Читать книгу In Search of Robert Millar: Unravelling the Mystery Surrounding Britain’s Most Successful Tour de France Cyclist - Richard Moore - Страница 9

Glasgow is all grey. It’s not that I’m ashamed of being a Glaswegian, I most certainly am not, but abroad you find out what you have been missing.

Robert Millar put Scotland on an international stage it had never previously graced, but as an ambassador for the country, and in particular for his home city of Glasgow, he could not have done a worse job. At times it could seem, especially to some of those he’d left behind, that he derived some perverse satisfaction from sticking a knife into the city of his birth, or applying a kick to its head – both appropriate metaphors for a city that is not unfamiliar with violence.

Millar spent twenty years in Glasgow before leaving – or, as he would have seen it, escaping. After disappearing to the continent he rarely returned for more than a few weeks at a time. Initially he came back to his parents’ home for the winter, training with the same group of cyclists he’d trained with in previous years, selling some of the season’s racing kit, telling stories of continental racing and its stars, against whom he was now racing, and speaking in a French/American-tinged accent that was markedly different to a guttural Glasgow brogue. But after the death of his mother, Mary, in 1981, Robert’s visits home became fewer and further between.

Millar left nobody in any doubt as to why his trips home became shorter, and less frequent, until they stopped altogether. The impression of Glasgow that he shared with the wider world – ‘abroad, where you find out what you have been missing’ – was unequivocal, even if his own feelings towards Glasgow, and Scotland, have at times appeared ambiguous. In an interview in 1987 he blamed the weather, declaring it ‘disgusting’ and continuing, ‘Know any place else where it rains during the day, but not at night? I like the people, not the place: grey, grey, grey. But remember, I spent the first few years of my life in the Gorbals before moving to the city outskirts – a modern housing estate built on a razed slum and fast turning back into one.’ In the city where he grew up, said Millar, the first lesson learned was that ‘Fellow who can’t climb tree fast enough gets eaten.’

It was too much for some Glaswegians. That same year, 1987, a letter appeared in Cycling magazine: ‘Well done, Robert, you’ve done it again. You have just put off many would-be visitors from coming to Glasgow. I’ve been listening to you moaning and whining for years now, it’s pathetic. Glasgow is no worse than any other big city in Britain, and a lot better than some. Can you possibly think of anything worse to say? No – I think you’ve said it all. On your bike, Robert.’ And when an extract of a chapter on Millar in Robin Magowan’s Kings of the Road appeared in Cycling, it provoked this response from a Scottish reader: ‘The suggestion that Millar was a “dead end kid” who was lucky not to be “behind bars, if not dead at 15” is amazing. Robert Millar was raised in Pollok. Unlike the Gorbals this is a very average housing estate just like any other city around the globe, and is not particularly unpleasant … Strange indeed that the son of an engineer, raised in an average area and educated to a high standard should be described in this way … I am suspicious of the seemingly verbatim quotes of Millar’s, such as “I had the A-and O-levels to have gone to university.” In Scotland we do not sit A-levels.’

And yet, and yet … ‘I don’t feel Scottish,’ he told a journalist in 1998, ‘I am Scottish.’ A sense of resignation is perhaps detectable here, but also some pride – and, typically of Millar, defiance. There are other examples of his paradoxical attitude towards Scotland. In 1992, during a Tour de France that visited all the member countries of the European Union that bordered France, the riders’ daily race numbers were adorned with the blue EU flag with its twelve small stars; each morning, Millar painstakingly coloured in the stars with a blue biro before scratching a cross – thus creating a Saltire, Scotland’s national flag. Yet it is clear that Millar felt oppressed and held back by Glasgow and its people. Being small in height and build, in a city renowned for its proliferation of ‘hard men’ and its admiration for the ‘big man’, he might also have felt that he didn’t fit in. But ‘grey’ was the word he seemed to prefer, using it repeatedly to describe the city. In stark contrast was Europe, colourful and alive with possibilities.

It was to Europe that he travelled, as soon as he could. When Millar arrived in that promised land, he bumped into an Australian cyclist whose ambitions, if not his middle-class upbringing, mirrored his own. Phil Anderson would later go on to become the first non-European ever to wear the yellow jersey of the Tour de France leader. But four years before that he was, like Millar, lost and alone in Paris. At the airport, Millar looked in vain for the representative from the Athlétique Club de Boulogne-Billancourt (ACBB) who had (or so he understood) been sent to meet him. When it became clear that there was no such person, Millar got a taxi to Boulogne-Billancourt, the Paris suburb where he, Anderson and four other exiles were to be barracked in apartment blocks. These were Spartan, and hardly glamorous. For Millar, the contrast with Glasgow can’t have been as stark as he might have anticipated, or hoped for.

