The Racer: Life on the Road as a Pro Cyclist by Millar David

Author:Millar, David [Millar, David]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
ISBN: 9781473521780
Publisher: Random House
Published: 2015-10-01T04:00:00+00:00

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May 11 Got a text saying ‘just cruising’ and ‘we’re stopping at all the feed zones!’ Cheeky buggers got 4th and 5th!

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I didn’t fight it. I figured as long as I got the kilometres in and kept my weight down then I could use my next two stage races as fine-tuning events that would get me up to speed for the Tour de France. I’d done this many times in the past. It wasn’t as if it was a new method for me.

Bavaria

The first of these stage races was Bayern Rundfahrt (aka Tour of Bavaria). Andreas Klier speaks of this race in the same way others would of Shangri-La. Something happens to Andreas when he arrives in Bavaria, or even talks about Bayern Rundfahrt. He lights up like the Munich Christmas Market. He’s done it eighteen times and never won a stage. He is terribly proud of this fact – it probably has something to do with him having been on holiday since the Classics and the fact that it’s considered a legal requirement to drink Weissbier in Bavaria (he would always be reminding us that workers were permitted to drink a litre of Weissbier at work. I don’t know if this was true or not, but we were easily convinced). Andreas would vehemently deny that Weissbier ever compromised his performance – he has always been the most professional of bike riders when it comes to doing what’s expected of him in a race, but he does have some bloody good stories of nocturnal escapades from his youth.

It is often the way with these smaller stage races: many of us have done them for years, so we keep returning because we’ve grown attached to them. The familiarity is a comfort. We know the roads, and often stay in the same hotels. There are stories and shared memories. They’re like a home away from home, but not many of us can claim to have done the same race eighteen times.

It was because of this love affair that I was even going there. I’d promised Andreas that in my last year I would come and compete in his ‘home’ race. This meant more to him than anything else, and he’d convinced himself I was going to win the overall and we were going to rule like Bavarian kings of old. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that I would be using it as a training exercise. I think he knew, but even he didn’t let himself acknowledge it.

I’d convinced myself we’d be enjoying a Sound of Music-like experience, only instead of singing and evading Nazis there’d be bike racing and Weissbier. We’d have relaxed racing on beautiful German roads, hillside chalet hotels with beer gardens staffed with pretty German barmaids in traditional dresses, and men with big moustaches in lederhosen, slapping each other. Every day would be framed by a crisp blue sky, and we’d constantly be surrounded by rolling meadows speckled with blossoming flowers.

So I

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