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

by David Millar

  And so, little by little, as the empty road stretched ahead of me, I began to think the unthinkable. The thought wormed its way into my head as rode alone, almost unnoticed, past the spectators packing up their picnics and camping cars, suddenly looking up as I appeared, surprised to see me so far behind.

  I realised that I could give up. I could quit.

  I could abandon the Tour – after all, lots of great riders have found it all too much in the past. I’d hardly be the first. I was hurting all over and my ribs were more painful than they’d been at any point since the crash in Spa.

  In front of me was empty, dead road. Behind me, as last rider on the road, was a convoy of vehicles crawling in my wake, one of them being the voiture balai. It hovered a few metres off my shoulder, reminding me that quitting was an option.

  But I couldn’t face it. There was no way I could climb off, stare at the floor while my race number was peeled off and then get in the broom wagon, enduring the humiliating public ritual that symbolises throwing in the towel like nothing else in sport.

  Maybe I could have got into the team car; there was room as there were no guests, only Lionel and Kris from the team. But they seemed convinced that I was going to keep going – maybe they know me better than I know myself. Sometimes they sped ahead to take care of Tyler Farrar, in trouble in a group further ahead on the road. Most of the time they were with me, or nearby.

  I’d round a corner and there they were, waiting for me, parked up at the side of the road. Each time they drove ahead, I decided that the next time they parked up, I would simply end it. I’d just pull over and get in the car. Game over. But I never did.

  Once when they pulled alongside, Lionel leaned out of the car window and said: ‘C’est bon, David, tu es seulement a une minute derrière le gruppetto.’

  ‘It’s good, David, you’re only a minute behind the gruppetto.’

  Only a minute behind? I knew this couldn’t be true, but I asked him, begged him, pleaded with him.

  ‘Oui?!’ I replied in astonishment. ‘Veritablement?’

  He didn’t respond – we both knew the truth. I could see far enough up the mountain to know that there were no riders, no team cars within reach.

  But I’d forgotten one thing. I’d forgotten about the people at the roadside. Now they knew about my struggle and there they were, waiting for me, rooting for me.

  They waited, and even now, writing this, I’m almost overwhelmed at the thought of it. Because when you’re suffering that badly, I can’t tell you how much it means. And there were thousands of them.

  ‘COURAGE! COURAGE! COURAGE!’

  ‘Daveed, n’abandonne pas!’

  ‘Come on, Dave, don’t give up!’

  ‘C’est Millar!? Oui, c’est lui! ALLEZ, DAVEED!’

  ‘Go, Dave! GO!’

  At first, I felt bad that I was holding them up. Surely they just wanted to get in their cars and campervans and get off the mountain, after being there all day to watch the front of the race . . .?

  But they cheered me with as much enthusiasm as if I was the first rider they’d seen. And then I started to hear my name, more and more, and I knew I had to keep going. This was the Tour de France – I couldn’t give up, not here, not in front of them all.

  Long after every other team helper had packed up and left, I rode into the feed zone at Le Mont Rond. Joachim from the team was standing there with my feedbag, waiting for me. He could have left long ago – Lionel in the team car was able to give me everything I needed. But he stood there, as usual, with my feedbag, expecting me to take it and to continue, as usual. So I did.

  That was another option gone. I could have stopped there and then at the feed zone and been driven to the finish. But then what? Sit shamefully on the team bus as my teammates all came in after finishing the stage, the DNF (Did Not Finish) of the day. That wasn’t me.

  So I decided, no matter how unfeasible it was and no matter how late I was, that I would ride on to the finish. I had little chance of finishing inside the time limit, but at least finishing, albeit hors delai – outside the time limit – would carry some dignity.

  The Col de Saisies was the third of four passes and as I began the climb, I started doing the maths. It was 15 kilometres to the summit so I’d cross the top of the pass with 97 kilometres ridden. The stage was 204 kilometres long, and the summit of the final mountain – the Col de la Madeleine – was 32 kilometres from the finish.