Though Millar was quiet and reserved, Anderson, who arrived in Paris from Melbourne within hours of Millar, soon learned about his new club-mate’s upbringing in Glasgow. ‘I remember him saying to me, early on, that he saw cycling as a way out,’ says Anderson. ‘For him, I think it was a way of getting out of a depressed situation. I don’t think he had a very good home life or family life, and he saw cycling not so much as a way to make wealth, but a way to get out. He spoke a little bit about Glasgow and he didn’t paint a very good picture; he came from the rough side of town, I think. I certainly understood, from what he told me, that he came from the wrong side of the tracks.’

There was some truth in Millar’s description of Glasgow and of his upbringing. But it wasn’t the whole truth. Willie Gibb, who attended secondary school with Millar, began cycling with him, and also went on to become one of Scotland’s leading cyclists, winces at some of Anderson’s comments. ‘I wouldn’t have said that he came from the wrong side of the tracks,’ he says. ‘Robert came from a working-class background, but it wasn’t impoverished. His parents had originally lived in the Gorbals, which was a rough area of Glasgow, but they moved to Pollokshaws. It was Pollokshaws where I was born and bred. I knew his parents, I knew his sister, and I would say he probably had a similar upbringing to me. My parents were the same as his. They didn’t have a lot of money, but most people lived like that then.’

The Gorbals, until parts of it were demolished and families like the Millars were moved into suburbs or out of Glasgow altogether, was notorious as one of Europe’s worst slums. Millar was born there, and began primary school there, but he moved out to the suburbs – another promised land – when he was 8.

Gibb wonders if the myth of growing up in the Gorbals might have suited his old friend, then comes up with a more plausible explanation. ‘I don’t think he’d have gone out of his way to correct people if they had the wrong impression of his upbringing. Not because he wanted people to think that he grew up in a slum. I think it was more likely that he just didn’t care what people thought.

‘Another thing that I noticed was that when he did start to do really well, and he’d be interviewed on the telly, he wouldn’t promote himself or Scotland. He’d say Glasgow was this grey place where it never stopped raining. That switched a lot of people off, including my father. And he started talking in this strange accent. My dad used to say, “He’s been in France a year and he’s got this stupid Anglo-American-French accent.” God knows where that came from.’

As much as Millar tried to dismiss the city and its people, and as much as he tried to move on, it is impossible to untangle Millar and Glasgow. The more he disparaged the place with his put-downs, the more obvious it became that his relationship with it was more complex than it might appear. To begin to understand Millar, then, it is necessary to understand Glasgow, and then to ponder the question: how might a small, introverted boy, a rebellious maverick and, to use his own description, ‘an individualist’, have experienced growing up in such a place? Apart from learning, very early on, how to climb metaphorical trees.

If a city’s character is reflected by the books that are written about it, then the image of Glasgow is unambiguous: it has a reputation as a tough, macho, often violent city dominated by the hard men of the factories, shipyards and pubs. Even today, this is the Glasgow that is depicted in many of the books displayed prominently on promotional stands in the city’s airport: Gangland Glasgow, Glasgow’s Hard Men, Glasgow Crimefighter, Glasgow’s Godfather. Then there is the poverty, which tends to be reinforced by films (Red Road, My Name is Joe, Small Faces), and the reality of which is not in doubt. In Glasgow there are, and there certainly were in the 1950s and 1960s, pockets of serious deprivation, some of them among the worst in Europe. A report in 2005 claimed that men living in some parts of Glasgow have the lowest life expectancy of anywhere in Europe. Castlemilk, Possilpark, Ruchill, the Gorbals: even for people only vaguely familiar with the city, these are names evocative of poverty, of social problems, and of violence.

Yet it is also a place renowned for the humour of its people, and for the outgoing, friendly, ‘gallus’ Glaswegian. On one of my visits a taxi driver gave me a running commentary as we travelled through the city. It was an alternative tourists’ guide, and it was delivered in a thick, almost impenetrable accent, accompanied by resigned shakes of the head and expressive shrugs of the shoulders. If my guide’s body language was anything to go by – it wasn’t so easy to make out what he was actually saying – as we left one housing scheme and entered another, the city got progressively worse the further we travelled from the centre. Then we drove into a particularly bleak housing scheme, with no shops or even pubs, only high-rise flats packed tightly against one another – a ‘desert with windows’ as Billy Connolly, who perfectly sums up the love/hate relationship many Glaswegians have with their city, once referred to some of Glasgow’s housing schemes. Here, however, there was sheet metal where many of the windows should have been. We picked up speed after narrowly avoiding a bucket of water – at least I think it was water – that appeared to have been thrown in the direction of the taxi. The driver shrugged again, scowled, and commented, ‘Ah widnae let a dog oot here.’ Which was funny, of course. Much Glasgow humour is delivered with a self-consciously casual attitude towards some of the uglier aspects of life there, and it is rarely accompanied by a smile. As a consequence, not everybody gets it.

