Racing Through the Dark: Crash. Burn. Coming Clean. Coming Back., by David Millar
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Racing Through the Dark: Crash. Burn. Coming Clean. Coming Back., by David Millar
Ebook PDF Racing Through the Dark: Crash. Burn. Coming Clean. Coming Back., by David Millar
"WORLD-CLASS CYCLIST"," "Tour de France stage winner, and time trial specialist David Millar offers a vivid portrait of his life in professional cycling--including his soul-searing detour into performance-enhancing drugs, his dramatic arrest and two-year ban, and his ultimate decision to return to the sport he loves to race clean--in this arrestingly candid memoir, which he wrote himself. As a young Scottish expat living in Hong Kong with his father after his parents' divorce, Millar showed early promise with mountain biking and BMX. Two wise local cyclists took him under their wings, encouraging him to concentrate on road racing. Millar proved a ready convert. "Racing Through the Dark "offers the winning account of his climb through the ranks--first as an amateur and then as a pro, riding for the French team Cofidis. Among his early triumphs were several stage wins in the Tour de France. From the moment Millar turned pro, he began to see hints of the unethical measures that many-- maybe most--of the other pros were taking in order to race at the very tops of their games . . . and beyond. At first, he felt that he was immune to temptation, that he could win clean. But the ugly pervasiveness of performance-enhancing drugs and the seemingly universal attitude that condoned it began to corrode his willpower. "Racing Through the Dark "details his eventual capitulation, his subsequent arrest and two-year ban from cycling, and his remarkable comeback as a clean cyclist who is now doing his utmost to keep performance-enhancing drugs out of the sport he so loves. Filled with thrilling descriptions of the world's most spectacular courses, "Racing Through the Dark "captures the pure joy of cycling and includes some of the most vivid accounts of racing ever written by a true insider.
Racing Through the Dark: Crash. Burn. Coming Clean. Coming Back., by David Millar - Amazon Sales Rank: #303480 in Books
- Published on: 2015-10-24
- Released on: 2015-10-24
- Original language: English
- Number of items: 1
- Dimensions: 9.13" h x 1.10" w x 6.12" l, .0 pounds
- Binding: Paperback
- 376 pages
Racing Through the Dark: Crash. Burn. Coming Clean. Coming Back., by David Millar Review "World-class cyclist Millar examines his tarnished quest to the top of his sport in his stunning memoir... Anyone interested in the grueling world of the men in professional cycling ought to read this candid, courageous book of Millar's journey from regret to redemption.""Millar unflinchingly lays bare his story, from his personal struggles to deal with his success to his path to drugs to his dark, post-arrest days to his Phoenix-like return to cycling. At the end of Millar's memoir comes redemption through his humbling return as a clean rider to the sport he loves and through becoming a vocal proponent of strong anti-doping measures.""Engagingly straightforward recollections of a champion athlete who succumbed to the dark side of illegal performance enhancement...(Millar's) forthright tone makes his downfall seem relatable...Will appeal to cycling enthusiasts and readers who seek an honest explanation of the scandals sullying the sport.""His tale--bizarrely--has become just about the most inspiring in all of cycling, perhaps any sport. If you want to find out how cyclists dope, it's here; if you want to discover why they do it, there has never been a more vivid account. But the defining achievement of RACING THROUGH THE DARK is that it makes you believe in cycling again.""One of the great first-person accounts of sporting experience...Laceratingly honest, detailing every twist in the argument by which he convinced himself to take a step he had previously considered unthinkable. Anyone seeking to understand the motivation of a drug cheat, or wondering why such a man should be allowed back into his sport will find their curiosity satisfied here.""Unbeatable as a snapshot of the professional peloton, its agonies and ecstasies...Emotional yet in no way overwrought, Millar's memoirs read like a parable more than a manifesto. Essential reading for all young riders as well as fans.""The greatest strength of this plainly but compellingly told story is that it doesn't shock. Millar is searingly honest about his own failings and neuroses but his book is intelligent, subtle, nuanced, not flowery or overly descriptive --and it is all the more powerful for it. This will go down as one of the great sporting autobiographies.""A sporting masterpiece, a timeless snapshot of a sportsman plumbing the depths and miraculously bouncing back both as a rider and a man.""The story of [Millar's] fall from grace is gripping.""An incredibly personal, moving and compelling story."
