The Racer

by David Millar

  Luke Rowe, whom I’d first met at the Worlds in Australia in 2010, had grown into a natural road captain himself. It was clear he would be taking over my role in the future, so much so that he stuck by me and paid attention to everything I said and did, sponging as much as he could, knowing it would be the last time. We even went together and bought pizzas and beers for the team after the race. Thinking about it, that was perhaps the pivotal moment: without him knowing it I handed over my captaincy to him there and then. Over the pizzas and beers in the hotel foyer, while Froomie was next door buying kebabs and a bottle of vodka, Dave B gave me a present: three race numbers, 9, 64, and 11 – 9 was for the number of Worlds time trials I’d done for GB; 64 was my final race number from that day (and also happens to be the postcode for Biarritz, where Dave and I had lived some of the darkest hours of my life); and 11 was for the number of Worlds Road Races I’d raced for GB. They were signed by the team, and Dave had written a personal note on them. Those three dossards will be framed to become one of the few pieces of cycling memorabilia I’ll have on display at home. They mean more than any jersey.

  We then had a four-hour bus ride to Madrid, where we were staying the night before flying out, going our separate ways. We got hammered. It was over. Just as with Christian Vande Velde almost exactly a year earlier, this was the end.

  * * *

  The #vengabus is in full flow on route to Madrid. Worlds done, season over. Where’s good for a rave in Madrid?

  Retweeted by @millarmind

  * * *

  Only it wasn’t quite the end. I still had one more race to do.

  Circle Completed

  We shall not cease from exploration.

  And the end of all our exploring will be to arrive

  Where we started and know the place for the first time.

  ‘Little Gidding’, T. S. Eliot

  Towards the end of the first part of my career, before I was banned, I had my own personal soigneur. I made sure it was in my contract (I also had two domestiques, a mechanic and a directeur sportif). I did it because that was what hitters did. In the latter part of my career I didn’t need or want any of those things. I trusted all the staff and never wanted to be shown preferential treatment. More importantly, I didn’t want to act like an egomaniac; I wanted to lead by example, and that meant not acting like a spoilt brat. I never asked for anybody in particular: the head soigneur and head mechanic would allocate who worked on my legs or my bike. My mechanic became Alex Banyay, my soigneurs either John Murray or Garry Beckett.

  There were reasons for this: Alex was the mechanic Geoff Brown trusted the most, and he knew that we’d get on well, on and off the bike. And John and Garry are English – I think that’s the only reason they were allocated to me in the first place. John’s a physiotherapist; football had been his life’s work, cycling had been his life’s passion. A few years ago he decided to make the leap to cycling – at the time a move more than likely considered mad by those who knew him, but which can since be looked upon as prescient.

  Garry – I call him Gazza – has been my primary soigneur the last few years. I know he’d do anything for me if I asked, but I never ask. He’s a Londoner; he fucking hates the place, as only a true Londoner can. To say he’s had an interesting life would be doing it an injustice. Much like Ryder, he’s a grinder. He’s been a trainee Jaguar engineer, a coffee blender, a dentist’s assistant, a barman, a mechanic, a signwriter, a Harrod’s technical engineer, a panel beater and sprayer, a Forex broker, a mini-cab driver, a builder, a life assurance and pensions sales executive … and that’s just to name a few of his jobs over the years.

  At the Vuelta this year Gazza was in charge of rubbing my legs (technical term for massage). I knew a lot about Gazza – it’s difficult not to, he loves telling a life story, and most of the time I love listening to them. Although there were times when I was so tired I just switched off, letting his voice become a relaxing background noise, while also hoping beyond hope that the story wouldn’t become so animated that he’d have to stop the ‘rub’ and engage his hands into the body language required to really tell the story.

  One of the few things that’s been a constant in Gazza’s life is the Bec CC, his cycling club in London. His parents had been founding members, but the club moniker had nothing to do with the family name, Beckett, and everything to do with south London’s Tooting Bec.

  It was Gazza’s mum and dad who, while out on a tandem bike ride, discovered the road that is used to this day for their annual end-of-season time trial. ‘The Bec’ has become a stalwart of that particularly quirky British racing scene, the Hill Climb time trial, always held in October. They’re short, explosive efforts, where aerodynamics come a lowly second to weight, and specialists will go as far as removing their bar tape – which seems a little excessive but is part of the tradition; bikes are stripped down to their bare minimum. After all, the effort is only a handful of minutes long.

