The Racer

by David Millar

  We have two days’ rest between Milan–San Remo and the first of the six one-day races we’ll do over the following three weeks. It’s held on a Wednesday, and it feels like hump day. It’s called Dwars door Vlaanderen, which translates as something like ‘Through Flanders’. That sums it up. It’s not a particularly challenging race but it’s a good reminder of what awaits us in the following weeks. I feel totally recovered from my recent efforts in Italy, so much so that I make it into the first selection of the day. It isn’t long before I regret being so eager. I average 153 heart rate and 340 watts for nearly four hours; banging my head repeatedly against a wall would have been more enjoyable. Once we’re caught I accept that my race is over and roll back to the team bus, my DNF in the results not telling the full story of my day in the saddle.

  The next day we recon the critical fifty kilometres of the race we’ll be doing on Friday – E3 Harelbeke. E3 is the old name of the motorway that runs next to the town of Harelbeke; it’s maybe one of the least glamorous race names on the calendar. The race itself is better than its name would have you believe, and because of this has attained World Tour status, meaning there are precious points up for grabs. I should have been saving myself for this rather than getting carried away and head-banging my way Through Flanders. It’s too late for me to learn from this. All I can do is accept it; the phenomenon of knowing this is my last year racing means this has become a regular state of mind. No longer can I say to myself, ‘Well, I won’t do that next year.’ It’s more like, ‘Well, I won’t ever do that again.’

  E3 is referred to as a mini Tour of Flanders, which is a fair description as it tackles all of the climbs (referred to as hellingen by the locals) that will be used in Flanders, although its distance of 210 kilometres means it’s fifty kilometres shorter. This doesn’t make it easier. In fact, it can be harder because there’s none of the inherent fear of distance that the Monuments can instil in the peloton, therefore there’s little trepidation about racing it hard and fast from early on. The favourites for Flanders will be out to prove themselves and earn the right to leadership within their team for the upcoming Monuments. All the ingredients are there for a great race, and it rarely disappoints.

  Unfortunately, it is disappointing for me. The team decide to save me for the finale, yet when it comes to crunch time I’m not good enough, the efforts of the previous week finally rearing their ugly head. There is only one day’s rest until the next big one: Sunday’s Ghent–Wevelgem. Hardly enough time to fix me, but enough for me to recover sufficiently to do my job as road captain.

  Ghent–Wevelgem is one of the few Classics that often finishes in a bunch sprint, hence its reputation as the ‘sprinter’s Classic’. This doesn’t mean it’s an easy roll around the Flanders countryside – far from it: it can be as hard as any Classic. The key difference is that it is relatively controlled because of the many teams having the same objective: to have the race finish in a bunch sprint. There is only one thing that is almost guaranteed to spoil their monopoly over the tactics, and that is bad weather, especially wind – if it’s blowing then all bets are off.

  This year we don’t have any wind. In fact, we have beautiful weather, something that is to last the whole Flanders campaign. This makes all of the races easier, hence why the specialists prefer bad weather, because when that’s the case they’re already winning before they even get to the start line. While they’re wringing their hands with excitement others are wallowing in self-pity in anticipation of what awaits them; the psychological warfare begins the moment the morning curtains are opened. This year the concern isn’t the weather, it is the crashes.

  The Worst Crash Ever

  We found out later the crash began right at the front of the bunch when Alessandro Petacchi handed his teammate some clothing he no longer required. While the teammate put the clothing in his back pocket he clipped the wheel of the guy in front of him and lost control, and with one hand on his handlebars and the other in his back pocket he could do nothing to stay upright. The ensuing crash was brutal. We know from the post-race data analysis that the first guys down were travelling at 78 km/h. It was about twenty-five kilometres from the finish of Stage 6 of the 2012 Tour de France. We had a tail wind and were going down a slightly descending, dead straight, road. Anybody who wasn’t at the front was trying to move up to be at the front, meaning we were packed like sardines, riding dangerously close to each other. Concentrating on the riders surrounding you 360 degrees meant we didn’t have much perception of the speed we were travelling as a whole. I remember it clearly. First there was the noise: metal and carbon grinding and smashing, tyres skidding, brakes screeching. Then there were the impacts. I started seeing them from a long way out: bikes and bodies were going everywhere, some were piling directly into the centre of it all, others were taking evasive action either to the left or to the right, disappearing off road. The tidal wave of peloton debris was approaching at an unavoidable speed; we became all too aware for the first time of just how fast we were travelling. There was zero hope of escaping it, so then it became a case of braking as hard as you could and rubbing off as much speed as possible before the impact. To say I ‘chose’ the lesser of the two evils by deciding to head for the verge would be an overstatement. My avoidance plan took me off the road into the unknown, at which point my bike got caught up in other bikes and bodies and I continued on my own through the air, bike left far behind. I landed on other bikes and bodies and came to a stop.