About the Author World-class cyclist David Millar turned pro in 1999. A champion time trialist for team Garmin-Cervelo, he has raced in nearly every major international cycling event, including the Tour de France, Vuelta a Espana, and the Olympics. He lives in Girona, Spain with his wife and son.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. Life is about making decisions, and my relationship with David Millar has informed some of the toughest and most critical decisions in my career. Looking back, his experience has also been pivotal in fueling my passionate belief in clean sport. I first crossed paths with David in 2002 at the World Road Championships in Belgium. I was working as performance director to Team GB, and he was riding for the British team. It was clear from the outset that he was different from any other bike rider I’d met before. Hugely talented, ambitious, and extroverted, Dave was a thoroughbred. He was intelligent and strong-willed, yet also very vulnerable. It is rare for me to mix personal with professional, but we got on immediately, and he is one of the few riders that I have also become close friends with. Dave was already clearly frustrated with the “old school” thinking of the European scene. We talked about working together, developing new ways of thinking about racing and equipment, and taking those ideas into Europe. I knew that with the right environment he could go on to great things. Yet in hindsight, I can look back and see that there were nagging worries. Dave was something of a wild child, living life to the full, lacking the kind of mentoring that he needed at the time. I knew he had doubts about the team that he was on, that he was under a lot of pressure, that some aspects of his lifestyle were extreme, but I didn’t know how far that extreme lifestyle had gone, or that there was another side to his life that he couldn’t share. I had just come back to Biarritz with him, after watching him race in the buildup to the Athens Olympics, when it all came tumbling down. I looked on in horror and disbelief as the French police arrested him, just as we settled down to dinner in one of his favorite restaurants in Biarritz. It was a shocking moment, something I never want to experience again. Only then did I begin to understand his secret life and how deeply ashamed he was of betraying his ideals and his family and friends. Dave’s arrest put me in a difficult situation. I was advised, in no uncertain terms, to leave as quickly as possible, to ensure that British Cycling was not tarnished by scandal. Ultimately though, I had nothing to hide and had done nothing wrong. I was warned that it could be damaging to my reputation, but I felt that I had a duty of care to Dave. I decided that the right thing to do was to stay. He was in custody for seventy-two hours. The French police were brutal and very aggressive. I was interrogated for almost five hours, but they finally completely acknowledged that I had no involvement at all. I waited until Dave was released, exiting through the back door of the police station to avoid the media. Then I told him to tell me everything. Over the next few days, as we talked openly about what he had done and what he had been through, the murky world of doping—something I had never encountered—became real. It opened my eyes as I learned how the culture of doping had poisoned his life. It was a steep learning curve for me, but his experience has given me valuable insight and helped me to further develop the strong ethical values that are now the foundation for Team GB and Team SKY. I have seen firsthand how doping can almost wreck an athlete’s life—I am determined it will not happen to any athlete in my charge. Dave and I came close to working together a couple of years ago, when Team SKY was being developed. The team would have benefited from his racing knowledge, from his performances, and from his experience as a captain on the road. In the end, however, the premise of Team SKY, emphatically founded on creating a team that exemplifies clean sport and that has a zero tolerance on employing anybody with any doping history, made it impossible for him to join. I am convinced Dave has learned his lesson. Since his comeback, he’s become a reformed character, a voluble contributor to the anti-doping debate through his work with Garmin-Slipstream, UK Sport, and WADA. More remarkably, his passion for cycling is undimmed, despite everything he went through. It’s very clear to anybody who knows him that he will always love riding his bike. That alone probably tells you more about who he really is than any number of speeches. Most importantly, Dave’s story reveals what I have long believed—that, in the wrong environment, under the wrong influences, even people with the greatest integrity can make the wrong decisions. Although the culture of doping in sport is often depicted as black and white, it can be insidious and subtle: on the one hand, it exploits the vulnerable and pressurized athlete; on the other, it enables the cynical to clinically cheat. That’s why the David Millar story is so valuable and so instructive to all those who care about ethics in sport. David Brailsford, CBE Performance Director, British Cycling and Principal, Team SKY Manchester, May 2011| My Early Years Even though I was born in Malta—for those who need to know, on January 4, 1977—I have always thought of myself as a Scot. My parents, Gordon and Avril, left the island when I was eleven months old and returned to Scotland. This was a homecoming, a return from abroad to our brethren. Yet because my father was in the Royal Air Force and subject to their postings, it wasn’t really his choice where we ended up. We lived in Forres. My earliest memories are of a housing estate, a school bus—with a metal bar across the top of the seat in front of me that I’d try to bite but couldn’t, because of the bus bumping around—and of my grandma giving me chocolate eclairs. The RAF housing estate was my playground. I