Racing Through the Dark: The Fall and Rise of David Millar

by David Millar

  So there we were, cruising back along the corniche towards Monte, listening to Sinatra. The Major was in his natural habitat, at one with his car and his surroundings.

  Then we came to a tunnel. With a flourish, the Major flicked a switch and two headlights gracefully raised their heads from the tip of the bonnet and lit up the road ahead. It was perfection.

  Or it was, until one unexpectedly dipped back down. I decided that ignoring this hiccup was the best policy. Thankfully, it popped up again almost immediately. But then, as it did so, the other one dipped down and disappeared from view.

  I didn’t dare even turn my eyes towards the Major. He carried on as if nothing had happened and yet the atmosphere in the car had changed completely. I tried not to laugh.

  After a while of this, with headlights yo-yoing up and down, he started to mutter expletives and flick the switch in irritation. Finally, he gave up.

  The Major sighed. ‘Part of the charm, Millar,’ he said sagely. ‘Ferraris are like beautiful women. Use them sparingly, preferably at weekends.’

  ‘She’ hadn’t finished with us. As we crawled through the Monaco rush hour, the ‘old girl’ stopped dead. There was no hope of starting the engine up again, and we sat horrified in the Major’s classic bright yellow Ferrari as it snagged up the boulevards of busy Monte Carlo. I sank into my seat in embarrassment.

  ‘Right, old boy,’ the Major said decisively. ‘You’re going to have to get out and push her.’

  I stared at him in horror. ‘You are joking – aren’t you?’ Of course, he was right. We had no choice. I got out of the car.

  Monaco was the backdrop to my Last Great Bender. After only three days I’d mislaid my passport and was surviving mainly through the hospitality of others. I had become a caricature of myself, the banned cyclist, penniless and barely sober, now just a hanger-on – an embarrassment in hindsight, although I was totally oblivious to it at the time.

  On the first night I lost Harry, so I wandered back to the hotel and climbed into bed. Just as I was falling asleep, my phone rang.

  ‘Where the hell did you go?’ Harry asked provocatively.

  ‘What d’you mean, where the hell did I go? I was looking for you for ages. I’m back at the hotel.’

  ‘Get your arse down to the port,’ he snapped. ‘I’ve got a surprise for you.’ I could tell he genuinely had something interesting up his sleeve.

  Fifteen minutes later, I was stepping onto a very exclusive after party on the yacht of poker player, space tourist and Cirque du Soleil founder Guy Laliberté. He was very welcoming, and spent the whole night DJ-ing in a corner, while wonderfully attired staff served us whatever we wanted. Only a handful of people were there, including Erick Morillo, at the time considered to be the world’s number one DJ. I got on well with Erick. Later that morning, the two of us went for a swim around the boat.

  I’d lost my passport on the weekend of the Grand Prix, so on Monday I went to the police station. They told me that it was highly unlikely that I would get it back. That wasn’t good news. As I pondered my next move, there was only one thing to do: have another drink. I felt sure my passport would turn up.

  The Monaco-based Aussie contingent took me under their wing, but, of course, it was Stuey who took care of me the most. He and his wife, Anne-Marie, had moved from Toulouse that winter, and his apartment became home for those last few days.

  It was the first time that Stuey and I had seen each other since my arrest. After the Grand Prix, we ended up reminiscing about everything we’d been through. He gave me some money to keep me ticking over, but only once did he put me on the spot.

  ‘Dave – you’re going to be okay?’ he asked me. ‘You’re going to sort yourself out? I just need to know.’

  Stuey was the only person in the world who could ask me something like that and know he’d get a straight answer.

  I paused. I knew how serious he was.

  ‘I’m gonna be fine, Stuey, I promise,’ I told him. I meant it.

  And that was that. We went back to being a pair of best mates, hanging out together, living the high life. I meant what I’d said to him, and I believed it, even if from the outside it definitely looked like I was at the point of no return.