  Unfortunately, once your crash is completed you are at the mercy of those careening in from behind, many of whom aren’t as skilled or aware as you’d perhaps like them to be. The best thing to do is cover your face and close your eyes. If you’re not too fankled up then naturally you’ll curl up into a fetal position. The fear is primal. Then the blows land. They’re coming in, skidding and dodging and smashing to a halt from behind. Some go over you, some land on top, some stop right next to you. For others, you’re the point of impact.

  One of the strangest things about crashing with professionals is the fact that they never scream or shout. All we hear are the machinations of the crash; the racers themselves don’t make any noise until they know it’s over. Total silence. Perhaps it seems quiet beware moments before everything was so loud. Or maybe it’s because everybody is dazed. Then you hear the groaning from those injured, and the shouting from those trying to help. There’s angry swearing from those who came out unscathed, and occasionally screaming from somebody who has got himself really fucked up.

  For me, there is no acute pain immediately. I’m shocked – sometimes like a white pulse through the body, electric but bigger, on the point of impact – but I don’t ever really know in those first few minutes after a big crash how hurt I am. Our bodies are protected by the adrenaline. If there is immediate pain it tends to be the surprise of the massive impact. It’s like walking along a street and somebody comes sprinting out of the blue and body slams you. You’ll lie on the floor writhing for a bit but then, a minute or so later, you realise nothing is actually damaged. I don’t get scared when I hurt myself, which I think is the main reason we cry or scream or groan: it’s a fear of the unknown. We are conditioned to be scared of hurting ourselves and rightly so. As professional cyclists we are conditioned to accept hurting ourselves. The longer we’ve being doing it, the better we become at controlling it.

  Yet despite all this conditioning, Stage 6 of the 2012 Tour was the worst crash I’d been involved in. Once it had all stopped I started to untangle myself. I realised I was one of the lucky, unscathed ones and started looking for my bike. My whole team was in a thirty-metre radius of me, but everyone seemed so messed up that each of us had switched to survival look-after-number-one mode. I found my bike under Christian VdV. I asked him if he was OK. He said, ‘I think so.’ I checked the wheels spun, and that nothing was inoperably bent, and started picking my way through the carnage, carrying my bike over everyone and everything, trying not to look or listen too much – all th
is wasn’t something I wanted to register. I left my whole team behind knowing there was nothing I could do to help them and that maybe if Ryder, our team leader that year, was OK he’d be better off having me wait up the road, ready to ride for him rather than standing around here trying uselessly to help.

  Aftermath of 2012 TdF Stage 6 Crash

  Tom Danielson post-crash

  Ryder post-crash

  I set off up the road, barely pedalling as there was no point until I could see Ryder coming. There were other guys doing the same; everybody was too shocked to really know what to do. Some were arguing whether they should wait for teammates; many were clueless as to whether their leader was in the crash or up the road. It was a slow-motion bamboozled chaos.

  After a kilometre or so I realised blood was pouring down my arm. I hadn’t even noticed I’d hurt it. I sat up and twisted the arm around so I could see it. It looked like I’d been swiped by a big cat, five perfect knife-like cuts – clearly a chainring had ‘broken’ my fall. I just shook my head. If that was it, I was one lucky bastard. Ryder eventually made it to the finish but was too injured to start the next day. Everybody else in the team was messed up. It felt like a mobile emergency unit in the bus after the race. That crash was one of the main instigators for the Tour de France having an X-ray machine at the finish line soon afterwards – the hospitals in the area couldn’t handle the influx of professional cyclists that day.

  That night we stayed in a converted monastery and dined in the adjacent abbey, no longer the place of worship it had once been. There were no pews, an empty stage where the altar had once stood and temporary tables laid out for the two teams dining there that evening. We arrived one by one, the gravity of the injuries dictating our time of arrival. I was one of the earliest. I spent five minutes walking around taking photos. I love cathedrals, abbeys and churches; their architecture has always amazed me, how such monumental things could exist in such apparently basic times. There was something quite perfect about being in a place of such surreal grandeur, made all the more beautiful by the fact that it was stripped back and free of any religious connotations. It was one of those evenings where we all let go, released from the pressure we’d felt to fulfil expectations, but also by the fact we’d escaped the biggest crash of our careers without very serious injuries. It felt mischievous having so much fun in a church. We took the piss out of each other chronically: the worse you were injured the bigger the target you were. No one was spared. Ultimately it was probably the fucking strong painkillers and wine. The other team dining there watched us like we were deranged. I think we were.

  The Theory of Crashes

  There are always crashes in the Classics. We all know that and are prepared for it. There are even certain races we start where we take it for granted we’ll be involved in at least one crash – it goes with the terrain. Yet over recent years crashes have become something of a more regular occurrence. At first I wondered if this was simply me seeing the sport through the more safety conscious eyes of the older pro I’d become. I began to see certain young pros as reckless kids. However, after a while I realised it was not just a case of hot-headed younger pros cycling impetuously, but also of older pros who should know better.

