this is a bad time. I don't have to write anything this week. Why don't we sit down next week?'
'No, I'm not talking to you,' he said, pedalling towards the bus, 'you can write whatever you want.'
I watched him ride away and smiled to myself: 'Guilty as charged.'
About an hour later, having decided to drive ahead of the race, I had just passed a spectator in Warhem with a banner that read 'It's Millar Time. Go David!' when my mobile rang.
'Hi, is that Paul?' It was Millar's sister, and manager, Fran, and she sounded very concerned indeed that David and I hadn't hit it off.
'Look, there's no problem here,' I assured her. 'It's David's prerogative whether he wants to speak to me or not, but I have a piece to write for Sunday and I'd like to speak to him before I write it but it's his choice. We could always meet next week if that's more convenient.'
'Why don't you fax your questions to his hotel and we'll take it from there?' she suggested.
'No, no,' I demurred. 'David is a big boy now. Let's set up the interview first.' I agreed to send her an email outlining what the interview would entail and we spent the rest of the afternoon engaged in frantic texting.
In the end I decided to call her. 'Listen Fran,' I said, 'I'm not a magician. I write interviews. There's not going to be any rabbits coming out of hats; I want to sit him
down and discuss the current allegations and his career. You are more than welcome to join us. He can even bring his lawyer.'
She insisted on a written guarantee that I would write nothing about David on Sunday if the interview was agreed for the following week. I gave her my word and she promised to phone David after the stage and arrange the interview. I drove to the finish and watched the end of the stage. An hour later she phoned to say her brother had refused. She sent a final text: 'Sorry we couldn't arrange it this time, maybe some other time? At the moment David is just keen to get on with riding his bike. Regards, Fran.'
I sent a final reply: 'No problem, I understand, the law of silence is golden.' But then the plot took an unexpected twist.
The following afternoon, I had just sat down at my laptop when I got a call from the office in London, informing me that they had just received a threatening letter from Millar's solicitor.
It wasn't the first solicitor's letter I've received during my seventeen years in journalism and hopefully it won't be the last because as my friend, David Walsh, often reminds me, 'Libel suits are the Oscars of our trade.' Which is not to suggest that I was feeling very pleased at being nominated again. In fact, I was absolutely incensed. I jumped into the car and drove straight to Millar's hotel with a faxed copy of the letter in my bag and a plan to confront him. I thought: 'Who the fuck does this guy think he is? How dare he try to intimidate me!' But I changed my mind – I would have my say in print.
Later that night I sat down to compose a piece. 'Rider in the Storm' opened with the threat from Millar's solicitor and closed with a gift I sent him – a copy of Rough Ride.
David, During our brief conversation on Wednesday you mentioned my 'reputation'. I can only assume you were thinking of this book. Fran asked me to send you my questions and I told her that I don't do that . . . But I have decided to make an exception. I have a question. What aspect of the book do you have a problem with? Best wishes, Paul Kimmage.
Millar never responded. Neither did his solicitor. But the piece prompted an interesting response in the letters page of the Sunday Times.
Matt Rendell, an author and journalist from Harwich, Essex, wrote: 'A journalist leaves a tactless note at an athlete's hotel requesting an interview. The next morning, minutes before a gruelling five-day race begins, he doorsteps his athlete and demands an audience "at some stage this week". The athlete says he'll happily talk to another writer on the same paper, but not our hapless hack. What does he do? Confess his social ineptitude? Not genial storyteller Paul Kimmage, for whom David Millar's cold shoulder was a result. Is Millar's decision to pass on the opportunity to talk doping with the normally irresistible Kimmage really proof that he has something to hide? Kimmage might usefully turn his doubting eye on his own professional ethics.'
Six weeks later, Millar was arrested by French police after empty vials of EPO were discovered during a raid on his home. He spent forty-eight hours in custody before admitting he had used the drug. He was promptly sacked by Cofidis and banned for two years. On the Sunday following his arrest, I opened the Sunday Times hoping for a letter from Mr Rendell, the professional ethics expert. It was no great surprise when none appeared.