could usually be found playing with my Star Wars figurines and space ships—a quiet little boy by all accounts, living in his own little world.1977, Malta. Proof that I was born in the seventies under the Maltese sun. Gordon looks like a Starsky & Hutch extra, while Avril looks like she’s come straight off the Buck Rogers set.I’ve been told a story, by both Mum and Dad, about a birthday party they held for me at home. I disappeared early on and was found playing alone in my room, asking when everybody was going home. I remember being like that when I was young. I liked drawing. In fact, I drew a lot. There was another toddler whom I was best friends with, but I can’t remember his name now. My sister Frances—sometimes “Fran,” sometimes “France”; “Fran” to others, “France” to me—arrived a little less than a year after our return to Scotland, and she quickly became my new play partner. Fran was a quick developer and walked and talked at a freakishly young age. When people learned that I, not Fran, was the older sibling, this confused them. I’ve never had a problem with it—Fran’s propensity for talking, that is. I simply point out that I’m older than her anyway and claim seniority that way. Dad was stationed at Kinloss, the RAF base not far from Forres. On occasions when he wasn’t flying, he’d take me to the base and I’d play on the grass-covered aircraft hangars and run around after him among the aircraft. Even now, it’s a vivid memory. Sometimes I’ll pass a garage that will have that same smell of warm metal and diesel and I’ll be back there, running among those big war machines, with my dad, in the grass-covered hangars. I wish more garages had that smell. I was too young to understand his job, but I remember his leaving for the Falkland Islands. He just disappeared one day, and we didn’t see him again for what seemed like forever. It’s the only time I can remember my mum telling my sister and me to pray at night. There was never any news, and it must have been very hard for her. My godfather, Major Mike Norman, was involved in the Falklands War, too. He and his wife, Thelma, were friends with my parents in Malta. Mike had given my mum a Royal Marine insignia to be flown above the house when she went into labor. She still has the flag. Mike was something of a war hero, and, years later, while I was living in Hong Kong, I learned what a significant part he had played in the conflict when I saw a BBC film called An Ungentlemanly Act. Mike had been the commanding officer of the Royal Marines unit on the Falklands when the Argentinians invaded. When it became clear that the Argentines were mounting a full invasion, he was charged with defending the island by Rex Hunt, the island’s governor. Although outnumbered, Mike led his men with courage and skill, but after hours of defending Governor’s House he was ordered to surrender. Two months later, when the Argentine army capitulated, he raised the British flag once again. Nonetheless, the war left its mark on him. Many years later, after Mike had retired, my mother spoke to Thelma on the phone and asked how he was. “Oh, he’s fine,” she said. “He’s out gardening. But you know, Avril, his knees never really recovered from that bloody yomp.” In many ways, growing up as a forces child made us different from other kids. Our dads, whether in the RAF, army, or navy, couldn’t just switch off their value systems on coming home and taking off their uniforms. They worked in an environment with hundreds of years of history and standards. It made for a disciplined and regimented childhood. My sister and I could be taken to any restaurant in the world, and there would be no risk of our behaving badly. Without being too hard on us, my father was a disciplinarian. But he was also incredibly funny and loving when he was relaxed and happy, which was all the funnier because it was impossible to imagine him ever being the same when he was in his uniform. I remember one flier friend never stopped calling him “sir,” even when they were both in civilian clothes. “Why don’t you just call him Gordon?” I asked him once. “I can’t, David,” he replied, deadpan. “He’s my commanding officer.” Years later, after my dad had left the forces and joined Cathay Pacific, I appreciated what a change it must have been for him going from being a young wing commander in the Royal Air Force to a middle-aged copilot in a commercial airline. It couldn’t have been easy for him. My dad was reckless at times. I remember seeing him, around the time that he was a squadron leader, standing in the dining room looking out of the window, staring at his white Lotus Elite. There was something broken about his expression—he told me that he’d crashed his car and that he felt sad. I first learned to ride a bike in Scotland. But it was hardly the most auspicious start to my cycling career, as I rode into the back of a parked car on one of those first rides. In fact, I was a little accident-prone. Playing tag at school, I managed to break my collarbone for the first time. It took my mum, bless her, three days to believe that I’d broken it. I’m not sure if that says more about me, or my mum. My mum is one of the most intelligent people I know, able to maintain a challenging conversation on almost any subject. She studied engineering at Glasgow University, based on her admiration for her adopted father, yet, forty years on, she is now on her fourth different career. She came from a loving yet unorthodox family, adopted as a baby by a couple already in their mid-forties. Today the only family she has is my sister and me, and her fabulous piano-playing neighbor Terry. Her background probably explains her absolute love for France and me, yet this collarbone incident also showed she was no pushover. Just before we left Scotland, I did it again. One of my best friends had a hill in his back garden that in winter hardened to a stony mix of frost, ice, and snow. Naturally, we considered it our duty to ride down this. I must have taken it