by David Millar
Nicole didn’t care about that. ‘Should we dedicate our afternoon to Tour viewing?’ she asked. ‘You have to promise me you’ll try and win. It’s your home stage – you have to try!’
‘Of course I will,’ I said, indulgently. ‘Just for you.’
Then I set her straight. ‘Of course I’m not. In fact, if everything goes to plan you won’t see me once. A sprinter will win and we’ll all have a relaxed day.’
Ben tugged at his mum’s sleeve. ‘Mum! I need to pee,’ he said. Brad put down his coffee cup and got to his feet.
‘I’ll take him,’ he said. ‘Come on, Ben, let’s go find the toilets.’ He climbed onto his bike and set off, Ben sprinting through the journalists, VIPs and hangers-on in his wake.
An hour and a half later, I was back in that world of pain, teetering close to my limits. The peloton was racing hard, lined out on the climb exiting Sant Feliu, at the start of a corniche road familiar from those winter training rides, that twisted relentlessly for the next 25 kilometres.
In the off-season, I would struggle up the climbs and gingerly tackle the damp descents. Now, with riders cursing and spitting all around me, after just 2 of those 25 kilometres, I was already close to my absolute maximum. We were going much faster than I thought was possible on roads I knew so well. With a speeding peloton attacking each twist and turn and change in gradient, they took on a new, far more menacing dimension.
Matt and the team car were far behind us, as the peloton snaked around the jagged coastline. Instead of tactical advice or information crackling over the radio, for the time being there was only silence.
As an athlete, it’s amazing how focused it’s possible to become when you’re managing your body close to its limits. As I balanced between maximum effort and total collapse, every corner, every change in gradient, engraved in my memory from training, suddenly became more detailed than I would ever have thought possible.
Yet in the ebb and flow of the race, it was difficult to tell whether I was moving up through the peloton or whether the peloton was sliding backwards around me. At times like these – when you’re ‘on the rivet’ – the riders become desperate, clinging on to the pace by their fingernails, fighting, scrapping even, to claw themselves back into contention.
Soon, the cream rose to the top. Alberto Contador, the Schleck brothers – Frank and Andy – and Lance Armstrong started appearing in these moves, a clear sign that the peloton was now close to breaking point. Such riders only show their cards if they sense the race entering a critical phase.
I knew that the only way to escape the grasp of the peloton now would be through strength and will. Buoyed by the excitement of home advantage, any ideas I’d nurtured of taking it easy were now a distant memory. I just hoped Nicole was watching.
I couldn’t suppress the romantic kid, the teenage boy who’d raced around the country parks of Hong Kong pretending to lead the Tour de France, only these days I was a born-again cycling geek racing in the world’s biggest bike race. The 32-year-old battle-hardened pro sighed in resignation. He had no choice but to take a back seat as the big kid came out to play.
Another move slipped clear and the remaining strong riders at the front of the peloton surged forward again in one last effort to chase and reel it in. We hammered on the pedals again in desperation. But it was plain to see – everybody was fucked.
Perversely, now – with everybody beyond their limit – was the moment. I had lactate building up through my body – legs, arms, shoulders – and my heart rate had been over its controllable threshold for over 20 minutes. Yet there was a good chance that if a strong move went clear of the peloton it might just make it to the finish line in Montjuic.
The fittest men in the world had cooked themselves and I knew it was now or never. It was time to go.
When you take on a lone attack in professional racing, you have to commit and show utter conviction. There are no half-measures. So I changed up through the gears, used the power of my bodyweight to crush the pedals and attacked with everything I had. My body, screaming at me to stop, was overruled.
After about 30 seconds of effort, I looked under my arm and saw that nobody was following me. I switched into time trial mode, controlling my power so that I could continue for the next quarter of an hour, until a decent gap formed and hopefully an elite group of riders, capable of sharing the pace, were bridging up to me.