  Gazza has been organising the Bec Hill Climb for twenty-eight years, a role he assumed from his father. He’s done it out of duty, he’s lost money, hair (he has no hair), and God knows how much time, making sure that every year it takes place. It’s a labour of love in the truest sense. He’d always talked to me about it; I’d even been the guest of honour at the Bec CC annual prize-giving a couple of years before, so I knew the club and what they were about.

  They’re a classic British cycling club, of which there are many. Some go back over a hundred years; sadly, most of them have been in decline over the past fifty. It’s been these clubs that have kept the spirit of cycling alive in the UK through thick and thin, and many of their value systems and eccentric behaviours date back to Victorian or Edwardian times.

  The recent cycling boom in the UK makes everything seem fresh and modern, and because of that it’s easy to look upon these traditional clubs as old-fashioned stick-in-the-muds, out of date and behind the times. Everybody’s using technology to monitor their bike rides these days – how far/fast/high did I go? What’s my ranking? Did I hit my target TSS? They judge their bike ride by looking at a screen, they go riding with virtual partners, they get kudos from people they’ve never met and probably never will. There’s nothing wrong with all that, just as there’s nothing wrong with meeting at seven o’clock on a Tuesday evening to do a time trial, then going to a village hall for tea and cake to chat and mingle when it’s done, meet for a chain-gang ride another evening, do a weekend reliability trial, or organise a crazy little hill climb – or even have the annual prize-giving lunch. The difference between the old and new is that with the old you’re doing it with real people; the social network is a handshake away rather than a screen and a keyboard.

  I have a lot of time for this peculiarly British scene. I owe much of my life in cycling to my local cycling club, High Wycombe CC – it was with them that it all started for me. I was a clueless kid from Hong Kong; all I knew was the Tour de France through videos or magazines and books. I’d never done a time trial until they told me to come along to one of theirs. I had no idea what I was doing, but I never felt daunted or insecure – they made me feel welcome; I was immediately taken under their wing.

  For this reason, when Gazza asked me if I’d do the Bec as my final race – I was on the massage table at the time, during the first week of the Vuelta – I agreed. Everything was still going swimmingly at that point; I had no idea that somewhere, hundreds of kilometres away, a bollard was quietly awaiting my arrival.

  The week following the Worlds I felt like an old man. I didn’t touch my bike once, and I went and got my hand looked at again and found out it needed to be operated on, I’d done so much damage to it. I delayed the operation until after the Bec, but any ideas I’d had of finishing on a mini-high were gone.

  Everybody knew it would be the last time I’d ever race. For this reason, and unlike my other ‘final’ races, this was the only time I had the people close to me come and watch: my family and friends were all planning to be there. B
etter than that, being a club event meant that Nicole and members of the VCRC could even take part.

  There was something so perfect about it being a club event. There were no barriers or buses, no helicopters or motorbikes, zero professional teams and barely any media. It felt like I’d turned back the clock. I was back where I’d started all those years ago.

  An hour before my start I went and got changed, pinning on a race number for the very last time, going through the process I’d performed 1,087 times for professional races. I wasn’t in the slightest bit emotional about it. It was hard to be when I was so relieved by the knowledge I’d never have to do it again. When I was kitted up I went and watched some of the riders finishing. It didn’t look like much fun – it only lasted a little over two minutes for the fastest, but because of that it was sick-inducingly intense. Short, sharp and steep, designed to hurt. I repeated what I’d kept telling myself all year: ‘One last time.’

  I gave my goodbyes, got my good lucks and headed off to warm up. It wasn’t my greatest warm-up – it was hard, what with it being on public roads that I’d never ridden on before. I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d done a warm-up on an actual road instead of a static trainer.

  I got to the start a few minutes before my time. I felt like shit, my hand hurt and my legs felt like lead. I cheerfully said ‘Hi’ to the guys around me then started to take my leg warmers off. As I was pulling the first one off I heard a familiar voice: ‘David, how are you?’

  I looked up. The man who’d spoken was taking his jacket off to reveal an old High Wycombe CC jersey. I looked at him for a moment. ‘Scott? What are you doing here?’ It was Scott Paterson who, twenty-two years earlier, had held me up on the start line in a lay-by near Thame for my very first time trial. Back then, just before he started that first of many countdowns I’d go on to hear, he’d told me, ‘Now, David, remember: pace yourself, and don’t think about anybody else. It’s just you against the clock.’ I remember nervously nodding, unable to speak.