  I shuddered. It was a long way from the top of the Saisies to the finish. Riding on my own along the valley to the next climb meant that I was going to lose even more time and further reduce my chances of making it inside the delay. It was demoralising.

  As I began the climb of the Madeleine, I asked one of the drivers, in the convoy following me, how far behind the race I now was.

  ‘Je suis a combien des premiers?’ He looked at me with a pained expression.

  ‘Trente-cinq minutes,’ he said. Thirty-five minutes.

  It was impossible.

  I don’t like the Madeleine. It holds very bad memories for me, of a different life, of a summer’s day in 2001 when I got into a Cofidis team car and gave up my dreams, a time I’ve tried to forget. It’s such a long climb that no matter how good you’re feeling, you know that you’re going to be spending a long time working your way up its slopes.

  I couldn’t cope with the thought of 25 kilometres of climbing, so I broke it up into 5-kilometre sections, working through them one by one. I found a rhythm of sorts and could feel myself strengthening, physically and spiritually. Even though it was a long shot, I started believing I could do it.

  And, because I am a good descender, I knew I could descend the Madeleine faster than the front of the race, and on the flat roads to the finish there was no reason for my injuries to slow me as I didn’t need to get out of the saddle.

  The last few kilometres of the climb came quickly. I looked up towards the summit, at the thousands of people dwarfed by the monumental landscape, at the flags and banners outlining the ribbon of road all the way to the wonderful peak. I was slow but I wasn’t weakening. I rode over the top, and zipped up my jersey, knowing that if I was to stay in the Tour, I had to throw myself down the mountainside.

  The descent of the Madeleine is steep and technical, which makes it ideal for a lone rider. During the whole long day, my constant companion had been a gendarme motorbike outrider, opening the road ahead of me.

  It must have been dull for him. We’d had only one moment of human contact, when he’d dropped back and offered me some water, but that was it. Other than that, he had simply ridden at my pace, doing his job, making sure the road ahead was safe for me.

  But now, something unspoken between us surfaced. He understood me, understood my desperation. He read my intentions and for that wild, crazed descent off the Madeleine, we had the most exciting ride. From the first corners he knew what I needed, lifting his pace to match mine and carving a line through the bends, ahead of me. I put myself in his hands and followed his line. It was exhilarating.

  But it was hairy too. The road was closed but crowds of fans, some on bikes and some walking, were already starting to head down the mountain. He dodged through them, siren wailing. Sparks flew off the pegs from his motorbike as he barrelled through the bends, with me tucked over the handlebars in his wake. I’ve rarely felt so alive.

  Now, it felt as if everybody was with me. Lionel and Kris were behind me, careering through the bends in the team car, doing their best to keep up. The ambulance behind them was deliberately going slowly, delaying the race commissaire who had been with me all day. Even the French TV motorbike that had been assigned to me, moved in front of me, letting me ride briefly in his slipstream.

  I felt proud that I hadn’t given up, that I’d shut out the demons. On the flat road to the finish, I put my head down and rode like I was racing for the win.

  When I crossed the line, I just kept going. I didn’t want to stop – I couldn’t face it, because
I knew I’d lose it. I slalomed my way through the finish line crowds milling around the team bus, nerves jangling, on the edge of completely melting down.

  I climbed off the bike, walked up the steps and into the sanctuary of the bus, making my way straight to my seat. Whitey just said: ‘Nice one, Muzza.’ Nobody else spoke to me, but then they knew not to.

  I collapsed into my seat and left my glasses and helmet on. Then, inevitably, the tears came. I didn’t want anybody to see that, so I just said quietly: ‘Well, that wasn’t so bad.’

  Back at the hotel, Paul Kimmage was the first to greet me. It was typical of our up and down relationship that he should do that. He just shook my hand and said, ‘Respect.’

  There were others waiting too and I got pats on the back from almost all of them, along with words of kindness and admiration. I began to realise how important it was to have finished, and to understand that in no other race would simply finishing be considered such an achievement.

  I went upstairs to my room, desperate for a few minutes alone, but I was shaking so much, I couldn’t get the key in the door. Matt Rabin, our team chiropractor appeared, opened the door and ushered me into my room.

