by David Millar
Guimard told me that he’d like to sign me for three years. I’d remain amateur for one more year until I’d matured physically. He planned to place me in the top amateur team in Brittany so I’d be closer to him. At the end of that year I would turn professional and ride some of the smaller pro races so that I would go into the winter with a better understanding of what awaited me. I would start 1998 as a full professional and begin my buildup to my first Tour de France in 2000, when I’d be 23. None of the other directeurs I had met had even mentioned the Tour de France, let alone had a plan for when I’d make my debut. That was enough to convince me and I agreed to join Cofidis, Guimard’s new team.
Martial invited me over to his house to discuss it all. He too had turned professional with Guimard and had enjoyed his biggest successes with him. Gayant and I communicated as best we could, which was surprisingly well, considering my still rudimentary French. The evening finished with me asking Martial if I could see his yellow jersey from the Tour – his maillot jaune.
I’d never seen one before, but instead of having it framed or mounted on the wall, Martial hung it amongst the rest of his clothes in his wardrobe. I thought that was funny, and revealed the sort of unflashy person Martial was. He said I could try the yellow jersey on, but I refused as I thought it would be disrespectful.
‘I’d only deserve to wear it if I was leading the Tour,’ I said. Martial laughed at that.
‘But it’s only a matter of time, David.’ He smiled.
Latvian rider Romans Vainsteins moved in with me for the final two months of the year. I was thankful for this as the house had become simply a stop-over for French riders coming and going and I’d had things taken from my room more than once. After that, a rider from the Eastern bloc seemed like a wonderful option. Romans spoke good English and was as driven as I was. He had the old school Eastern bloc work ethic. I was blown away that he would do 30 minutes of training on the rollers every morning before breakfast. I’d never heard of such a thing and his energy made me feel like a lazy teenager. We got on well, especially when we raced together, and for almost a month straight we would alternate first and second place between us. Racing with Romans was a lot of fun.
My final objective of the year was the World Championships. For the first time, the new Under-23 category had replaced the Amateur category. I fancied my chances as I’d only done one U-23 race all year and it had felt like a junior race, but I came down with bronchitis and my season was over. So was my career as an amateur. The pro contract with Cofidis was ready to be signed, so Sherwen, Bondue and I met in a café in a nearby village in what was an extremely French scene. After signing, I returned home to England a professional cyclist, with no intention of ever going to art school.
Signing the contract was a relief, but it didn’t even cross my mind that I was at the very beginning of the journey. Becoming a professional cyclist had never been an obvious career path and, in truth, I’d always felt a bit timid in admitting my ambitions to people. I felt like a bit of a dreamer; I was embarrassed to say I wanted to become a professional cyclist. So for a long time, I stuck to what everyone else at school was doing, and that was finding somewhere to continue my education.
Art was the obvious choice, as it was where I actually stood out, and it was the only thing I had really enjoyed at school. I was offered an unconditional place at art college, but my heart wasn’t in it – I loved cycling too much.
At school, I’d only ever talked openly about cycling with one teacher, Charlie Riding, at an end of year dance.
‘So, David – are you really going to do it?’ he asked with a smile.
I was baffled. ‘Do what?’ I replied.
‘Become a professional cyclist.’ He was grinning this time.
With just as big a smile, I told him yes, I was going to do it. I’ve never forgotten that exchange. It was the first time I acknowledged that my dream could become a reality.
Years later, while living in the Peak District, serving my doping ban, Nicole – now my wife and a keen cyclist herself – came back from a ride one afternoon to tell me she’d bumped into one of my old school teachers from Hong Kong, out on the road.
She didn’t catch the surname – ‘Charlie something,’ she said. She’d given him my number, as she was sure I wouldn’t mind. He called later on that day and Nicole and I went and met Mr Riding from my old school, in a pub in nearby Hazel Grove.
Charlie’s parents lived there and he was over visiting them from Hong Kong. We reminisced and he helped me to remember a time when it was all a lot simpler. He was very proud that I had admitted to my mistakes and that I had decided to return to the sport I loved.