The reality was that my attack backfired. Everybody was so wrecked and so happy to see me go that they relaxed. Only two other riders, two of the strongest French pros, Sylvain Chavanel and Stéphane Augé, broke free. But I knew that however hard we rode, three of us were not going to get to Barcelona ahead of a pursuing peloton.
Behind us, the peloton regrouped. One by one, the riders dropped during those crazy 30 minutes on the corniche reattached themselves to the back of an ever-growing bunch. They would take a breather, snack on something, have a drink, talk tactics. Once rested, tactical decisions would be made based on the race situation.
All our efforts would probably be for nothing, yet at the same time we were live on television, our sponsors and the world were watching, and we were now under obligation to race. So we had to plough on. But we were in a kamikaze attack with close to zero chances of success. I was furious with my impetuosity, pissed off for allowing my emotions to lead me into such a hopeless situation.
The gap came down to 2 minutes and it began to rain. Now my confidence ebbed away. I started to drop behind on the descents and in the corners. For some reason, my ability to handle my bike on the slippery Catalan coastal roads had deserted me. I prayed the peloton would reel us in and put us out of our misery rather than prolonging the agony.
But cycling plays with the mind. One moment you can be in a pit of despair, the next, spirits lifted by some barely perceptible positive sensation, buoyed by optimism. Thirty kilometres from Barca, the rain started to fall more heavily than it had all day, and as the downpour intensified, I began to feel replenished.
We still had a minute’s lead. There was one more climb, followed by a descent into the suburbs of Barcelona and then just 15 kilometres through the centre of the city. As we tackled the last hill, I drifted behind my long-time companions and, instinctively, launched a massive attack.
The TV motorbikes drew alongside and the helicopters buzzed overhead. The sky grew darker and the rain came down, yet I was in my element. I knew that if I stayed clear over the top of the last climb, then, as a lone rider using the full width of the road, I would be able to take time back on the descent.
After that, I’d just have to ride on a wing and a prayer.
It was eerie, deserted and dark coming off that final hill. I felt serene as my pain subsided and I rediscovered the bike-handling skills that earlier had deserted me. Ahead of me, as I sped into a corner, one of the race motorbikes wobbled and then slid into the gutter. All it would take was one little patch of oil or dirt washed across the road and I’d be on the ground too.
Now the radio came to life, and Matt White’s excited voice crackled in my earpiece. ‘Dave ,’ he told me, ‘ you’ve taken time on the climb, you’ve got over a minute. Astana are controlling, they’ll play it safe on the descent. You know what to do.’
Now I was committed again, racing into each corner with a caution that only just outweighed risk. Once I’d made it through upright, I would sprint, stamping furiously on the pedals, until I was back up to speed.
As I headed on alone, into central Barcelona, I became more and more aware of the sheer number of people everywhere. The noise was loud, very loud, and I felt the whole of the city willing me on.
Matt (a.k.a. Whitey) was yelling now. ‘Dave, mate – you’re on a stormer, they can’t bring you back. You’re holding them at over a minute. It’s chaos back here.’
Ten kilometres remained. Ten kilometres of long, broad, boulevards, stretching ahead of me, glistened in the gloom. Now I felt Catalan, as the crowds willed me on, helping me through every corn
er, shouting me back up to speed in every sprint and urging me to not slow down.
My earpiece crackled again. ‘Fuck me, Dave – you can do this! There are crashes everywhere behind, the teams are at their limit to bring you back. DON’T FUCKING SLOW DOWN!’
Five kilometres to the line and still, there I was, 45 seconds ahead of the Tour de France. Now it became a straight pursuit: David Millar versus the peloton, in the biggest moment of my career since my comeback, with the world watching, my mum biting her nails at home in London, Nicole, my fiancé, barely able to watch in a bar in Girona, both of them surrounded by friends, the anxious texts flying back and forth.
But inevitably, I was tiring. I had fought to keep my speed at 50 kilometres an hour on those never-ending boulevards, but my body had stopped listening. My cadence ebbed, as the strength seeped out of me. The seconds tumbled like dominoes.