This is the Glasgow that Millar professed to despise and which he was desperate to escape, but which clearly shaped his dry, often dark sense of humour, among other things. And perhaps in Millar too there was a perverse sense of pride, of kudos, in coming from and surviving such a place – from the wrong side of the tracks, as he allowed Phil Anderson to believe. The Scottish playwright John Byrne, who came from another estate, in nearby Paisley, with ‘aspirations’ to the title of ‘worst slum in Europe’, has expressed this well: ‘I felt vastly superior, smugly superior, to everyone who went to art school because I came from the worst slum in Europe! We were in the thick of it.’ The notion may not be far removed from another frequently levelled accusation, that there is a tendency in cities such as Glasgow to romanticize poverty and violence. But Byrne is hardly alone in suggesting that great art can flourish and that great artists can thrive in such conditions – because of, rather than despite, the environment. ‘It’s the grit that makes the oyster,’ Byrne remarked, and so it is with sports people. You needed to be tough to survive in such a place. And as Millar quickly realized, you needed to be tough – and to be seen as tough – to make it as a cyclist, too.

Robert Millar was born to William and Mary Millar in the family home, 4 Wellcroft Place in the Gorbals area of Glasgow, at 6.15 a.m. on 13 September 1958. Mary and Bill, as he was known, already had a son, Ian, born on 29 December 1955, nine months after they were married. A daughter, Elizabeth, would follow in January 1962.

The Gorbals had once been a village on the south side of the River Clyde, separate from the sprawling city. In medieval times it was designated as Glasgow’s leper colony: the leper hospital was opened in 1350, five years after the building of a first bridge to connect the village to the city. The Gorbals was annexed by Glasgow in 1846. By then its composition and character were already changing, thousands of Ireland’s poor having settled there from around 1840. It wasn’t yet the slum it would become, but neither was it the place it had once been. The population of the Gorbals swelled with the arrival of these immigrants, from Eastern Europe as well as Ireland, then from the 1930s by Jews fleeing the Nazis, though the influx of Jewish immigrants predated Hitler. By 1885, over half of the Gorbals’ primary school population was Jewish. The Gorbals even had its own Jewish newspaper.

The Gorbals in which Millar spent the first few years of his life was bursting at the seams, its population having mushroomed to some fifty thousand by 1950. It had been fictionalized in the 1930s in an iconic Glasgow novel, No Mean City. As the title suggests … actually, it’s not altogether clear what the title suggests. The subject matter was less ambiguous: it was all violence and gangs and knives, with a main character known as the ‘Razor King’. Less well known but also evocative of the area is A Gorbals Tale, billed as ‘a nostalgic and light-hearted story of post-war Gorbals’, starring a policeman whose beat includes ‘razorcarrying thugs, illicit bookies, drunks and prostitutes’. Our hero is thus immersed ‘in the violent culture of the Gorbals – an area of grim tenement buildings with a foreboding culture of violence. Angus [the policeman] meets his first challenge when a local prostitute, Laughing Mary, is murdered. Later, when he rescues young Lilly Grant from the grip of evil shebeeners [who ran unlicensed drinking establishments], he is ambushed and savagely beaten in an act of revenge.’ And this, remember, is a nostalgic and light-hearted story of the Gorbals. It is difficult to imagine what might feature in a tale of gritty reality.

But it is too easy to caricature the area; it was not so unremittingly grim. The Millars’ home was typical of the area: a four-storey sandstone tenement with one large living room, a kitchen, a bedroom, and a toilet, but no bath. Many praised the elegance and grandeur of the grid-iron pattern of these four-storey tenements, and, rather than violence, the community spirit that was always so evident in the Gorbals, particularly, and despite the overcrowding, in the inter-war period. Certainly the primary school attended by Robert Millar, just around the corner and a couple of hundred metres from his front door in Wellcroft Place, was (still is) a strikingly impressive building. Abbotsford Primary School is the oldest surviving school building in the Gorbals, though it ceased to be a school in 1996. Built in 1879, the classrooms – now offices – were organized around an open central hall, above the doors the sculpted heads of eminent Scots including the Church reformer John Knox and the explorer David Livingstone. Fellow pupils at Abbotsford describe the young Robert Millar as a ‘smart, funny but occasionally intense kid’. It was there that he acquired his first nickname, ‘Eskimo’, on account of his playground trick of pulling his blue anorak over his head while running around making a prolonged ‘Wheeeeeeeee!’ noise. There are few signs here of the introverted, shy persona Millar adopted later.