Since I returned to racing from my doping ban, Charlie Riding has been at every Tour de France I’ve raced in. I rarely see him for long, but every now and then at a stage start, someone working for the team will step aboard the team bus and tell me I have an old friend outside from Hong Kong who sends his regards.
I’ll emerge into the sunlight and there, hand outstretched, smiling his big smile, I’ll find Charlie Riding, telling me how well I’m doing.
6
THE PROFESSIONALS
After I got back to Britain, I gave myself a break. I visited Ruggero in Manchester for the first time and hung out, pretending to be a student for a weekend or two. I hadn’t touched a drop of alcohol in almost eighteen months, so I was easily amused. Rog ‘lived’ – I use the term loosely – in a dirty student apartment of five boys that looked like it had been created by the set designers on Withnail and I.
Contrary to what I’d imagined, they didn’t receive endless invitations to amazing parties populated by cool people and hot girls. As for their education, that seemed to be fairly low down on the agenda. It left me feeling a lot older and further ahead of the game than my peers, although I remained a little envious of their fun-loving life.
After a month or so off the bike I began to train again, realising at the same time that I wouldn’t be able to endure the life of an amateur for one more year. I knew, now that I had effectively turned pro, I would lack the motivation to train alone through another winter.
I called Bondue and told him I couldn’t face going to Brittany and spending another year doing what I’d worked so hard to leave behind. All I could see ahead of me was the loneliness and boredom of living in another little village doing the same shitty amateur races. That wasn’t what I’d dreamed about.
At the time, I was the least of his worries. The team had fallen into turmoil with the news that its number one signing, Lance Armstrong, had been diagnosed with cancer. The team had effectively been built around Lance, taking many of the ex-Motorola team riders to Cofidis with him. They were now trying to work out what to do and before long had signed up two of the biggest names in the sport, Tony Rominger and Maurizio Fondriest, both in the twilight of their careers but still forces to be reckoned with.
Maurizio was an Italian superstar and had long been one of my heroes. I’d had posters of him on my bedroom walls in Hong Kong when I was younger. Rominger – ‘Swiss Tony’ some called him – was as much of a star and had been Miguel Indurain’s rival in the Tours de France of the early 1990s.
Guimard didn’t object to my change of plan. I think it was a small matter to him and he didn’t have the energy or desire to defend his original plan. So, the date came forward and I would turn pro on 1 January 1997.
I carried on training but, in the middle of December, returned to Hong Kong for the first time since leaving the year before. I flew my bike out with me, but didn’t touch it once in the three weeks I was there.
I was too busy partying in HK, enjoying a final hurrah. My dad was living the life of a bachelor, sharing his house with another pilot. The pair of them could out-drink me, Rog, or any of my friends, with ease. We had a lot of fun, the highlight being a night out that led to my dad meeting his future wife. Colette’s a Yorkshire lass and about the best thing that’s ever happened to Gordon, and all because I
forced the old man to join us for a drink or two in Tsim Sha Tsui. We had a lot of fun: I forgot about my life as a cyclist, considering it an obligation to be as sociable as I could be before I returned to France. It didn’t even cross my mind that I was only weeks away from meeting my new team in France as a full-blown professional rider.
I arrived in Lille in north-eastern France for the first Cofidis get-together, fresh from Hong Kong and shit-scared. It was incredibly cold and I was disgustingly under-prepared. We spent the first few days meeting sponsors, shooting photos and getting to know each other. Our grand team presentation was scheduled to take place in Paris, before we headed south to the training camp.
For two days we hung around a freezing warehouse for the photo shoot, during which I befriended the Americans. There were four of them - Lance, Bobby Julich, Kevin Livingston and Frankie Andreu - all ex-Motorola riders. Despite his testicular cancer diagnosis, Lance was very much the leader and the others were, undoubtedly, his troops.