Matt wasn’t throwing in the towel though. ‘Thirty seconds, Dave, thirty seconds – fucking amazing, mate. You’re so close! DO NOT GIVE UP!’ he bellowed. ‘Anything can still happen behind, you would not believe the carnage back here.’
But no matter how much I wanted to win, no matter how much power I wanted to generate, I couldn’t do it. Even the thousands of Catalans that lined the streets, imploring me to fight on, couldn’t help me. I wasn’t in control any more; now it was just a matter of time until the soaked and swearing bunch swept past.
I rode into Placa d’Espanya and was faced with the magnificent spectacle that is Montjuic. Momentarily, I was taken aback, but the sight gave me a final snap of energy, as I rode alone up the steadily biting gradient, the peloton now eyeing my back wheel.
I swung right as the road climbed to the line and battled to lift my speed, but I could hear them all now, emptying themselves in their effort to get past me, to surge ahead to the line, just a kilometre further ahead.
Then, they were past me, swamping me and spitting me out.
But they were red-eyed, vacant, broken men, who looked as if they had fought their own battle, just to catch me. It made me smile: there were only forty of them left in the front group and I knew they’d been pushed to the limit.
As I exited the back of the front group, my body and mind shut down. I can remember one or two pats on the back, a couple of compliments on my ride. Maybe the day hadn’t been wasted. I was getting respect from the guys whose lives I’d just made hell.
I was awarded ‘Most Aggressive Rider of the Day’, generally given to the most spectacular loser of the day and, rather wonderfully, sponsored by ‘Coeur de Lion’ (Lion Heart), a French cheese. There was a trip to the podium, a little trophy and a lot of handshakes.
People rarely remember lone breakaways – only when they succeed perhaps. It was a mad move on my part. But cycling is mad, beautifully so. The beauty, suffering, grandeur and panache are what make it special.
But that day taught me something else too: the manner in which one loses the battle can sometimes outshine the victory.
1
MY EARLY YEARS
Even though I was born in Malta – for those who need to know, on 4 January 1977– I have always thought of myself as a Scot.
My parents, Gordon and Avril, left the island when I was 11 months old and returned to Scotland. This was a homecoming, a return from abroad to our brethren. Yet because my father was in the Royal Air Force and subject to their postings, it wasn’t really his choice where we ended up.
We lived in Forres. My earliest memories are of a housing estate, a school bus – with a metal bar across the top of the seat in front of me that I’d try to bite but couldn’t, because of the bus bumping around – and of my grandma giving me chocolate eclairs.
The RAF housing estate was my playground. I could usually be found playing with my Star Wars figurines and space ships – a quiet little boy by all accounts, living in his own little world.
I’ve been told a story, by both Mum and Dad, about a birthday party they held for me at home. I disappeared early on, and was found playing alone in my room, asking when everybody was going home. I remember being like that when I was young.
I liked drawing. In fact, I drew a lot. There was another toddler who I was best friends with, but I can’t remember his name now. My sister Frances – sometimes ‘Fran’, sometimes ‘France’; ‘Fran’ to others, ‘France’ to me – arrived a little less than a year after our return to Scotland and she quickly became my new play partner.
Fran was a quick developer and walked and talked at a freakishly young age. When people learned that I, not Fran, was the older sibling, this confused them. I’ve never had a problem with it – Fran’s propensity for talking, that is. I simply point out that I’m older than her anyway and claim seniority that way.
Dad was stationed at Kinloss, the RAF base not far from Forres. On occasions when he wasn’t flying, he’d take me to the base and I’d play on the grass-covered aircraft hangers and run around after him amongst the aircraft. Even now, it’s a vivid memory. Sometimes I’ll pass a garage that will have that same smell of warm metal and diesel and I’ll be back there, running among those big war machines, with my dad, in the grass-covered hangers. I wish more garages had that smell.
I was too young to understand his job, but I remember him leaving for the Falkland Islands. He just disappeared one day and we didn’t see him again for what seemed like for ever. It’s the only time I can remember my mum telling my sister and me to pray at night. There was never any news and it must have been very hard for her.