Millar attended Abbotsford for four years, until the family found itself subject to Glasgow Corporation’s policy of ‘displacement’. Notwithstanding the overcrowding, and the decay that became particularly acute between the wars, it was as much because of the Gorbals’ reputation as one of Europe’s worst slums that it was chosen as the first area in Glasgow to be redeveloped – i.e. demolished. As far as the Corporation was concerned, the solution to the population explosion crisis – by the early 1950s an estimated six hundred thousand of the city’s 1.08 million people required rehousing – was to create new housing schemes on the periphery of the city. Communities were broken up, and some were shunted out to the new towns of East Kilbride, Cumbernauld or Irvine. For others, the only way was up. High-rise flats were, the Corporation decided, the future. They were certainly futuristic, especially in the artists’ impressions – no less inaccurate, or idealistic, in the 1960s than they are now. The flats were known as ‘vertical streets’, which, probably intentionally, lent an air of glamour and excitement. It was to one such high-rise, in Pollokshaws, no more than a couple of miles to the south of the Gorbals, that the Millars moved in the summer of 1967 when the Wellcroft Place tenements fell victim to the wrecking ball.

I visited the ‘vertical street’ where Millar lived – on Shawbridge Street, in Pollokshaws – and found a twenty-two-storey tower block surrounded by quiet residential streets, and beyond them, acres of green parkland: Pollok Park. Other than the tower blocks – there are a dozen of them, jutting into the sky like sore thumbs – it is a leafy, pleasant place. And it was a pleasant place when the Millars moved there, the tower blocks modern, shiny and new. For a young child in particular it would no doubt have been an exciting place to live. The Millars occupied a flat on the eleventh floor, with views across Glasgow, the green expanse of Pollok Park and, to the west, out across rural Renfrewshire.

Many of Glasgow’s tower blocks have now been knocked down, but those in Pollokshaws survive – just. Decay has set in, just as it had taken hold of the Gorbals by the 1950s, and today the blocks seem to remain standing solely to provide people seeking emergency housing with a temporary place to stay. I met a young Asian boy in the stairwell and, a little naively, asked whether anyone had lived there for any length of time. I had imagined that neighbours of the Millars might still be living there; they might even remember young Robert squeezing his bike into the metal-doored lift to take it up to his bedroom, which was where, according to neighbours, he kept it.

‘Yes, there are some people who’ve been here a long time,’ said the boy.

‘Really?’ I replied. ‘Would anyone have been here for thirty, forty years?’

The boy smiled – out of pity, I think. ‘No way! No one stays here that long. When I said long, I meant about a year.’

When the Millars moved from the Gorbals to Pollokshaws, Robert was transferred to the Sir John Maxwell Primary School, spending three years there before moving into one of the city’s more famous secondary schools, Shawlands Academy. The academy is an old sandstone building which, even today, has none of the trappings of so many other large inner-city secondary schools, some of which can be quite forbidding. There are no coils of barbed wire or broken glass encrusting the tops of the walls; no graffiti scarring the walls; no outward signs of violence, or means of deterring it. Rather, the impression is of nothing less than respectability. In fact, Shawlands is now considered one of Glasgow’s most up-and-coming suburbs. The school has one dark secret, though. Robert Millar is not the only former pupil who went on to achieve fame – or, in the case of one individual, infamy.

John Martyn, the celebrated folk musician, was Millar’s elder by ten years and two days. Although there is no reason other than the fact that they attended the same school to draw any comparisons between Martyn and Millar, it is impossible to resist the temptation. Martyn, like Millar, displayed a healthy disregard, verging on contempt, for authority. The future musician walked barefoot to school; the future cyclist – by now known to many of his fellow pupils as Bobby – went to war with his teachers over his insistence on wearing a denim jacket instead of the school blazer. Martyn railed against the city’s obsession with football; and so, in a more subtle way, did Millar, by virtue of his preference for cycling. Like Millar, Martyn didn’t really fit the Glasgow stereotype of the hard man; he was really too Bohemian and cerebral for violence. Plus, fighting might have been difficult with bare feet. He did once claim, however, that ‘You went out and kicked a few heads or you were looked on as a pansy.’ A more infamous ex-pupil of Shawlands Academy, to whom an especially virulent form of violence became familiar, is someone the school and the city would rather keep a secret: the Moors murderer Ian Brady. With Myra Hindley, Brady abducted and murdered five children in the 1960s, burying four of them on the moors surrounding Manchester. He also spent his early years in the Gorbals before moving out to the suburbs.

