Rough Ride (30 page)

I sent a final reply: 'No problem, I understand, the law of silence is golden.' But then the plot took an unexpected twist.

The following afternoon, I had just sat down at my laptop when I got a call from the office in London, informing me that they had just received a threatening letter from Millar's solicitor.

It wasn't the first solicitor's letter I've received during my seventeen years in journalism and hopefully it won't be the last because as my friend, David Walsh, often reminds me, 'Libel suits are the Oscars of our trade.' Which is not to suggest that I was feeling very pleased at being nominated again. In fact, I was absolutely incensed. I jumped into the car and drove straight to Millar's hotel with a faxed copy of the letter in my bag and a plan to confront him. I thought: 'Who the fuck does this guy think he is? How dare he try to intimidate me!' But I changed my mind – I would have my say in print.

Later that night I sat down to compose a piece. 'Rider in the Storm' opened with the threat from Millar's solicitor and closed with a gift I sent him – a copy of
Rough Ride.

David, During our brief conversation on Wednesday you mentioned my 'reputation'. I can only assume you were thinking of this book. Fran asked me to send you my questions and I told her that I don't do that . . . But I have decided to make an exception. I have a question. What aspect of the book do you have a problem with? Best wishes, Paul Kimmage.

Millar never responded. Neither did his solicitor. But the piece prompted an interesting response in the letters page of the
Sunday Times.

Matt Rendell, an author and journalist from Harwich, Essex, wrote: 'A journalist leaves a tactless note at an athlete's hotel requesting an interview. The next morning, minutes before a gruelling five-day race begins, he doorsteps his athlete and demands an audience "at some stage this week". The athlete says he'll happily talk to another writer on the same paper, but not our hapless hack. What does he do? Confess his social ineptitude? Not genial storyteller Paul Kimmage, for whom David Millar's cold shoulder was a result. Is Millar's decision to pass on the opportunity to talk doping with the normally irresistible Kimmage really proof that he has something to hide? Kimmage might usefully turn his doubting eye on his own professional ethics.'

Six weeks later, Millar was arrested by French police after empty vials of EPO were discovered during a raid on his home. He spent forty-eight hours in custody before admitting he had used the drug. He was promptly sacked by Cofidis and banned for two years. On the Sunday following his arrest, I opened the
Sunday Times
hoping for a letter from Mr Rendell, the professional ethics expert. It was no great surprise when none appeared.

Back in the present . . . This afternoon, we arrived in Strasbourg after a
long drive from Calais and it was soon business as usual when we checked into
the press room. There are rumours from Madrid. The police there have been
running a huge doping investigation– they're calling it Operation Puerto
– and the word is some very big names are involved. I've noticed a lot
of Tour officials with furrowed brows. Personally, I'm always thrilled when
the dopers are exposed but if the sport is ever to be truly saved there's
another list that should be compiled: a list of the spineless, lazy, morally
bankrupt wasters masquerading as journalists here. This morning, in an excellent
interview with the French daily
Le Monde,
Daniel Baal, a former joint-director
of the Tour and president of the French Cycling Federation, was scathing in
his criticisms of the Tour and the fourth estate.

'The Tour has no sporting credibility,' he said. 'Those who believed in cycling these last few years have been betrayed . . . Another thing that has shocked me is the manner in which a number of journalists continue to sing the praises of certain sportsmen [we know to be cheats]. Eight years after the Festina affair and despite all the work, the situation is catastrophic.'

I'm gazing around the press room now and thinking about some of the great journalists who used to work in these seats. There are still a few here but it's mostly fans with typewriters now. 'Don't mind any of that nonsense going on in Spain,' I heard one chirp recently during a broadcast from the Tour of Italy. 'This is real cycling.'

David Millar paid a flying visit to the interview room this morning to announce his return after a two-year suspension for EPO use. Now there's an argument to be made that the twenty-nine-year-old Scot has served his time and should be allowed to resume his career. And there's an argument to be made that he is truly contrite and has learnt from the error of his ways. But you won't find that argument here: I think Millar should have been banned for life.