more seriously than him, because I was the one who ended up crumpled at the bottom of the hill, nursing a second broken collarbone. There’s a final memory of our time in Scotland—of leaving in 1984, and Fran and I, cocooned in the bucket seats of my dad’s Lotus, singing along to Yazoo. Dad had a new posting. We were moving on again, heading south to our new house in Stone, Buckinghamshire. It’s hard to imagine Frances and me arriving in England as wee Scots, the two of us arguing away with our strong singsong accents. The years since, traveling and living in many different places, have left me with the most neutral of accents. If anything, what I have now is an expat Brit accent that morphs itself spontaneously to mimic those around me. It’s not something I’m proud of; I would much prefer to have held on to the Scottish accent that I had as a child, because I remain very proud of being a Scot. — At times, I have to admit that, listening to my English accent while calling myself Scottish, I’ve felt like a fraud. But then I suppose our nomadic lifestyle made it important that we were good at “fitting in.” When I started school in Buckinghamshire, I would always play lunchtime football in Scottish national team kit. Looking back, I think losing my accent was a pivotal moment. Even so, I feel most at home when surrounded by Scots, and it was among Scots that I spent most of my time during my doping ban. I didn’t enjoy school that much, but out of the classroom, I had a blast, particularly after I discovered BMX and became the proud owner of a Raleigh Super Tuff Burner. Dad would take me along to the BMX race leagues in High Wycombe every other weekend. I was eight years old, and it was the perfect introduction to racing. The BMX boom was at its height, and movies such as ET and BMX Bandits were big box office. I still haven’t seen ET, even though, a few years later while on a family holiday in California, I was chosen out of a throng of children to ride the ET BMX against a blue screen at Universal Studios. I couldn’t bring myself to tell them I hadn’t actually seen the film. I loved the rush of BMX racing. The start gate would come crashing down, and the ten riders in the field would hurtle with childish abandon toward the first ramps and left-hand banked turn, or “burn.” There was very little skill involved. It was more dependent on a lot of youthful courage and blind luck. I was still on my trusty Raleigh, competing against kids on special racing BMXs. This had never bothered me, until one day, when, after finishing in the top three and while pushing my Raleigh back up the hill for the next race, I heard the commentator remark on my less-than-special bike. I was upset to say the least. Despite that, in my first season I finished fourth in the county for my age group. This entitled me to a number 4 handlebar plate for the next season, but I clearly remember thinking that fourth in the county wasn’t really that good. I don’t know why I would have such high expectations or put such pressure on myself at such a young age. I was competing against boys who were clearly taking it much more seriously than I was. For my dad and me, it was simply a Sunday out together. He didn’t allow himself to get mixed up in overcompetitive dad syndrome. Any pressure or desire I had to perform came from me and me alone.1986, Stone primary school. Frances and I rocking the uniform. I get the impression there was a lot of giggling pre- and post-photograph.But that number 4 plate was never used because my beloved Super Tuff Burner was stolen that winter, effectively ending my BMX career. I spent years looking in ditches and scouring bike racks searching for that bike, and it took me a very long time to accept that it was never coming back. As well as BMX, I’d taken to roller-skating much of the time, usually at roller discos. I can’t remember how often the roller discos were, but they were never regular enough for me. I was a roller-disco king—Thame Leisure Centre was my kingdom. France, in true younger sibling fashion, had taken to copying everything I did, be it BMX or roller-skating. It was never long before France was, like me, fully equipped, tagging along. Most irritatingly, everybody still thought she was my older sister, which was not cool for an already quiet, shy, introspective boy. I’m ashamed to say that I did my best to make sure that skating was the last hobby of mine that Frances copied. At the time, I didn’t see the love, only the burden of a little sister. France was so confident, so able to talk to people. She would talk to anybody at any time on any subject. We—my parents and I—would hang back and send her forward to ask all sorts of things of all sorts of people. We didn’t need local knowledge or a tour guide when we were on holiday, because we had our own little search engine on legs. Frances was our Google. My mum and dad made a significant effort to improve us both. We were both given extra tuition outside of school, and I was learning to play the trombone and the piano. I was trombonist in the school jazz band, and now it amazes me that I pretended to enjoy it and persevered for so long. But there were problems at home. It became impossible to ignore the troubles between my parents. At first, it had been subtle, but now there were things that I couldn’t ignore. It became harder to pretend that the fights weren’t happening. I suppose it had been going on for a long while, but children choose not to see such things. Eventually, things reached a crisis point. I was woken up in the middle of the night, my tearful mum and dad sitting on my bed, telling me that they were splitting up, that it wasn’t my fault and that I should look after my sister. I don’t think I cried. I certainly don’t remember being tearful, but I remember being incredibly fucking angry. My childhood had come to an abrupt end. I was eleven. The next morning, I walked to school as usual, through grass covered in morning dew, my feet leaving a trail behind me.