Willie Gibb confirms that the description of Millar as a ‘quiet rebel’ was accurate. If he was asked something in class he’d offer a yes or a no, without elaboration, even – or especially – when the teacher was looking for a little more. ‘It was like he couldn’t be bothered,’ suggests Gibb. ‘But he didn’t go out his way to make trouble. I mean, he got up to mischief. There was one occasion at school when he brought a quarter bottle of Crawford’s Four Star whisky and he was drinking it in the school toilet. I know, because I found him.’ According to Gibb, it was not uncommon for some of the older pupils to ostentatiously display their bottles of beer at school. A delivery lorry would appear at the bowling club beside Shawlands Academy, usually loaded with crates of beer, some of which would inevitably find their way into the possession of the pupils. Fortified wine was another popular tipple. But whisky was not. In this respect, notes Gibb, ‘It was typical of Robert to up the ante a little bit.’ Gibb also recalls an incident that could have ended in more serious trouble. When he was 15, Millar and another friend, Tom Brodie, broke into a local joinery workshop, entering through the roof. ‘But they couldn’t get back out,’ says Gibb with a smile. ‘When the guys came and opened the shop the next day they found them and had them arrested. I think Brodie spent the night in Barlinnie [the Glasgow prison], but Robert, because he hadn’t turned 16 yet, got away with it.’

At a school like Shawlands, or any state school in Glasgow, football was a core, or compulsory, activity. Alongside poverty and violence, it was an aspect of Glasgow life that was, and is, difficult to escape. To say that Glasgow is obsessed by football is like observing that in Dublin they are partial to a pint or two of Guinness. The city is both defined and divided by football, more accurately by the Celtic–Rangers rivalry and the tribalism inherent in this. It is a rivalry that has its roots in religion – Celtic represent the Catholic community, Rangers represent the Protestant community – and inevitably, games between the two halves of the ‘Old Firm’ have tended, historically, to perpetuate the city’s violent reputation. Millar, Gibb told me, didn’t feature in the school football team, but not because he couldn’t play. ‘Although he was skinny and small, he was strong. You couldn’t knock him off the ball. He certainly wasn’t bad. But he didn’t seem to show a lot of interest in it.’

In fact, much like his father, whose big passion seems to have been ballroom dancing, at no stage in his life does Millar appear to have shown any interest in football, which more likely owed to a lack of interest, or rebelliousness, than to his small build. Indeed, some of the city’s finest footballers have been small – Jimmy ‘Jinky’ Johnstone, of Celtic’s 1967 European Cup-winning team, being, at 5ft 4ins, the most obvious example. Such players, though, tended to be fast as well as skilful. It is interesting that Gibb cites Millar’s strength as his main attribute. As a cyclist it would be this, along with his endurance, that allowed him to excel. Millar, according to Gibb, was a decent footballer rather than an outstanding one. He could hold his own but he didn’t dazzle. Moreover, he showed no interest in it – which would count as an act of rebellion in Glasgow, or at least as an example of not following the pack. When in 1985 he returned to Glasgow, having scaled the heights of the Tour de France, he was asked by the city’s paper, the Evening Times, whether he craved more recognition in his home country. ‘Football and rugby are the two main sports here so the top men must come from them,’ he acknowledged. ‘However, it’s nice to be appreciated.’

By the 1960s, however, there was an alternative weekend pursuit to watching football. In Glasgow, as in many working-class cities throughout Europe, the bicycle was becoming a reasonably popular, if marginal, pastime. Initially it was a handy and cheap mode of transport for the working man, getting him to the factory or the shipyard, and then home, often in wobbly fashion, from the pub. And for a few, perhaps those who weren’t wedded to the football culture, it also provided a means of escape at the weekends.