For several months now, I've been reading his interviews and listening to his rhetoric as he prepared to return to the peloton . . . and he is still using the same language as the drug cheats. An interview he gave to the official Tour programme was an absolute classic.

Millar on drugs in cycling: 'There has been a huge change in the sport in the last couple of years.'

Millar on the poor performance of the French in recent years: 'The problem with French teams is that they blame it all on drugs when the bottom line is that the success of all the Americans and anglophones is down to hard work.'

Millar on the success of the Spanish teams: 'The Spanish guys and Spanish teams are a lot more relaxed. They are not always complaining like the French riders.'

This morning, at his press conference, I quoted him selected excerpts and reminded him of Operation Puerto and what was happening in Spain. 'Why should we treat anything you say with any credibility?' I asked.

'Maybe I was wrong,' he replied.

The press conference continued. Millar started lecturing again. 'The sport was moving in the right direction,' he insisted. 'What's happened in Spain was fantastic,' he said. 'The organised schematic doping is being eradicated,' he said. 'We need to get rid of the doctors,' he said. And finally, my favourite: 'We have a responsibility as professional cyclists to convince the young guys coming through that it's possible to win without drugs.'

Nobody challenged him. There wasn't a single journalist in the room who asked 'David, how would you know?' Furious, I raised my arm again. 'David, you say that the Spanish affair is fantastic for the sport and for the future of the young kids coming into it . . . But that's exactly what was said in 1998 [after the Festina affair] when you were the young kid. You also state that the sport needs to rid itself of the doctors but Lance Armstrong worked with [Dr] Michele Ferrari for years and you've always been one of Armstrong's biggest fans . . . Where are you coming from on this?'

'I don't understand the question,' he replied.

'Why should we believe anything you say? You have no credibility.'

'At the moment I have no credibility . . . I've said it. . . you can't believe anything I say.'

'Thanks,' I said. 'I just wanted to clarify that.'

When the conference ended, Millar was escorted from the auditorium by a coterie of his favourite journalists; one placed an arm on his shoulder; others extended microphones for 'exclusive' quotes. A Tour official crossed the hall to shake Millar's hand. I watched from a distance trying to make sense of it all. The paradox was nauseating: you expose the doping and cheating in a book and they treat you like a pariah; you dope and cheat and lie and they welcome you back like a hero . . . And people wonder why cycling has a problem.

The rumours from Spain were confirmed this morning. A number of the sport's biggest stars – Ivan Basso, Jan Ullrich, Francisco Mancebo, Alexander Vinokourov, Oscar Sevilla, Joseba Belocki – have been forced to withdraw from the race. There was mayhem in the press room when the announcement was made; muppets huddled in groups everywhere you turn. How will they explain it on the television? 'Never mind that nonsense in Spain; this is real cycling.'

Decided to stay away from it for the day and concentrate instead on finding my double. It wasn't easy. There are no first-year professionals on the starting list this year, and of the dozen or so riders who are making their debuts in the race, only one is the same age as I was in 1986. I drove to his team hotel on the outskirts of Strasbourg this afternoon to meet him. Benoit Vaugrenard is a third-year professional with the Française des Jeux team. A twenty-four-year-old Breton from Arzel, just outside Vannes, he is taller than I was, shyer, better paid (
c
.50,000 euros) but fulfils much the same role on the team. I like him.

The opening stage this afternoon – a 7.1 kilometre time trial in Strasbourg. I followed Benoit like a shadow all day and tonight I compared his first impressions of the race with some notes I'd made in 1986.

How was it for him? 'Today was the
grand depart
of my first Tour de France. The crowds were amazing. I was nervous and couldn't concentrate and couldn't hurt myself for the first three kilometres. It was bizarre. I have never felt that way in a prologue before – my head was all over the place – so to finish thirty-first wasn't bad in the circumstances. I'm rooming with Sebastien Joly which is fine because he has ridden the Tour before and has been giving me good advice. And we have been given plenty of kit – ten jerseys, ten pairs of shorts, five pairs of gloves, ten pairs of socks, a rain jacket, flip-flops, a bag, a sleeveless vest, three sets of arm warmers, five pairs of leg warmers and ten t-shirts.'