The only thing we seemed to have in common was spoken English. As it was their first time in a non-English-speaking team, I was the bridge between them and the Frenchies. I remember Lance having the biggest pack of chewing gum I’d ever seen. I didn’t like chewing gum, but I took a stick when Lance offered me some.
Lance was battered from chemo treatment, sporting no hair and with a skinnier, gaunter look. He was far from the awesome athlete he had been until recently. Even so, his clear physical degradation had barely dented his personality and he radiated a brashness that only American sports stars can get away with. Yet the more time I spent with him, the more I glimpsed a darker and more thoughtful side.
I didn’t know if this had always been there, but it seemed to me it was something new, as it was incongruous in relation to the rest of his persona. Even so, you wouldn’t have imagined that he was a man who’d just escaped death by a whisker.
We went out on the bikes and did a couple of pointless rides on icy roads around Lille. Even though he didn’t know when or if he would race again, to our amazement, Lance came out with us. Not only did he join us, but he was determined to show that he was still one of the strongest. Everybody thought he was a bit crazy; looking back, maybe he was – and perhaps a little scared too.
The Cofidis presentation in Paris, in a beautiful hall not far from the Champs Elysées, was grandiose. A decade later I found myself back there, celebrating the completion of another Tour de France. I wasn’t with my Saunier Duval team at the time, but had gate-crashed the CSC team party. We went on to the Team Discovery party in the penthouse of the Hotel Crillon, where I was to bump into Lance, me no longer the gauche neo-pro, him no longer the gaunt cowboy, teetering on the abyss.
As a rookie, I wasn’t exactly in high demand at the Cofidis presentation. Bobby Julich, unknown at the time, was in the same boat. We slowly and deliberately ate our way through tray after tray of canapés while sipping champagne, hardly a bad way to spend the afternoon. There was a small clique of British journalists there and, after a few drinks, I wandered across to pick their brains, in what was probably quite a provocative and confrontational way.
I don’t suppose you guys know Stephen Farrand?’ I demanded. They nodded their heads hesitantly.
‘Yeah? Well,’ I said, ‘you can tell him I haven’t forgotten about the slagging he gave us after the Junior Worlds in San Marino. The bastard. I hope he remembers, because I won’t forget.’
The man on my right extended his hand and smiled: ‘I’m Stephen,’ he said. ‘Nice to meet you, David.’
Typical.
From Paris, we returned to Lille for yet another Cofidis jolly, the company’s annual soirée. This was a professionally produced event in the largest auditorium in Lille, which included a bum-numbing 3-hour presentation and then a circus-like extravaganza in the adjacent hall. There were half a dozen free bars, and the team’s riders were left to mingle with Cofidis employees, all 800 of them, while performers of all sorts entertained us. It was debauched.
The next morning we finally set off for the training camp. Some of the riders had not slept, were still drunk and stank of cigarettes. The Americans were in a state of shock, having left early the previous evening in pursuit of a good night’s sleep, much to the derision of the French.
Lance was flying back to the States while the rest of us were heading down to Amélie-les-Bains, in the eastern Pyrenees for ten days of hard riding. I was still quietly confident that I’d be okay, thinking I’d probably be put in an easy group and allowed to build up slowly, given that I was so young.
An hour and a half into the first ride and I was nearly exploding. All twenty of us were in one group, and it would soon be my turn to hit the front. There was no easing into it and our first ride was going to be 5 hours of hilly riding. I’d tricked myself into thinking that even with my appalling lack of training I wouldn’t be in too much trouble. But every time the road went uphill my heart rate would be in the 180s, the level I would expect to hit on the hills in amateur races.
I took my turn setting the pace at the front, watching the clock obsessively, begging for my 10-minute stint to come to its end. The clock ticked down as my heart rate steadily rose. By the time we were in the ninth minute, I was peaking out, using all my concentration to project a façade of tranquillity. I didn’t dare look to the side or behind, or betray any weakness. At 9 minutes 59 seconds, I indicated, a little too eagerly, that my turn on the front was done, a faux pas that revealed how uncomfortable I really was.