Surrounding Glasgow in all directions were more or less traffic-free roads that skirted spectacular lochs, climbed remote hills, hugged the coast, and delved into secluded parts of the country, all of which were perfect for cycling. Large groups of club cyclists began to meet on the outskirts of the city on Saturday and Sunday mornings to explore these roads, usually stopping for a ‘drum-up’ – a fire would be lit upon which soup could be heated and tea brewed – by the banks of Loch Lomond. Many of those who were drawn to cycling preferred solitude to crowds, such as football crowds. They also preferred green space to the urban environment. ‘Off to find some green bits,’ Millar would remark later of a 1980 photograph that showed him riding through Glasgow, heading out on a training ride. Cycling provided, literally and metaphorically, an escape for those such as Millar and another famous Glaswegian who eventually managed to move away from the city and his working-class roots, the comedian Billy Connolly.

For Connolly, humour was an effective way of surviving life as an apprentice welder in the Clyde shipyards, as well as eventually providing his means of escape. But cycling also provided him with more fleeting ‘escapes’. In an interview with The Independent in 2000, Connolly, agreeing with the description of himself as a ‘sociable loner’, explained, ‘I was never a joiner [of clubs or organizations]. Even when I cycled I never joined a cycling club, I just cycled around on my own and sometimes joined lines of other cyclists.’ He was referring to the club runs, which were organized and designed for socializing, down to the fact that riders went two abreast, as an aid to conversation. Indeed, contrary to the image of the cyclist as only a loner or escape artist, cycling, especially club cycling, was often a social activity that appealed to sociable types – or ‘sociable loners’, perhaps. The sport could therefore satisfy two apparently conflicting sides of a personality, the desire both for solitude and for mixing with others, especially those who were like-minded.

The proliferation of clubs reflected the interest in cycling in Glasgow at this time. There were touring clubs and racing clubs, men-only clubs and clubs for Christians, where Sunday rides would include a visit to church. The 1960s and 1970s constituted a peak period; the club scene has perhaps never been stronger. Jimmy Dorward, a leading light in this club scene for more than five decades, compares the clubs to clans. When, as a young boy, he showed an interest in joining a club he was told simply to ride up to Loch Lomond on a Sunday and find the spot where that club met. Each club had a different and clearly defined ‘drum-up’ spot by the banks of the loch. Dorward went in search of the Douglas club but couldn’t find them. ‘I found the Clarion instead and ended up joining them,’ he recalls. ‘The Douglas, which had been a very strong club, took a nosedive after that.’ Smiling, he adds: ‘But I don’t think that had anything to do with me not joining them.

‘Cycling was a way of life for a lot of people. It was more than a sport, and there was a tremendous social aspect. If you wanted to join a club you just turned up at the “drum” and someone would come and speak to you. If the newcomer got dropped [left behind] there was always someone who’d look out for them and go back for them. After the drum-up the scraps would start; in these big groups of thirty, forty or fifty, we’d race back to Glasgow and it would be every man for himself. But someone would still look out for the newcomer. You’d say, “Just stay with me, I’ll get you back.” And there was tremendous club loyalty. If you were even seen cycling with another club you’d be asked what you were doing. You’d be seen as a traitor.’

One of Robert Millar’s first cycling expeditions, before he became involved in the club scene, was when he was only 11, in the company of three friends, among them Willie Gibb, who had been inspired to take up cycling by the example of his racing father. The youngsters cycled away from Pollokshaws in the direction of East Kilbride, around ten miles away, though Gibb turned home early while the remaining trio of intrepid 11-year-olds continued in an easterly direction, with the benefit of a generous tailwind. It wasn’t just the stiff headwind that made things difficult on the way back. There was also the matter of taking the wrong road, which meant they came back into Glasgow through Rutherglen. To them, it might as well have been a different city. When they managed to stumble upon Bridgeton they were able to find their way home, late, but with their parents none the wiser.

It was with Gibb and Tom Brodie that Millar began to cycle on a more regular basis. ‘We used to run about on bikes that were like Raleigh Choppers,’ remembers Gibb. ‘We were on bikes all the time.’ The three young cyclists began to venture out of the city with greater frequency. They were beginning to enjoy going far and fast, and an element of competition was being introduced, not through racing one another but thanks to the buses that trundled up and down the main road to Ayr, a seaside town thirty miles south of Glasgow. ‘At that time the buses were pretty slow,’ explains Gibb, ‘so we used to tuck in behind them, sheltering in their slipstream. They could probably get up to about forty miles an hour, but they had no acceleration. So you could get in behind them as they left the bus stop and sit behind them all the way to Kilmarnock [twenty miles away] or even as far as Ayr, then turn around and catch another bus back to Glasgow.’