  Harry was anxious about me too. I’d gone to meet him, the Major and David Coulthard at the hotel that Coulthard owned. I turned up drunk, knocked a table of drinks over and was, by all accounts, something of a wanker. Harry was already angry with me for missing the Grand Prix, when he’d secured a very exclusive invitation for me. The shambles at Coulthard’s hotel was the last straw.

  After that, he distanced himself from me, knowing there was nothing he could do to stop my thoughtless, reckless behaviour. We didn’t really speak for months after that evening. We were both angry with each other – me with him for being judgemental, he with me for being an embarrassing shadow of the best friend he loved.

  It got worse. A few days later I was down by the beach, having a wine-fuelled lunch with the Aussies. That lunchtime is remembered by those present as much for the record amount of wine consumed as for what happened next.

  About halfway through our long lunch, a large group entered the restaurant and headed for a big table not too far from us. This was Eddy Merckx’s sixtieth birthday party, and who should be there but Lance Armstrong. Of all the restaurants in all the world, they walked into mine, as I sat, having probably the booziest lunch in the history of my life.

  I was in a dilemma. I’d only spoken to Lance once or twice since my ban, and he’d offered me his support both times. I couldn’t just ignore his presence and yet I knew I was not in a presentable state.

  They spotted me soon enough. I had to go over and say hello. Slowly I gathered myself together, pushed back my chair and plucked up the courage to stroll over in as sober a fashion as I could possibly muster.

  I thought it all went swimmingly, that I’d pulled it off effortlessly. I can’t remember the detail of what was said, but I went back to the Aussies thinking, ‘Well, that went better than expected.’

  Unfortunately that wasn’t quite how it was seen through the eyes of the Merckx party. Twenty-four hours later, Fran called. Our conversation shook me out of my alcoholic daze.

  ‘David, are you STILL in Monaco?’ she asked.

  ‘Well, yeah – I’ve temporarily misplaced my passport.’

  Her tone registered disappointment. ‘David, for fuck’s sake. You know who called me this morning?’

  I had a feeling that whoever it was hadn’t called her up just to say ‘hi’.

  She paused. ‘Only Lance fucking Armstrong.’

  Ah – shit, I thought. ‘Yeah? I saw him yesterday,’ I said casually.

  France was enraged. ‘Yeah, no shit you saw him, David,’ she spat. ‘He reckons you were off your face – out of control. He’s worried about you. Even Lance Armstrong is fucking worried about you! You know what he said? “You have to get your brother out of Monaco . . .” You need to pull yourself together and sort yourself out. It’s just embarrassing now.’

  I was a little confused, given that I actually thought I’d appeared fine to them. ‘I thought I’d pulled myself together pretty well,’ I said.

  Fran sneered. ‘I don’t think so. He thinks you were coked up or something.’

  Now I was angry. ‘What!? That’s just bullshit. What the fuck does he know anyway? We were just having one of our long lunches. I was drunk, but come on . . .’

  ‘Come on yourself, David – just sort it out, will you?’

  I could hear the concern and resignation in her voice and that made me take a step back. France was now giving up on me. That was about as deep as the hole could get.

  I tried to make peace. ‘Listen – I’m sorry, France,’ I said. ‘This is it, this is the end. I’ve had enough.’

  ‘Yeah, well, you’ve said that before. Just remember other people are now looking at you and thinking you’re a lost cause. Just do something,’ she pleaded.

  Evi
dently they all thought I was out of my head on drugs. I wasn’t, but maybe my desperation to appear sober came across in a disturbingly manic fashion.

  Whatever, I learned a good lesson, one I feel I must pass on to my peers.

  Rule of thumb for all professional cyclists: if you think you’ve drunk too much to go and sit with Lance Armstrong and Eddy Merckx, then you most probably have.

  Later, the police called, this time with good news. They’d found my passport.

  After I’d picked it up, I sat on the beach in Monaco pondering what had happened. I’d alienated most people and convinced everybody else that I was a wreck. Moving to Hayfield had prepared me for what I was now going back to, the bender in Monaco had reminded of where I’d come from. I’d destroyed as much of the old me as I could. Now it was time to become that new person.

