by David Millar
Once out of the shower, wrapped in a towel, we’ll pick up a recovery drink that’s sitting on the sideboard and help ourselves to a bowl of rice or pasta or whatever ‘real’ food has been prepared for us. Then we go back and sit down and relax again. Most of us can’t eat straightaway as our bodies are too messed up, so we drink our recovery drinks, check our phones and allow ourselves a few moments. Then we get dressed into our team tracksuits, because if we don’t do it quickly we’ll be too tired to be bothered.
Then we start putting our pile of race kit that’s on the floor into our personal washbag. All pretty simple, apart from the fact that we have to unpin our numbers, which is such a pain in the arse, especially as we know we’ll have to repin it in the morning. I’m OCD with my numbers: I have to cut them down to size to fit the pockets of the jersey that I’ll be pinning them to just perfectly. I probably resemble the little boy I once was, crunched up over a table, tongue out, gripping his pencil like it’s a matter of life or death, while attempting to draw a straight line. Then the pinning is equally traumatic: all the pins have to be exactly the same size and colour; there’s one for each corner and then another for each central point between the corners (except the bottom horizontal, where I don’t consider a pin to be required). That’s seven pins per number. I have to start all over again if I finish and they’re not perfectly symmetrical. Most days this is a therapeutic exercise, almost meditative; unfortunately there are other days when it feels like I’m trying to thread a needle while driving.
Our bus is so ridiculously hot that we’re just wearing our team-issue board shorts. We sit there and sweat more than we did in the race – well, it’s probably about the same, only now there’s no air to evaporate it. The next thing we do is get pissed off at the guys who are taking their time, because all we want to do is get on the road and begin the transfer. There’s nothing worse than being the last bus in the team car park; it feels like we’re off the back, even when not racing.
Which isn’t the case when we’ve won, of course, because that’s what it feels like when a teammate wins: we share the joy. There’s no longer any rush. We’ll happily sit there in the teams’ car park, long after all the other team buses have gone, waiting for our triumphant teammate, who is now having to go through the podium, anti-doping controls and media commitments. We can be so delayed – blocked at the finish area by spectators leaving, the organisation packing up – that we are way off the back. None of us care, because we all feel like we’re winners. As a team we’ve always acted like that, and I think most teams do, unless they win every single week; then I can imagine you have to start being a little less joyous, which is ironic.
I have a Radler waiting for Ryder when he gets back. The transfer to the hotel is a good long one, so we have plenty of time to share the moment. We all start talking about previous exploits and wins and similarly good stuff. Getting closer to our hotel I see a town name I remember: Torrelavega. Bingen Fernández, our directeur sportif, is on the bus. Bingen and I had been teammates years before on Cofidis. He was one of the most loyal teammates had. We always similar programmes – he was one of the best domestiques I’ve ever known. I ask him, ‘Bingen! Torrelavega? Is that where I won the stage in 2001?’
He replies in a totally matter-of-fact fashion, ‘Yes, Stage 6. You and [Santiago] Botero.’
I then recount the events of that stage in the 2001 Vuelta a España, the vivid memories of my first Grand Tour road-stage win, the same one where I punched the air as I’d done in my final-ever Grand Tour stage win in the 2012 Tour. As I conclude the story we drive by the track where the horribly long two-up sprint had taken place, where thirteen years earlier I’d refused to celebrate because I wanted to win so much. It is the weirdest thing.
When we get to the hotel I ask them if they have postcards. They have tons, years old, all the same: a picture of the hotel. The old man at reception says if I give him a euro I can have all of them. I give him a euro and take two; the day has been enough of a success, I needn’t take the piss.
Day 15
Highs and lows – I’ve built a career on them. What is it my old friend the Major said? ‘If the road isn’t bumpy, then where’s the fun?’ Something like that, anyway.