The bicycles were put to other uses as well, such as fishing. Illegal fishing, naturally. Gibb knew of a small loch owned by a syndicate comprising some of the movers and shakers of Glasgow society – ‘legal folk, judges, people like that’. ‘We’d go up and do all-nighters, especially during the school holidays,’ he recalls. ‘It would get light about three in the morning. We used to cycle there with our fishing rods strapped to the top tube of our bikes, and then hide the bikes in the long reeds. The loch was about eight or nine miles from where we lived. We caught loads of good-sized brown trout. There was an old folks’ home near where I lived and I’d keep a couple of fish myself then give the rest to the old folks. I don’t know what Robert did with his. The old folk never asked where they came from.’

One of the early stories that attached itself to Millar as he climbed the cycling ladder was the claim that he had become hooked on the sport of cycling after seeing the Tour de France on a television in a shop window. It’s a story that has been told and retold, but it isn’t true. In fact, Millar set the record straight as early as 1984. ‘That [story] upset me because it made it sound as if I lived in a cave,’ he said. ‘It made out that as I came from Glasgow I was poor and depressed.’ As Gibb confirms, it wasn’t by watching the Tour de France but simply through riding his bike with friends that Millar became interested in the sport. In the same interview in 1984, in Cycling, Millar described his first bike as ‘a wreck: it was made from plumber’s tubing. I used to paint it every six months or so.’

When they were 15, Millar, Gibb and Brodie enquired about joining a cycling club at Riddle Cycles, a shop situated in the shadows of Hampden Park, the national football stadium, that was owned by a couple of elderly brothers, always immaculately turned out in brown overalls. It was the Eagle Road Club the trio had their hearts set on; they were impatient to race, and the Eagle had a reputation as one of Glasgow’s top racing clubs. The Riddles put them in touch with Jim Paton, the Eagle Road Club’s treasurer, but when Paton met them they were left, according to Gibb, feeling ‘dismayed’. Paton told them that to go straight into a racing club would be too big a leap; to go from chasing buses up the Ayr road to mixing it with racing men would be sheer folly. But Paton wasn’t discouraging. He was also a member of the Cyclists’ Touring Club, and advised that the boys join another local club, the CTC-affiliated Glenmarnock Wheelers, instead. They might have felt disappointed and frustrated, but they took Paton’s advice.

The Glenmarnock club, which had been established in 1941, owed its popularity, especially among those just starting out in the sport, to John Storrie. Storrie had just turned 50 when he first encountered the 15-year-old Millar, but the small, skinny boy was one of many who received their first cycling lessons under Storrie’s tuition. Though the three boys came to the club via Jim Paton’s recommendation, Storrie favoured a direct approach to recruitment. While out cycling he would approach youngsters on their bikes, ask them if they enjoyed their cycling and whether they might be interested in joining a club. Then he would give them his business card. It is unlikely that such methods would be successful now, or even acceptable. As Storrie himself says: ‘That probably wouldn’t be allowed nowadays. Someone would complain. But I just wanted to introduce them to the bike.’

Most of the boys who joined the Glenmarnock, like Millar, Gibb and Brodie, wanted to race, and were impatient to do so. But for Storrie the club scene, and the ritual of the weekly club run, was just as important. It provided an informal education. It was where youngsters could learn how to cycle in a group, riding two abreast and sticking as close as possible to the back wheel of the rider in front in order to gain shelter and conserve energy for when it was their turn to take the pace at the front. When they stepped up to road racing, in large bunches of cyclists, the experience of training in a group would stand them in good stead.

The club runs were largely ordered, organized outings governed by an informal code of etiquette. To many newcomers to the sport the first club run can be quite intimidating, the experience of riding in such close proximity to other cyclists a nerve-shredding ordeal. And there had not so far been any obvious signs that Millar was blessed with a gift for cycling. Of the three friends, it was Tom Brodie who appeared to be the strongest, perhaps on account of his being a little older, and physically much bigger than the other two. Yet when all three joined the Glenmarnock Wheelers it became clear that it wasn’t just Brodie who had talent. Millar, his speed and bike-handling skills perhaps honed by chasing the rear bumpers of buses up and down the Ayr road, appeared to take to the club runs like a duck to water. ‘We quickly realized that we were as strong and fast as a lot of the guys who were racing quite regularly,’ said Gibb. ‘That came as a surprise to us.’

Gibb states that Millar, at this time, displayed none of the aloofness or the reluctance to engage with people that he showed later – at least not with him or Brodie. ‘It was a different kind of relationship he had with us than with most people. I’m not saying it was better or worse, but I think he was more relaxed in our company because we did so much cycling together. We did other things – going to the park, climbing into people’s gardens, stealing apples, all those kinds of things – but we just really enjoyed riding around on our bikes.’