  He looked at me. ‘So how was it?’

  The tears came again and I couldn’t answer. I sat on the edge of the bed and started to quietly cry. Matt waited.

  After a while I spoke.

  ‘It was fucking horrible, Rabin. I should have taken my painkillers, because I lost my left side after a few kilometres, then my back started spasming when I tried to go any harder. I was sure I was out of the race. I don’t know how I did it.’

  ‘Fuck, mate,’ he said. ‘You did a great ride getting through.’

  There was a pause before I spoke again.

  ‘I can’t figure out if I left a bit of myself out on the road or found a bit of myself.’

  Rabin listened.

  ‘You know what’s weird? Nine years ago I pulled out of the Tour on almost this exact stage, on the descent of the Madeleine. Today I kept thinking, I’m not that person any more. I think I had to prove it to myself.’

  He stood up. I wanted him to give me a hug, and I think he wanted to give me hug, but he didn’t. Instead he just patted me on the back and sat back down.

  I didn’t tell him about what had happened on the Madeleine nine years earlier, when I quit on the same mountain, got into a team car and that night took my first steps into the world of doping.

  A little later, my sister turned up, given leave from the SKY hotel to come and visit her brother. I knew France understood. She’d sat on the steps with me, by the beach in Biarritz. She knew about my demons, she knew, just like I did, that nine years before I was a different person, and that I wouldn’t have made it through.

  I both lost and found something on the road to St Jean-de-Maurienne. I’d finished when there was no reason to, when carrying on made no sense. It gave me great strength and resolve for the twelve stages still to come.

  The 2010 Tour became my personal journey through suffering. It was something I didn’t know I could endure, or perhaps more importantly, that I needed to endure. But I did. I kept going when it would have been easier to give up.

  26

  DAVE THE BRAVE

  I’ve always loved the World Championships. The atmosphere is different from every other race on the calendar. It’s festive and a little fresher than the occasionally battle-worn professional ambience we inhabit for the rest of the year.

  When I rolled up at San Sebastian for my first Worlds in 1997 as a 20-year-old neo-pro, I was excited to be among English-speakers in a safe environment, having spent a horrible year learning about the harsh and hidden realities of the sport I loved.

  Six years later, those realities had taken their toll. In 2003, I arrived in Hamilton a cold and calculating ruthless big hitter – unrecognisable in relation to the 20-year-old kid of 1997 – winning being the only reason I was there.

  At the 2010 Worlds in Australia, I was neither of these younger versions, yet both of them remained part of me. At 33, I’d reawakened much of the neo-pro idealist, despite the 26-year-old having destroyed much of himself.

  I was representing Team GB in the individual time trial, which would be run over two laps. I’d kept my strategy simple; give it everything in the first lap and then hang on with a wing and a prayer through the second.

  Before the race, I sat chatting with Dave Brailsford and Luke Rowe, one of the younger guys in the British team. Luke reminded me of myself at the same age. He was charming and chatty, the big talent, the kid who stood out from the rest. I jokingly asked if he was going to be out on the road cheering me on, as the time trial route went straight past the Team GB hotel.

  ‘Dave – of course I will,’ he said. He seemed genuinely taken aback at the thought of not doing so.

  ‘In that case, Luke, you’re in charge of getting me a big crowd – in fact, why don’t you make me a banner . . .?!’ I was joshing with him, seeing how far I could push him.

  ‘A banner . . .? Yeah, I can do that,’ he said nonchalantly. ‘Anything particular you want it to say?’ I looked at Dave and saw that he was following our banter with amusement.

  ‘I like you, Luke.’ I laughed. ‘It can say anything. What do you reckon, Dave?’

  Brailsford put on his poker face.

  ‘Luke, if you get a banner made and a crowd out there I’ll do everything I can to make sure it’s on TV or Graham Watson takes a photo of it. You’ve only got a couple of hours though, so you’d better start working on it.’