I feel so good today. I feel like I can decide what the race will do if I so please. I’m near the back when we pass the official start, just outside Oviedo. I have no difficulty moving up to the front while everybody is going balls out – once there, I simply surf around the pressure wave the front of the peloton creates. I can see everything, I’m hyper-aware; I’m finding it strange that guys will attack and not be able to prolong their effort. It’s not as if the peloton will speed up to chase them, it’s more like they’ll break free and soon realise they aren’t strong enough to continue. Then before they know it they are being sucked back in like dust into a vacuum cleaner. That’s classic third-week form; guys forget how tired they are.
I have the lucidity only facility can bring. I hadn’t even been interested in the stage, I had no plans for it, but now I’m out here on one of my magic days I realise that I have no choice but to make the most of it. I know the road becomes hilly at thirty kilometres, only ten kilometres away, and from what I am witnessing at the front it will be relatively easy for me to rip the race to pieces when we get there, so I continue to surf, watching everything that is going on, making sure nothing unexpected happens.
Then it does. We sweep off the ‘normal’ road on to a motorway, the bunch spreads across and starts to snake from one side to the other as rider after rider tries to break the elastic holding them back, only to be followed closely by the chasing bunch. As one rider is caught on the right, another will attack on the left; this isn’t strange behaviour, it is totally normal, if totally futile, as nobody is going to get away on such a large, flat piece of road when everybody is still so ‘fresh’.
Which is exactly what I’m thinking as one more time we sweep across to the right-hand side of the road. Then, BANG. I’m on the floor.
I don’t remember much, it all happens so fast. I’ve been in dozens and dozens of crashes in my life – all sorts of crashes, not just cycling. Yet I’ve never experienced anything like this.
I had the tiniest fraction of time to react, there was next to no warning. As we swept across the road we took ourselves into the path of the bollards that separated a slip road from the main carriageway. I was far enough toward the front to be one of the first to sweep through them. I guess a couple of guys further ahead managed to dodge them but didn’t have enough time to give a signal to those behind. The guy in front of me smashed straight into one. It was like he exploded in front of me: one second I was on his wheel, the next he was in the air. I remember instinctively dodging, yet before I knew it I hit something. I don’t remember being airbound, as the impact had been so big that it was still resonating through my body when I hit the ground.
(I found out on the bus after the race from Nathan Haas, who wasn’t very far behind me when it happened, that he was sure I was Game Over. He heard the crash noise and suddenly saw my red shoes way up in the air above the peloton in front of him, then saw me sliding along the floor as he passed me.)
But now, in the space of five seconds, I’ve gone from total control at 60km/h to motionless and shell-shocked on the ground. I know I’ve gone down hard – my back and shoulder are burning like a bastard – but it doesn’t take me long to realise I haven’t broken anything obvious. The guy who’s gone down in front of me is foetal on the ground, in full groaning mode. I stand up as quickly as I can so that they know I’m OK and they can focus on him. As soon as I do I start to hobble. I’ve smashed my knee really badly. I look down at it: it’s deep enough to be white rather than bloody. Ah fuck, that’s not good.
I go and sit down on the grass next to the road. Oh shit, this really hurts. Everything starts to burn. It is impossible to pinpoint anything. Alex, my mechanic, comes running up with wheels. ‘Oh, dude, no! Fuck, Dave. You OK?’
I’ve been like Harry Houdini most of my career, born with a sixth sense to make it through crashes that I’ve no right to escape from. Which probably isn’t fair, as I often put myself in the stupidest situations where crashing is likely. Of course, lady luck hasn’t always been on my side – this bollard incident is a prime example of that.
The first stage of the Giro the year before had been another.
Our second son, Harvey, was born the day before the Giro started. So I didn’t miss the birth, I was given special dispensation to arrive at the last minute. As can be imagined, I was a little tired when I got to Italy. Any sane person would have taken it easy the first stage. Obviously, I didn’t. I wanted to help with the lead out for Ty Farrar, so was right up at the front in the mix with two kilometres to go. We came flying round one of the final corners, and I was taken out by some halfwit who came in way too fast on the inside and lost control and smashed right into me. He may as well have been aiming for me. I hit the ground so hard I snapped my bike without my feet leaving the pedals. The muscles in my right leg were smashed to smithereens. I got back up and limped my way to the finish and the bus. When I got back on the bus afterwards, I collapsed in my seat, monumentally pissed off. I said to anybody who was nearby, ‘What the fuck? I mean, why was I up there? First fucking stage and I’ve ruined my leg.’ Ryder, who was walking back to his seat carrying a bowl of rice, chipped in, all matter-of-fact, ‘You can’t help it, man, you’re a racer. That’s what racers do.’