  As professionals we have a duty to respect each other. We are completely reliant on this in the peloton. We shouldn’t be squeezing through gaps that are too small, or slamming on our brakes without a care for the riders behind us, or taking unnecessary risks in descents. In fact, we should be involved in nothing that could provoke an unnecessary crash. Yes, there are moments when we’re all flat out, taking risks – but those moments usually occur under truly high-pressure racing conditions and none of us will reproach somebody who crashes because it was a genuine accident.

  There are six primary causes of crashes in a bike race. I made a fairly close analysis of this after Stage 4 of the 2009 Vuelta a España:

  1. Mechanically induced (puncture at high speed, snapped chain, etc.).

  2. Slippery surface.

  3. Contact with other rider in peloton leading to loss of control.

  4. Individual rider taking risks and losing control or grip.

  5. Loss of concentration, leading to distraction and loss of control.

  6. Close proximity to anybody going through the above five.

  The number and scale of the crashes that day at the Vuelta were primarily due to number two, although the origin was almost always a number four. Unfortunately, number two, by its very nature, would cause number threes and, as a result, plenty of number sixes.

  The reason a slippery surface has such an overbearing presence in the anatomy of a crash is easy to understand when you think about the basic physics of bicycle road racing, which involves, on average, seventy-five kilogrammes balanced vertically four or five feet off the ground on roughly three square inches of inflated rubber. That’s a lot of stress to put on those three square inches of rubber in dry conditions, never mind in wet. When it’s wet, avoidance braking, or simply turning, can result in loss of grip and control, and inevitably conclude with a crash.

  For this reason Stage 4 of that year’s Vuelta was scary. Coming down into Liège (the Vuelta a España had started in Holland, then descended into Belgium), I could barely see anything through my filthy glasses. The only reason they were still on my face was for the protection they offered me from the dirty, high-pressure water spray that was being thrown up. We were ripping along, close to 80 km/h.

  In such circumstances we are more reliant on each other than at any other time. There are 200 of us, and yet it takes just one to think he’s Valentino Rossi then lose control and cause the chain reaction that can take down dozens of us. It’s scary having to rely completely on your peers’ mutual respect and care for each other. I do not implicitly trust them in those conditions. I’ve been around long enough to understand that pro cyclists aren’t particularly blessed with a common love for each other.

  Yet the thing is, as pro cyclists we have to trust each other an enormous amount. After all, it’s the only reason we can race for so many kilometres together under often extreme circumstances and not crash more often. But what follows is not about a lack of trust – It’s an accident. Racing downhill after 200 kilometres at 80km/h in heavy rain was one of those times. What happened at the end of that stage in the Vuelta was a crash of quite horrible proportions.

  Our leader was Tyler Farrar, who was on top sprinting form, and I was his lead-out man – the two of us were on a mission as it appeared to be a perfect stage for him. We had gone through the finish line on the first circuit and got a good look at the last kilometre. We had the nineteen-kilometre lap to negotiate with the gentler side of the Côte de Saint-Nicolas to be tackled, although this wasn’t too complicated as both of us were feeling well in control. When we got to nine kilometres to go we found each other.

  ‘OK, Ty?’ I asked.

  His reply was so matter-of-fact it could be nothing but the truth: ‘Get me through that last corner first and I’ll win.’

  That was it. That was all that was said. We made eye contact and I nodded. Our teammate Svein Tuft got to the front with about six kilometres to go and lifted the pace. For the majority this was too high to allow them to move up, making it easier for Ty and me to pick and hold our position. Our plan had been to let Columbia and Quick Step do the lead out, then, inside the last kilometre and leading to the final corner, I would come over the top of them. So we were sitting near the front, but not right at the sharp end. We really were picking and choosing what we were doing – lucidity at its best. Unfortunately, we weren’t quite the masters of our own destiny that we thought ourselves to be.

  We were starting to string out into single file as the speed increased and the finish approached. We came under the three-kilometre banner and entered a big roundabout – not something that should have caused much of a problem, even in the wet, as we were battle-hardened to the conditions by this point. That’s when the human factor kicked in. To this
day I don’t know the initial cause – I’m presuming a number four in the list above, which led to a number three and, because of number two, caused a massive number six – but I lived the effect.

  Like the Tour de France crash three years later there was the familiar nasty noise that we all come to recognise and fear. It’s a horrible sound because of what it represents: shoes being ripped out of pedals, metal dragging, plastic and carbon grinding; it’s a cacophony in the truest sense. When it’s wet there is little hope of escaping. In the dry there’s a chance you’ll escape it right up until the last second, because at least there is some grip on the road for the braking tyres to hold on to. Often in the wet the moment you touch the brakes the bike disappears from under you as the tyres slide out. You’ll normally hit the ground before making contact with anything or anybody, simply because even the mildest evasive manoeuvre means a loss of grip and subsequent crash. This is what happened in Liège. I heard the crash ahead, then I saw a guy about five or six riders in front of me hit the ground independently of whatever the noise had been. And then it began. Every single racer in front of me hit the ground, like a dozen bowling pins. You see it happening and are powerless to do anything about it. I knew I was going down. I simply waited. In the moment, it feels like a long time – but is actually probably no longer than a second. THUMP. I’m on the ground.