How was it for me? 'Today was special. The crowds, the atmosphere, the size of the race all hit me for the first time. I rode a lousy prologue – I was far too nervous; nearly fell off the ramp as I was cycling down it, and I couldn't feel my legs. I'm rooming with Vincent Barteau which is a bit of a pain because nobody in the team wants to room with him. Oh well, I suppose somebody had to draw the short straw. He's a bit of a mouth and still living off his 1984 Tour, when he held the
maillot jaune
for thirteen stages. Yesterday we were given five new jerseys, five new pairs of shorts and five new pairs of gloves for the race. The hotel waiter asked me if I could get him a pair of gloves as a souvenir. These fellows have no idea.'

First impressions? Benoit's probably a better rider than I was but I think I'm showing more potential as a journalist.

The first stage of the race was a 184 kilometre loop around Strasbourg this afternoon. Don't ask me who won. Don't ask me who's leading. Don't ask me about Benoit. Don't ask me about the dopers. Don't ask me. I wasn't watching. This morning I drove south to the vineyards of Ribeauville and spent seven glorious hours alone on my bike. I'm in training for the L'Etape du Tour, a 110 mile ride across three mountain passes from Gap to L'Alpe d'Huez. It's the bike-riding equivalent of the London marathon (8,500 entries) and I have eight more days to hone my saggy ass into shape. Not sure I'm going to make it. I struggled today on the lesser gradients of the Vosges and I reckon I'm about eight weeks – or a dart of EPO – short of condition. My wife is worried I will finish the event in an ambulance. 'You're forty-four,' she says. 'You'll be buying a Porsche next and running off with some blonde bimbo.' The notion, quite frankly, is ridiculous. How on earth would I fit my bike in the back of a Porsche?

I was walking through the team cars to the tented village at the start this morning at Obernai when I spotted a former teammate I hadn't seen for years. Should have kept going; should have pretended I hadn't seen him and kept walking to the start. But I used to really love this guy and it was only when we were standing opposite that I remembered why we weren't shaking hands.

He works for guys I wouldn't spit on. I work for a newspaper he wouldn't use to wipe . . . We stood and exchanged some awkward banter for a moment until an opening came to get away. I wanted to say 'What happened mate? You used to be one of the good guys?' He probably felt the same.

Retirement is never easy for most professional sportsmen but for cyclists it can be absolute hell. Some get lucky and find a niche in commerce or journalism, but for many it is a huge struggle. Some find solace at the end of a rope or a gun to the side of the head. And some, like my old team-mate this morning, remain faithful to the only life they know.

A few years ago, after Marco Pantani died, I remember being asked one night how such a brilliantly gifted rider could end his life in such a lonely and miserable way. (Pantani died in a hotel room from an overdose of cocaine.) 'If you want to understand professional cycling,' I said, 'watch what happens to Christopher Walken in
The Deer Hunter.''

Nick, Walken's character, is an ordinary steelworker from a small industrial town who is sent with his friends, Michael and Steve, to fight in Vietnam. During the war, after being captured and forced to play Russian roulette the three become changed men and their lives are never the same. Nick gets totally hooked on the buzz and starts playing for money. For 'Russian roulette' read 'doping in cycling'. For Nick read Marco Pantani.

One of the hallmarks of the great reporter is the ability to remain cool and detached under pressure and unaffected by anything he sees. Nobody has ever accused me of being a great reporter. Emotional detachment has never been my style. In sixteen years as a sportswriter there have been times – at World Cups and world-tide fights and some golf majors – when I've felt so overwhelmed I've been almost unable to write. But nothing stirs my emotions like a Tour de France.

Today was a classic example. Completely riveted, I watched the last forty kilometres of the third stage to Valkenburg on a TV monitor close to the finishing line. Now, at the great schools of journalism, they teach you to observe these things dispassionately and report with an unwavering, even hand. I never attended a great school for journalism. I never aspired to be Matt Rendell. I studied the speeding racers and began to react like Pavlov's dog when the bell chimes at teatime. My heart started pounding; my legs started aching; a bead of sweat started forming on my brow. Suddenly I was back in the heart of the peloton, cursing and hurting and counting down each mile to the end of the stage.