But now I’m sitting in the grass, nodding at the sagacity of Ryder’s remarks while Alex, the mechanic, sprints off to get my spare bike from the team car, when the team doctor arrives. Lorenz is German, young, and one of the best in the business at his job. We almost always have a doctor in the following car – all our team doctors are trained in trauma care, most of them having worked, or are still working, in the emergency rooms of hospitals. This has been a policy for us since the team’s creation – as good as race doctors can be, we prefer to have our own doctor first on the scene of a crash, one we know and trust and who knows the medical history of our riders. They also know our personalities, how each one of us handles crashes differently, some needing to be told to get up, others needing to be told to stay down. I’m definitely in the latter category.
Lorenz tells me not to move. He doesn’t even ask me how I am because he knows I won’t be able to give him the answers he needs, my body is still in shock. I don’t really know what’s just happened, let alone what I’ve done to my body. My left knee looks fucked. Lorenz starts by checking my collarbones, then moving my arms. He has a quick look at my ripped-up back and glances over my helmet. He looks me in the eyes and asks me if I know where I am, who he is, etc. I tell him my head is fine. He then asks me if I can stand up. He gives me his hand and helps pull me up. I can’t help but wince and try to avoid putting too much weight on my left knee. I tell him I’m OK, just really banged up. He knows I’m getting back on my bike and back into the race. I go and check my crashed bike on the floor. I hate it when I break my bikes; even now, after all these years, the kid in me still sulks seeing my bike all broken up.
It’s strange how alone I feel at this moment. All I can hear are the last words Dave B said to me, the day before, ‘Just stay upright, will you?’ He knows me too well.
The look of concern on the faces of those asking me if I’m OK doesn’t fill me with confidence. Once Alex gets back with my spare bike I get going again, immediately. The race is ripping along, only twenty kilometres into the stage, with no breakaway yet formed and hills coming up. It’s the point in the day where the peloton is going fastest; I can’t faff about feeling sorry for myself.
But my jersey is ripped up and there is blood everywhere; it’s pretty obvious I’m fucked. Everybody wants to help an injured rider, other teams’ cars don’t hesitate to offer me their slipstream. When my team car makes it back up to me they pull up alongside. I hold on to the roof rack and let them pull me back up to speed while Lorenz leans out and starts looking closer at all the damage. I stop pedalling, knowing that I need to use the team car as much as possible while I can. The commissaires will turn a blind eye to this – it’s one of those times where they know I need every advantage I can get, as I’m not doing it for any other reason than to survive the day.
I can’t pedal anyway. I have to stay as still as I can while hanging on to the side of the car at close to 70km/h so that Lorenz can start cleaning the wounds and bandaging them. My back and shoulder are in a state, as are my left arm and knee. At first I hold on with my left hand, but it’s proving too difficult for Lorenz to do my left shoulder and back as they’re almost up against the car. So I swap sides and hold on to the other side, that way Lorenz can lean across me and get to them more easily. As soon as I switch sides and start holding on my right hand starts to hurt, but that makes no sense as all the damage is on the left. There’s not even a graze on the right side of my body, yet my right hand begins to ache, then throb, then plain hurt. I must be holding on to the roof rack too tightly and straining it. But I can’t exactly loosen my grip; this is the only thing keeping me in the race.
Once everything is cleaned and dressed I have to let go of the car and make my own way. The commissaires can no longer turn a blind eye once the doctor has finished his work on me. The race is still in full flight up ahead. Only a few kilometres before I was at the front in total control, now I’m off the back in full survival mode. The strength I had hasn’t gone, but where it was sharp before, now it’s blunted and not much use. But it’s still there. I get myself to within five cars of the back of the bunch as we hit the first of the climbs. I’m moving up past riders who are getting dropped, which is a relief but also frustrating because I know I would have been attacking off the front at this very moment if I hadn’t hit the stupid bollard. Before the top of the climb I’m on the back of the bunch. Ryder and Nate are there. Nate’s in a world of suffering, Ryder is just being Ryder, chillin’.