  Luke, offered an opportunity to impress both Dave and I, was on his feet and out of the room almost instantly. Dave looked across at me and smiled.

  Not many people knew what we’d been through together, or how far I’d really fallen, nor just how far Dave had gone to support me and pick me back up. Sitting there, the two of us jesting with one of the next generation, a couple of hours before I wore the British colours, squared the circle.

  Just over three hours later, I came flying past the hotel. I had set the best time at all the time checks and was now leader on the road, desperately holding off the incoming express that was Fabian Cancellara. I knew that the British team would be watching me on TV in the hotel, and I felt so proud to be giving them something to cheer for, flying the flag at the very front of the race.

  As I came careening onto the coastal road that passed our hotel I made sure that I lifted my head, taking a few seconds out from my race against the clock. I could see Team GB tracksuits lining the barriers and a big group, led by Luke, holding up a white sheet, presumably borrowed from the hotel.

  Painted across it, in massive letters, were the words: ‘DAVE THE BRAVE.’

  If I hadn’t been so wrapped up in my efforts to fend off Cancellara, I’d have had a lump in my throat. I didn’t care that perhaps it was probably the only thing Luke could think of that rhymed – it was just nice to imagine that maybe he believed it.

  Ten days later, after I’d been pushed into the silver medal position at the Worlds by the untouchable Cancellara, I arrived in Delhi to represent Scotland at the Commonwealth Games. This was another opportunity to say ‘thank you’, as it was among Scots that I’d found refuge when times had been at their worst.

  Scotland had always welcomed me. When I’d been told I could compete for the nation in the Commonwealth Games and that the life-time ban enforced upon me by the British Olympic Association did not apply, I leapt at the opportunity.

  When I’d been younger and consumed by the European racing scene, I had been dismissive of the Commonwealth Games. It was ignorant of me – I didn’t see any benefits taking time out from my pro racing schedule to race for Scotland. I regretted that, and was thankful to have the opportunity to rectify it.

  Mark Cavendish felt the same way about the Commie Games. It had never crossed our minds not to go – we’d both been with Team GB at the Worlds and we couldn’t wait to get to India. We’d spent close to two weeks living
in each other’s pockets in Australia and had grown closer than we’d ever been.

  I began to see a side of Cav that I’d never known. Behind the emotionally armed, verbal Gatling gun was a very focused and mature young man. I’ve met a few people in my time who like to think they suffer from OCD, but Mark was the real deal.

  Within minutes of arrival at the team hotel, he’d emptied his expensive matching luggage ensemble and made his room his home. He was clearly intending to keep the room in a near perfect state of order and hygiene while he was staying there.

  If I popped to see him in his hotel room in the morning, it already looked as if the housekeeping staff had done the rounds. But they hadn’t – immediately after he woke up, Mark would make his bed and then keep everywhere else spotlessly clean and organised.

  His behaviour behind closed doors was about as far from his public persona as was possible. As a result, he became much more interesting. I put aside the loyalties I had from being so close with Tyler Farrar, often the only competitor Mark had in the sprints, and opened my mind up to Planet Cav.

  It was never boring hanging out with Mark. He’s a charismatic little bastard, with an eccentric streak which makes him all the more appealing. I was amazed that he held the same desire to represent his country in the Commonwealth Games as I did. I’d assumed his rock star life in Tuscany had changed him, made him grander. I hadn’t expected that representing his home, the Isle of Man, would mean as much to him as representing Scotland did to me.

  His frivolity, generosity and occasionally manic behaviour reminded me of when I was his age. But Mark’s vices were slightly less destructive than mine, probably due to the much healthier environment that surrounded him. He had come from the very nurturing Team GB set-up overseen by Brailsford, and then joined HTC, one of the new wave of clean professional teams.

  At Team GB, Rod Ellingworth was his coach and confidant and had worked with him since he had been a teenager on the national team. Rod’s a moral and ethical rock, immune to celebrity or wealth, and I have no doubt in my mind that he is one of the main reasons for Mark’s incredible success. All of this had protected Mark from cycling’s dark side.