  I couldn’t believe Scott was here now. I’d seen him only a couple of times in the previous decade. He came over and shook my hand. ‘When I read you were doing this I thought I had to come.’ He smiled, ‘You know, I was there for the first, I wanted to be here for the last.’

  I couldn’t help but smile. I forgot about everything hurting, about feeling old. If I hadn’t known before I knew then that I’d made the right choice for my last race. Scott introduced me to his son, who was about the same age as me: ‘David, this is James.’ I shook his hand and saw he had a camera ready. ‘James, could you get a photo of us please?’

  We chatted briefly. I told the people nearby about Scott having held me up for my first-ever time trial. My start time rapidly approached. I shook Scott’s hand and said, ‘Thank you.’ He patted me on the back, and as I rolled away I heard him say, ‘One last time, David.’

  Acknowledgements

  I’d like to thank a few people from my publishers Yellow Jersey Press. In particular my editor Matt Phillips helped shape my ideas at the very beginning, when I had no words, and then at the very end, when I had too many words. His was a voice of enthusiasm and cutting excellence. Matt, I thank you for being such a wonderful not-so-invisible-hand.

  He wasn’t alone at Yellow Jersey Press, there was also the designer James Jones, who has always shown patience with my uneducated yet picky eye. His sister is Bethan Jones, who also works for YJP. Rarely in all my career have I met somebody as professional and visionary as Bethan when it comes to the machinations of publicity. Phil Brown, whose unseen work in producing this book will remain, well, unseen. Thank you for never making me feel stupid when it came to my more outlandish ideas. Finally there’s Richard Collins, the copy-editor – you made this into a proper book, thank you.

  Nadav Kander – probably the only true artist I’ve known in my life – thank you for giving me the confidence to do things differently. I can’t mention Nadav without mentioning Kadir Guirey, my dear friend who introduced us, you are a Prince among men.

  I’d like to thank the VCRC Style Council, Richard Pearce, Kadir (again), Max Broby, and the magical Douglas Brooks. The four of them were nothing but an inspiration to me in my final year as a professional cyclist. They opened my eyes to a world beyond racing bikes and gave me the confidence to attempt to enter it. Nicolò Ildos of Fi’zi:k, who provided the reason to create the Style Council with our madcap plan to design a pair of shoes for every race of my final season while at dinner together after the 2014 Worlds in Florence, where this book begins.

  Then there’s Graham Watson – who will always call me ‘Junior’ – thank you for giving us your photos for free. It’s been a trip, old boy. You’ve seen me do shit I can’t even remember. Thank you for being there to capture what I’d have otherwise forgotten. Francois Marie of FMB tyres – you are the last great artisan. If heaven exists and bikes are ridden there, for sure they’ll all be equipped with FMBs.

  Ryder Hesjedal – who’d have thought we’d become the greatest of friends? Yet we have, and that alone is reason enough to love bike racing, because without it we’d never have even met.

  Stephen Frears, Tracey Seaward, Alan Macdonald, and everybody else I met working on The Program. You made my world seem totally sane and normal in comparison to yours. Thank you for that reality check. It was such a wonderful experience, which helped me break free from what I was convinced was my totally insane and extraordinary environment.

  David Luxton, aka Der Kaiser, my literary agent, without whom I would have never even thought it possible I could write a book, let alone two. You have never doubted me, which has been terribly important as I have spent most of my time doubting myself. Ian Preece, my first and hopefully last editor, you know my voice better than anybody and you let me swear. You’re a fucking legend, albeit a quiet one. I love you for it, Priest.

  My parents, both my mum and dad, helped me believe I could write this when I genuinely thought I couldn’t, thank you, both of you, for never having let me think something was impossible. My sister, France, who has been there to pick me up everytime I’ve fallen down, I love you very much. Finally, my wife, Nicole. You watched me retire from racing, thankful to have me home, only to see me disappear back into it once again, this time inside my head, all on my own. It’s done now. Thank you for putting up with it all.

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorized distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  Epub ISBN: 9781473521780

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  Yellow Jersey, an imprint of Vintage Publishing,

  20 Vauxhall Bridge Road,

  London SW1V 2SA

  Yellow Jersey is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com.

  Copyright © David Millar 2015

  David Millar has asserted his right to be identified as the author of this Work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  First published by Yellow Jersey in 2015

  www.vintage-books.co.uk

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  ISBN 9780224100069

  The quotations from T. S. Eliot appear courtesy of the Estate of T. S. Eliot and Faber and Faber

 

 

 
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