As we come over the top the race calms down a little and begins to bunch up a bit. I pull up alongside Ryder. He looks at me and says, ‘I thought you were gone, man. You OK?’ I reply as nonchalantly as possible, ‘I’m fine, just banged up.’ He then says to me, concerned, but also a little pissed off, ‘Are you fine? Or are you just saying you’re fine?’ I can’t help but smile, ‘My hand hurts.’ And I show him the one piece of my body that isn’t ripped up. He just shakes his head and smiles, ‘You’re sick.’
I go back to my road captain role, knowing it is an important day for Dan as we have a big summit finish. All I have to do is keep the team organised and place Dan safely at the front for the foot of the penultimate climb, then I can sit up and crawl in to the finish. And that’s exactly what happens. Ryder pulls off with me, engaging the ‘buddy system’ his priorities lying with helping me to the finish rather than racing up the front. We shut it down as soon as the gruppetto forms, all of us finding a gentle rhythm that will take us to the finish inside the time delay.
For the first time since the crash I relax. My hand is hurting more than anything else now, which I still can’t understand, but I know I have to finish the Vuelta. It will be a tough last week, and not exactly the fun racing I had in mind, but if I make it through I’ll still be good for the Worlds. Any chances of winning a stage are gone, I know that, but I have to be thankful I’m still in the race considering the scale of the crash.
We start to chat and joke a bit, making light of it all, then, only minutes later, we come around a corner on the climb and see five of our teammates down a little ravine. They look like the Keystone Cops, a human chain: Dan in the middle, being lifted from below and pulled from above. Ryder and I look at each other: ‘What. The. Fuck. Is. Going. On?’
; It turns out that Dan had been squeezed up against a barrier on the inside of a switchback and had flipped over it, falling down into the ravine – not far, but far enough that he couldn’t get out by himself. His bike was still on the road, jammed up against the barrier. Dan had somehow jettisoned himself off it, which added to the Keystone Cops scene. This all happened going uphill. Summie, Nathan, Koldo and Cardoso had stopped to help get him out. The team cars were still too far behind, so they had to fix it themselves.
I can’t believe it. I’ve never seen anything like it. If Dan is OK we have a monumental chase on our hands. Ryder and I stop, Dan gets out of the ravine. The first thing he does is try to get on Summie’s bike, which doesn’t bode well, as Summie’s bike is about a foot too big for Dan. One of the guys hands Dan his bike, then we set off. At first it appears Dan is badly injured, as he won’t accelerate and it looks like he’s giving up. This is good in a way as it allows the guys who’ve helped him get back on to the road to catch up with us and regroup. There are now six of us together. I lead, slowly winding the speed up. Dan starts to get his head back in the game; we are now behind the gruppetto which was blocking the narrow mountain road, travelling at the speed Ryder and I had previously been enjoying.
I am being calm, just shouting, ‘SERVICE! SERVICE!’, the peloton command to let you pass by if you have a job to do. Some riders aren’t aware of our situation and are taking longer to get out of the way. This is all happening at gruppetto speed; being trapped here means we are losing more and more time to those at the front, who are racing at speed ahead of us. Nathan, who’s behind me, starts losing his mind, shouting, ‘WILL YOU FUCKHEADS GET OUT THE FUCKING WAY! FUCK! COME ON!’ Obviously this doesn’t help, as everybody starts shouting back at Nathan, ‘OOOOO, FUCKHEAD, WHAT’S THE MATTER? YOU CAN’T GET BY?’ So Nathan shouts back, ‘OH, FUCK YOU. WE’VE GOT A JOB TO DO. GET OUT THE FUCKING WAY.’ I have to tell Nathan to calm down while simultaneously trying to part the gruppetto sea to let us pass. It’s a true comedy of errors.