  Waiting at the gate for my flight back home that evening, I felt liberated. Then Paul-Albert called.

  I needed to be in Paris the very next day. The judge wanted to see me. So, once again wracked by anxiety, off to Paris I went. That meeting in Nanterre turned out to be one of the most farcical episodes even Paul-Albert had experienced as a lawyer.

  TERRY ACROSS THE MERSEY

  The following is a transcript of an English-language phone call between David Millar and an unknown caller, recorded by the French police three months prior to his arrest.

  2 March 2004, 17:11

  David Millar: You got it?

  Anonymous: Dave – did you really fookin’ think I’d let you down?!

  DM: How does it look?

  Anonymous: Just like you wanted, you’re gonna love it.

  DM: White . . .?

  Anonymous: Yeah – and fookin’ shiny. It wasn’t easy getting the white we wanted, the guy we use doesn’t usually work with that type of powder coating.

  DM: No worries – I just need it for the race, the team are useless. I’ve asked them so many times and they still can’t get it sorted on time. It’s in their interest, I’m World Champion. Now I’ll fly at the weekend!

  As part of the investigation into the Cofidis affair, the police had built up a massive dossier that included every telephone conversation I’d had during the four months prior to my arrest. The police had tapped my three phones (yes – I had three phones), which I felt was even more intrusive than the demonstration of power they’d shown in turning my apartment upside down.

  I knew that by tapping my phones they’d wasted time, effort and money, because there was nothing to incriminate me from that period. So when they presented a French-language transcription of one of my conversations as highly incriminating, I was baffled. The one thing they didn’t know was who the conversation was with.

  White had become ‘blanche’ in the translation, as good as saying ‘blow’ or ‘charlie’ in English. I didn’t take cocaine, so as far as I was concerned it was nothing to worry about. Paul-Albert was concerned, however – he didn’t want it appearing in court, with me unable to explain it. He had asked if we could hear the tape and get the telephone number so we could clear it up.

  When we got to Judge Pallain’s office it took three hours for them to find a tape machine and the French transcription of my original conversation. Eventually, they allowed me to read their version of it – a transcription that made me sound like cycling’s Bertie Wooster.

  DM: You have it..?

  Anonymous: David, of course I have it.

  DM: How does it appear?

  Anonynmous: It is what you wanted, you’ll like it.

  DM: Blow?

  Anonymous: Yes, and smooth. Excuse me for the delay, it’s not easy getting the blow you wanted. The chap we know doesn’t work with that type of powder normally.

  DM: I need it for the race – the team is bad. I’ve asked them for it and they still can’t get it for me in time. They’re not interested in me being World Champion now. Oh well, I’m happy you have got it. Now I will be flying like a bird at the weekend!

  Still, after reading their rather worrying version of the conversation, I was struggling to think who on earth it could be. The other person’s number was on the bottom of the transcript. I asked if I could call it. Judge Pallain agreed.

  I punched in the numbers and waited. Terry Dolan, legendary Mersey-side bike-builder, a Scouser of Scousers, answered the phone.

  ‘Eh, Dave – all right . . .?’ Terry greeted me.

  I tried to hide it, but I couldn’t help laughing. Everybody, including the judge, stared at me.

  ‘I’ll call you back later,’ I said to Terry. ‘It’s a funny story – actually no, it’s not a funny story. I’m sitting with the judge at the moment, I’ll explain later.’

  I put the phone down and turned to Paul-Albert.

  ‘It’s my friend Terry – Terry Dolan. In Liverpool. He makes my bike frames. I think I can explain what that conversation is about now.’

  Contrary to popular belief, being a professional cyclist doesn’t mean you have an endless amount of quality bike frames at your disposal – in fact, the team owns every bike we ride. At the end of every season we return what bikes we may still have at home. Some teams, the good ones, will let you keep one of your bikes, but most won’t even allow for that.