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12 of 12 people found the following review helpful. Exuberant Frailty By Doctor Moss This book really grabbed me. Yep, David Millar is pretty fascinated with himself, but this is an autobiography after all -- he had to be fascinated enough with himself to write it. Most readers looking at this review probably already know who David Millar is -- he's been an elite professional cyclist for more than 10 years, winning stages of all three grand tours (France, Spain, Italy), specializing in individual time trials. And he is a reformed doper, having been banned from pro cycling for 2 years from 2004 to 2006.Millar tells his story in three stages. In the first, he is a gifted rider, progressing from almost too-easy dominance in smaller amateur races to the challenges of a new pro. He's up for the challenges, though, eventually winning races while staying clean. All along he's prideful in his quiet, personal anti-doping stance. When he finds that his hematocrit level tested at only 40.1 per cent (well below the threshold of suspicion at 50 percent) after winning the time trial at De Panne, he's excited. He's proven he can win clean against a field he knows is doping. But in one of the most poignant moments of the book, he proudly tells Francesco Casagrande, one of his team leaders, of his feat, and Casagrande just says to another team member, "Why isn't he at 50?" It doesn't matter if you can win clean -- what your team wants is that you race at your max, and your max means doping.Eventually, Millar hits the wall in his career, due to poor training habits, excessive lifestyle, and, presumably, operating at a disadvantage with respect to riders using EPO and other performance-enhancing drugs and treatments. By this time, he's already taking injections of vitamins to aid recovery from race efforts and sleeping meds to get rested enough to race day after day. Now he accepts doping just as what riders do in order to be successful. He's caught red-handed, and he faces both suspension by the sport and criminal charges in France, where he lives.In stage 3, Millar makes his comeback. During his suspension, he doesn't ride. He's lost the fun of cycling -- it's turned into a job, and now a job he can no longer perform. And his personal life has gone to hell. But he does pull it together, with help, and he is just gifted enough to get enough initial success to propel himself forward. He returns to the top of the sport again, and now, with Jonathon Vaughters' new clean team, Garmin, he finds what he clearly thinks is his more mature self, a spokesperson for clean cycling.In the end, Millar takes a strident born-again anti-doping stance. He believes that what he lacked as a younger rider was someone who could give him the encouragement and support he needed to resist doping. Doping was ubiquitous but never talked about among the riders. The silence meant that even clean riders couldn't take a stance or band together for support with other clean riders. Now Millar wants, as an established, successful rider and doping-survivor, to fill that gap for other riders who want to stay clean.He may be too fervent to be effective at getting other riders to do the same. He "lectures" Lance Armstrong after the 2007 Tour de France, challenging him to "Give something back, help us clean up the sport . . . " It doesn't go well, he says, having "perhaps lectured him for a little too long -- 10 minutes too long" in public. Lance says he has "bigger things to do now" than clean up cycling, and the friendship between the two is pretty much cooked.I liked Millar at the end of the book. He is full of himself, and he proves that over and over again. But, unlike so many other cyclists, he ultimately admits his frailties. Even after having been caught, so many others, like Floyd Landis, carry on the lie in one way or another, destroying their personal credibility so thoroughly that we wouldn't listen to them even if they did try finally to tell the truth.