Ten years after Millar’s induction to cycling, when he had already started to shine in the Tour de France, John Storrie wrote to Cycling magazine recalling his first impressions of Millar. ‘He was not a hooligan,’ he said, ‘but the best way to describe him at that age was that he was the “James Dean of cycling” – a bit of a rebel, but with one cause in mind: cycling. Like James Dean, he had a dislike for authority, probably stemming from his school days. He was not happy at work [Millar started an engineering apprenticeship after leaving school] but he could not take his mind off cycling. Cycling was in his thoughts night and day.’ Even so, when Jimmy Dorward came to give a lecture to the club, Storrie noted that ‘it was typical of Robert’s make-up that when it came to the technical part he became bored and had to be told off for reading Cycling in the middle of the lecture’. Storrie concluded his article by stating that the youngster was ‘quite a loner and conversation was confined to a few words’.

Storrie, now in his early eighties, suffered a stroke in 2002. While he struggles to recall some recent events his memories of the young Millar remain vivid. In particular he remembers some of the quirks of his personality. ‘When he first appeared he was a raw boy, a rough boy,’ he says. ‘He had shoulder-length hair, which no one else had at the time. He liked to be different. He was very quiet. He didn’t make friends easily. On the club runs we would have drum-ups by the side of Loch Lomond, so we’d all stop and make a fire and sit down together. But Robert would go away on his own, maybe fifty yards away, and light his own fire. He did that every time. I didn’t try to bring him into the group. I just let him get on with it. We joked about him wanting to be on his own but he never gave us an explanation. I don’t remember him not liking people; he was just a loner.’

Jimmy Dorward, who was running the Scotia club at the time and encountered Millar on occasional club runs, recalls a similar incident. ‘We stopped for the drum-up and the young lads arrived with Robert Millar,’ he explains. ‘We got the fire going, and after a while I realized Millar wasn’t there. “Where’s Millar?” I asked. “Oh, he’s away,” someone said. That was unheard of. If you went to a club’s drum-up you collected a few sticks and when you left you said, “Thanks for the drum.” But that was Millar’s nature. He just drifted off.’

Another strange episode that Storrie remembers was a club run that ended with a stop on a private beach by the banks of the Lake of Menteith, around twenty miles north of Glasgow. It was a glorious summer’s day and Storrie, having obtained the permission of the house owner, allowed his young charges to go swimming. The condition stipulated by the land owner was that they behaved themselves, and all complied, except one: the rebel. While everyone else stripped off and went swimming, Millar kept his racing clothing on and stepped into the water until it was up to his knees. ‘He was a devil,’ says Storrie, smiling now. ‘He collected a pile of stones, holding them in his jersey, and he started throwing them at the boats. He kept throwing stones into one boat; he had so many stones in his jersey that I thought he was going to sink it. I kept saying “Robert, stop that!” but he just laughed. I couldn’t get a word out of him. Eventually I paddled out to where he was and tipped him into the water. He wasn’t happy. He came out the water shouting, “They were my fucking good cycling shorts!” They were soaking wet.’

Storrie declares himself unsure whether Millar might have got into more serious trouble had cycling not provided an outlet for his energy, allowing him to channel his rebellious streak. But he does point out that Millar would not be unique had he been ‘saved’ by cycling. ‘That was the good thing about what I was doing. I was taking people away on the bike, getting them out of Glasgow, away from trouble. It was the ambition of a lot of kids to own a bike and I let them come along whatever bike they had. Some clubs would have said, “Away you go, that’s not suitable.” But if someone came out with us, as long as they could pedal, I’d let them come. I made allowances. I waited for them at the top of a hill. Others didn’t.’

The other thing Storrie remembers is Millar’s burgeoning ability as a cyclist, in particular his apparent fondness for hills. ‘When you hit a hill he loved to jump away and get up it first. He was competitive. He was naturally strong, really outstanding.’

Though he could be difficult, Storrie retains fond memories of the teenaged Millar, and even fonder ones of watching his career blossom on the biggest stage of all, the Tour de France. As he wrote in Cycling in 1984, ‘What a great thrill it was to see Robert on TV in 1983, winning the Pyrenean stage, then winning the same stage in 1984 against heavy odds … I am not ashamed to say that I shed tears of emotion as he danced away to victory, and even now, on the video re-run, I still get glassy-eyed. Knowing Millar, I can safely say, quoting Al Jolson, “We ain’t seen nothin’ yet.”’