  So every now and then, Terry helped me out with what I needed. It saved time and hassle. He did this for a lot of the British riders and has been one of the biggest benefactors to British cycling in recent years, generous beyond surely what was economically viable for him.

  In 2004, when I started the season as World Time Trial Champion, I was entitled to wear the rainbow jersey of World Champion in all the time trials I rode. I wanted a bike that went well with the jersey – something that most sponsors would be thrilled to provide. But as the season began in February, I still had no time trial bike from the team.

  Having battled for so many years with the team, now I didn’t even bother. Instead I asked Terry if he could build me an identical replica of the Cofidis time trial frame and give it a paint job in World Champion’s colours.

  Terry went one better. He’d heard of a new powder coating that gave the bike a shiny, almost reflective white finish. The frame was being delivered to me in early March, in time for the start of Paris–Nice, to my hotel in Paris.

  Terry’s a brilliant frame builder but it’s not always easy to understand him – that’s unless you’re equally fluent in Scouse. He has become a good friend over the years, and yet even I had trouble understanding him sometimes. I can only begin to imagine Judge Pallain’s translator trying to decipher that conversation.

  So we started again. There I sat, in Judge Pallain’s office in Paris, career hanging by a thread, decoding Scouse, replaying every bit of the conversation, until we finally understood what Terry Dolan had said.

  21

  LIFE IN THE HIGH PEAK

  It was time to get back on the bike.

  I’d tried to source equipment from a couple of prominent companies but with no success, so – reluctantly – I went back to Terry Dolan and asked him once again if he could help me out. He had supported me so much in the past that I really did not want to ask him again, when I knew how little exposure he’d get.

  Terry being Terry, he said he’d been waiting for the call and had already set aside a bike that was perfect for me. It was a beautiful, no-expense-spared, black – definitely not white – stealthy machine. I picked it up from his warehouse in Liverpool, not far from the docks.

  I’d given away all my cycling clothing when I’d left Biarritz, but Dave Brailsford’s drive home went right through Hayfield. One day, when he dropped in to see how I was getting on, he gave me a load of kit.

  By coincidence, he’d lived in the same village a few years earlier so knew it well. We chatted for a while and then, unexpectedly, he asked if I’d like to come in to the lab and do a Vo2 test.

  ‘But, Dave – I haven’t been on a bike for a year,’ I said. ‘Maybe I should ride for a few weeks first?’

  He dismissed my wor
ries. ‘Just come on in – get the ball rolling,’ he said.

  It was a subtle way of motivating me but it worked. I was booked into the English Institute of Sport (EIS) in the following week for a full-blown lab test.

  It was almost a year since I’d last ridden a bicycle. I was apprehensive. I’d never enjoyed riding my bike when I wasn’t at race fitness – what if I got back on and hated it? What if it brought back too many bad memories?

  But I knew I had to do it at some point, to find out what the future might hold. So I set the bike up, pulled on the kit and, finally, stepped outside, locking the door behind me and slipping the keys into the back pocket of my jersey, just like any other cyclist heading out for a quiet spin.

  I rolled out through Hayfield into the Peak District. At first, awkward and uncoordinated, I was uncomfortable and felt like I was riding a bike for the first time. How the hell I had ever ridden with my handlebars so low? I could barely even get my hands to sit on the brake hoods, let alone down to the drops.

  But all the sensations were fresh and new and it was liberating. I didn’t care about where I was going, how long I was going to be out for, what speed, power output or heart rate I was generating. I was riding my bike for no reason other than pleasure and, as the feeling took me over, I realised I hadn’t ridden my bike purely for fun since I’d been in my early teens.

  There had always been objectives on the horizon, sponsor commitments, schedules and pressure. Now I had no obligations. Now I didn’t care that I bore no resemblance to a racing cyclist. It was bliss.

  I’d been out on the bike three times when I turned up at the EIS for my test. Because Dave had been so supportive, I had expected the same attitude from others. It hadn’t crossed my mind that, as a banned athlete, I perhaps wasn’t very welcome there. Carried away by his desire to help me, I don’t think this had really crossed Dave’s mind either.