4 of 4 people found the following review helpful. A Culture of Silence Unveiled By Alan Lekan David Millar's memoir is mostly about his long, intense inner struggle to fend off the "demons of doping" as he emerged as one of pro cycling's forces in the 90's. It is graphic, names names and shines a long-awaited bright light on a pervasive, insidious culture of use of illegal substances in cycling.Some might find Millar a hypocrite while others find a hero who had the courage to speak against the powers within cycling. I found him most very human with a story worth hearing. And, in the massive fallout of Lance Armstrong in 2012, you will now have a much better understanding of how all that happened around Lance (who is mentioned often in the book). While the books fades a bit towards the end (as others note) after all the doping revelations, it comes to life again in an epic scene where Millar futilely implores a shark-eyed Armstrong to join forces to clean up the sport - which largely ended his relationship with the patron.The book starts with Millar as an idealistic youth wanting to be a pro cycling and goes chronologically till his current (clean) days racing for Boulder-based Garmin. Millar's journey goes from staunch anti-drug person to eventual conceding to "recovery vitamin injection" to finally giving in to the temptations of the EPO, the arrest and fall and eventual coming clear to start a strong new life. Some of the darker aspects were the covert operations how athletes obtained and stored EPO. Same went for Postal. Ironically, Millar was eventually busted by French police well-after he ceased drugs but haphazardly left two vials in a hollowed-out book they discovered.If you want juicy details as to what it all looked like, Millar delivers the goods. He comes across fairly well for a first-time author: chapter endings leave the reader with suspense while he paints sharp contrasts - like starting his doping days in the idyllic countryside of Tuscany.Many colorful mini-stories of fellow riders help keep things interesting. For example, if you ever wondered why enigmatic riders like Phillipe Gaumont and VDB imploded, you'll see here in part. And who would have guessed that prescription sleeping pills were one of the most abused (and perhaps needed) drugs? Sleeplessness is a bane of a modern rider having to stay at crummy hotels after abusing their body all day. Millar's most of all describes endless episodes of pain, depletion, abuse, crashes, sickness and how it sets up the appeal as EPO as a savior.Why does a rider take such risks and use illegal substances? Because they work great! EPO, a main booster, is used extensively in cancer patients to boost red-blood cells (guess one place where team soigniers get EPO??) and does same in an athlete really well. Millar's experience once taking EPO, testosterone etc: "Things were becoming easier for me. I still felt like I suffered as much, but now I could suffer for longer and recover faster. It was like having the form of my life, day in, day out."But "wanting to ride like superman" is only part of the reason a rider will cross that line. What will likely be new to many readers is the multifaceted dynamics within the culture that made doping essentially an eventual duty and part of being a good team rider and good employee. Against this backdrop, Millar and many other riders become more human. In David's own words: "The more I doped, the more I hated cycling. I felt an emptiness and pointlessness that would not go away."Millar is strongest and most believable in his depiction of "the loss of innocence and soul" in his eventual (and really short-lived) doping days: "But it was all business now (once doping). it didn't feel like sport anymore. Winning this way was not my childhood dream. The victories seemed hollow; I felt nothing in the national anthem of my country."In such a culture where team management blindly condoned or outright supported doping, one has to wonder why it was mainly the riders who took the fall. Where is the prosecution of cycling (eg: US Postal's) management are co-conspirators? Its easy to be judgmental - and athletes need to take full responsibility. But, after reading this book, you may more empathy for the riders and take issue with the entire cycling culture of business around them. Its a bit like the famous words of President Bill Clinton: "Its an explanation, but not an excuse." You can say what you want about any rider who cheated, but at least some like David Millar have now started a serious contribution to make things right. And if I see him around Boulder (Garmin Hdq), I will offer my sincere thanks.
4 of 4 people found the following review helpful. Interesting tale By Amazon Customer I am a bicycle racing fan. The story of David Millar is very interesting. Not riveting, but interesting. Writing is OK, but I find myself putting the book down after a chapter or two to read some others that I have on my Fire. Not a page turner, but an interesting bio none the less. If I were not a fanatic, it would be so-so.
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Racing Through the Dark: Crash. Burn. Coming Clean. Coming Back., by David Millar
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Racing Through the Dark: Crash. Burn. Coming Clean. Coming Back., by David Millar