My godfather, Major Mike Norman, was involved in the Falklands War too. He and his wife, Thelma, were friends with my parents in Malta. Mike had given my mum a Royal Marine insignia to be flown above the house when she went into labour. She still has the flag.
Mike was something of a war hero and, years later, while I was living in Hong Kong, I learned what a significant part he had played in the conflict when I saw a BBC film called An Ungentlemanly Act. Mike had been the commanding officer of the Royal Marines unit on the Falklands when the Argentinians invaded.
When it became clear that the Argentines were mounting a full invasion, he was charged with defending the island by Rex Hunt, the island’s Governor. Although outnumbered, Mike led his men with courage and skill, but after hours of defending Governor’s House he was ordered to surrender.
Two months later, when the Argentine army capitulated, he raised the British flag once again. Nonetheless, the war left its mark on him. Many years later, after Mike had retired, my mother spoke to Thelma on the phone and asked how he was.
‘Oh, he’s fine,’ she said. ‘He’s out gardening. But you know, Avril, his knees never really recovered from that bloody yomp.’
In many ways, growing up as a forces child made us different from other kids. Our dads, whether in the RAF, army or navy, couldn’t just switch off their value systems on coming home and taking off their uniforms. They worked in an environment with hundreds of years of history and standards. It made for a disciplined and regimented childhood.
My sister and I could be taken to any restaurant in the world and there would be no risk of us behaving badly. Without being too hard on us, my father was a disciplinarian. But he was also incredibly funny and loving when he was relaxed and happy, which was all the funnier because it was impossible to imagine him ever being the same when he was in his uniform.
I remember one flyer friend never stopped calling him ‘Sir’, even when they were both in civilian clothes.
‘Why don’t you just call him Gordon?’ I asked him once.
‘I can’t, David,’ he replied, deadpan. ‘He’s my commanding officer.’
Years later, after my dad had left the forces and joined Cathay Pacific, I appreciated what a change it must have been for him going from being a young wing commander in the Royal Air Force to a middle-aged co-pilot in a commercial airline. It couldn’t have been easy for him.
My dad was reckless at times. I remember seeing him, around the time that he was a squadro
n leader, standing in the dining room looking out of the window, staring at his white Lotus Elite. There was something broken about his expression – he told me that he’d crashed his car and that he felt sad.
I first learned to ride a bike in Scotland. But it was hardly the most auspicious start to my cycling career, as I rode into the back of a parked car on one of those first rides.
In fact, I was a little accident-prone. Playing tag at school, I managed to break my collarbone for the first time. It took my mum, bless her, three days to believe that I’d broken it. I’m not sure if that says more about me, or my mum.
My mum is one of the most intelligent people I know, able to maintain a challenging conversation on almost any subject. She studied engineering at Glasgow university based on her admiration for her adopted father yet, forty years on, is now on her fourth different career. She came from a loving yet unorthodox family, adopted as a baby by a couple already in their mid-forties. Today the only family she has is my sister and me, and her fabulous piano playing neighbour Terry. Her background probably explains her absolute love for France and me, yet this collarbone incident also showed she was no pushover.
Just before we left Scotland, I did it again. One of my best friends had a hill in his back garden that in winter hardened to a stony mix of frost, ice and snow. Naturally, we considered it our duty to ride down this. I must have taken it more seriously than him, because I was the one who ended up crumpled at the bottom of the hill, nursing a second broken collarbone.
There’s a final memory of our time in Scotland – of leaving in 1984, and Fran and I, cocooned in the bucket seats of my dad’s Lotus, singing along to Yazoo. Dad had a new posting. We were moving on again, heading south to our new house in Stone, Buckinghamshire.
It’s hard to imagine Frances and I arriving in England as wee Scots, the two of us arguing away with our strong sing-song accents. The years since, travelling and living in many different places, have left me with the most neutral of accents.