It is the done thing to always impress upon your teammates that you are within yourself. At least that’s how I see it and on the slide from the front to the back of the group, I checked out my teammates, convinced they’d all be blowing hard. To my absolute horror they all looked genuinely fine – all of them.
Being the best amateur in the world guaranteed you nothing when it came to racing against the pros. Up to that point I’d always raised my game, from mountain biking to road riding, from riding for fun to racing as a junior, from racing regionally to nationally and then internationally. Even the graduation from the junior to amateur ranks had been relatively painless. It had been an upward, linear path of progress with very few hiccups.
This was different. I was standing at the bottom of a sheer cliff face, my past achievements dwarfed by the mountain I had to climb. It was a big wake-up call and after a few days of the camp I was broken. My lack of fitness had taken my body beyond its capabilities and it had thrown in the towel. It was something I would get used to in that first year as a professional.
Cofidis founded its business on selling credit by telephone. Almost anybody could call the free number on our racing jerseys and get a loan. That was the easy part – the comparatively high interest rates made it expensive to pay off. Cofidis had a significant budget to spend on marketing and it was through a marketing study that it concluded that cycling was the best sport to use as a publicity vehicle. Effectively, those interest rates paid for the team.
Cofidis’s sponsorship was different to most pro teams. Their PDG, or CEO, François Migraine, had built the team from the ground up and the company owned the team outright as a subsidiary of its principal business.
Cyrille Guimard was the biggest name in French cycling, and an appropriate leader for the wealthiest team in France. A directeur sportif extraordinaire and French sporting legend, he was a proud Breton.
Physically, he was not a big man. He was a wiry ex-pro and built as such, and although he’d retired twenty years earlier, he had not let himself go as much as some others. He always sported glasses that would have been fashionable in his heyday, the mid-1980s, around the time of Footloose. They seemed perfectly in character and by persisting with them, they’d become almost classic when worn by Cyrille.
I remember the first time I saw him stroll into breakfast, sporting a tracksuit with the zip at half mast, revealing a bare chest and gold chain, the finishing touches being bare feet with open-toed beach sandals and his ever-pres
ent pseudo-aviator glasses.
My initial shock soon turned to amusement at the complete insouciance with which he wore his ‘look’. He had clearly decided that fashion had stopped progressing to his taste in the mid-1980s and opted to single-handedly carry the flame. One day, no doubt, everybody would see the light. I guess there was a deep-seated psychological reason for this, as it was during the early 1980s that he reached his zenith.
Guimard had been a successful pro, but he became an even more successful directeur sportif. After retiring at the relatively young age of 29, he moved straight into team management and immediately tasted success at the highest level, winning the 1976 Tour de France with the Belgian rider, Lucien Van Impe. This was just the beginning. Soon after, he took Hinault to his first Tour de France victory, then coached Fignon to two Tour wins, and signed LeMond, who went on to win three Tours. He also discovered two of the biggest names in French cycling during the 1980s, Charly Mottet and Marc Madiot.
But Guimard’s intransigent personality was not predisposed to building long-term relationships. Each one of the stars he discovered and guided to the top would fall out with him not long after reaching their peak. Typically, the French would blame Guimard’s Breton personality. In fact, I think it probably has more to do with the personality of the newly successful sportsman.
It is very easy to forget how you got to the top once you’ve arrived. The transition from being an unknown to a star is not gradual. Sometimes it happens overnight, in the space of a few hours. One exploit can make your name; repeated successes can make you famous. That’s particularly true of the Tour de France, and particularly true if you’re French.
I am certain that Guimard made many cyclists much more successful that they would have been if they hadn’t worked with him. But once you were successful he still treated you in exactly the same manner as he had before. He didn’t indulge any prima donnas. This went against how everybody else acted around the new star and would hasten the beginning of the end between Cyrille and his latest vedette.