Back in the present . . . This afternoon, we arrived in Strasbourg after a long drive from Calais and it was soon business as usual when we checked into the press room. There are rumours from Madrid. The police there have been running a huge doping investigation– they're calling it Operation Puerto – and the word is some very big names are involved. I've noticed a lot of Tour officials with furrowed brows. Personally, I'm always thrilled when the dopers are exposed but if the sport is ever to be truly saved there's another list that should be compiled: a list of the spineless, lazy, morally bankrupt wasters masquerading as journalists here. This morning, in an excellent interview with the French daily Le Monde, Daniel Baal, a former joint-director of the Tour and president of the French Cycling Federation, was scathing in his criticisms of the Tour and the fourth estate.
'The Tour has no sporting credibility,' he said. 'Those who believed in cycling these last few years have been betrayed . . . Another thing that has shocked me is the manner in which a number of journalists continue to sing the praises of certain sportsmen [we know to be cheats]. Eight years after the Festina affair and despite all the work, the situation is catastrophic.'
I'm gazing around the press room now and thinking about some of the great journalists who used to work in these seats. There are still a few here but it's mostly fans with typewriters now. 'Don't mind any of that nonsense going on in Spain,' I heard one chirp recently during a broadcast from the Tour of Italy. 'This is real cycling.'
Strasbourg, Thursday, 29 June: MILLAR TIME
David Millar paid a flying visit to the interview room this morning to announce his return after a two-year suspension for EPO use. Now there's an argument to be made that the twenty-nine-year-old Scot has served his time and should be allowed to resume his career. And there's an argument to be made that he is truly contrite and has learnt from the error of his ways. But you won't find that argument here: I think Millar should have been banned for life.
For several months now, I've been reading his interviews and listening to his rhetoric as he prepared to return to the peloton . . . and he is still using the same language as the drug cheats. An interview he gave to the official Tour programme was an absolute classic.
Millar on drugs in cycling: 'There has been a huge change in the sport in the last couple of years.'
Millar on the poor performance of the French in recent years: 'The problem with French teams is that they blame it all on drugs when the bottom line is that the success of all the Americans and anglophones is down to hard work.'
Millar on the success of the Spanish teams: 'The Spanish guys and Spanish teams are a lot more relaxed. They are not always complaining like the French riders.'
This morning, at his press conference, I quoted him selected excerpts and reminded him of Operation Puerto and what was happening in Spain. 'Why should we treat anything you say with any credibility?' I asked.
'Maybe I was wrong,' he replied.
The press conference continued. Millar started lecturing again. 'The sport was moving in the right direction,' he insisted. 'What's happened in Spain was fantastic,' he said. 'The organised schematic doping is being eradicated,' he said. 'We need to get rid of the doctors,' he said. And finally, my favourite: 'We have a responsibility as professional cyclists to convince the young guys coming through that it's possible to win without drugs.'
Nobody challenged him. There wasn't a single journalist in the room who asked 'David, how would you know?' Furious, I raised my arm again. 'David, you say that the Spanish affair is fantastic for the sport and for the future of the young kids coming into it . . . But that's exactly what was said in 1998 [after the Festina affair] when you were the young kid. You also state that the sport needs to rid itself of the doctors but Lance Armstrong worked with [Dr] Michele Ferrari for years and you've always been one of Armstrong's biggest fans . . . Where are you coming from on this?'
'I don't understand the question,' he replied.
'Why should we believe anything you say? You have no credibility.'
'At the moment I have no credibility . . . I've said it. . . you can't believe anything I say.'
'Thanks,' I said. 'I just wanted to clarify that.'
When the conference ended, Millar was escorted from the auditorium by a coterie of his favourite journalists; one placed an arm on his shoulder; others extended microphones for 'exclusive' quotes. A Tour official crossed the hall to shake Millar's hand. I watched from a distance trying to make sense of it all. The paradox was nauseating: you expose the doping and cheating in a book and they treat you like a pariah; you dope and cheat and lie and they welcome you back like a hero . . . And people wonder why cycling has a problem.
