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.
