Rough Ride

by Paul Kimmage

  Two days after the Med we raced a single day-race, Nice-Alassio. I was knackered after the Med, and asked Thevenet for a day off, but he told me to start and to abandon if I felt too tired. I met Jean de Gribaldy before the start and he told me again that I was overweight and explained what a terrible handicap this was. I nodded in acceptance, but inwardly I was puzzled. These pros were so skinny and bony, almost sick-looking, yet they managed to pedal at unbelievable speeds. I was confused. The race was a disaster for us and the whole team abandoned. Thevenet was angry, but accepted the excuses given to him from the experienced campaigners Gauthier and Le Bigaut that the Med had been especially hard and we were all a little tired. But next day, some smart-arse journalist from L'Equipe wrote that not a single rider from the RMO team had made it to Alassio, and that Bernard Thevenet was still out looking for us. This brought an angry response from the team sponsors, who sent a telegram from head office: 'We are not in this business to be laughed at.' Monsieur Braillon, 'Mr RMO', expressed his displeasure at his team's performance to date, and suggested an immediate improvement was imperative and that the next race, the Tour of Haut Var, was a good place to start. This annoyed us greatly, for the opening races were viewed by all as preparation races, and to be criticised by the sponsor after not even three weeks' competition was unfair.

  I rode well in the Haut Var, finishing about twenty-fifth, but was really tired after it. That night Emile called me for massage, and as I entered he was giving an injection to the Brazilian rider Ribeiro. He said it was just vitamins and suggested I take one to help me recover. I declined, explaining that I never took injections. He seemed surprised but did not insist. The following day we raced the Grand Prix of Cannes and I was totally shagged. I stopped after a hundred kilometres and climbed into the soigneurs' car at the feed. They did not say anything, but had 'I told you so' written all over their faces. I sat in the back and thought about it. My principle was that if the body was tired you gave it rest, not vitamins, and I was sure I'd be fine after a day's rest. That night the team split up, with the riders allowed home for the first time in a month. I had no fixed address in France, but Guy Mollet had offered to let me use a house in Wasquehal where he was going to lodge the foreign amateurs in his team. I felt quite ill before getting on the plane, and the assistant directeur sportif Jean-Claude Vallaeys, who lived in Lille, gave me two Alka-Seltzers. Emile, who was travelling on the same flight, suggested it was a problem with my liver – that I had not looked after myself and that this was the result. He produced two small pills to help my liver, and I pretended to take them. Half an hour later I told him I was feeling better, which seemed to please him. I did not want to hurt his feelings, for I knew he was only trying to help; but I just didn't trust him and was suspicious of anything he gave me.

  After the glory of racing with the team for the month of February, Wasquehal was an unpleasant shock to the system. The house was totally empty. There was just a bed. No cups or saucers or anything, just a bed. I instantly regretted having come here. The Brazilian was lodged by the team at Grenoble. I had never been there, but was told it was a beautiful city that sat at the foot of the Alps. It appealed to me greatly, but I had finally chosen Wasquehal, whose greyness and Coronation Street decor I was familiar with, having spent a year there as an amateur.

  I was not picked to ride in the Paris-Nice, but I didn't mind as I knew the pressure for results would be high. Instead I was selected for Het Volk, the one-day Belgian classic. I had hated Belgium as an amateur. Too much wind and rain and too many cobbles and flat roads. I dreaded the thought of Het Volk. We stayed at a hotel at Moeskron on the eve of the race, and as I was going to bed I noticed it had started to snow. I prayed that night that it would lash down and my prayers were answered: for the next day the roads were smothered with it and the race was cancelled. I returned to the emptiness of the flat. I had not trained for two days, and it would probably be another two before I got out. As a result my physical condition would drop, which would make the next race even harder. I realised it would have been better to have raced and regretted the cancellation. Twenty-four hours earlier I had prayed for snow. It had snowed and I was now sorry. This did not make sense.

  The house filled up during the week, when some Kas riders arrived. Kas was de Gribaldy's team and he had sent three men to Wasquehal to ride in some Belgian races to be held during Paris-Nice. The weather for the first race was dreadful and I abandoned after being dropped quite early. The second race was a kermesse, or circuit race, at Ostend. It was cold, sunny and windy. Former cycling 'great' Freddy Maertens was riding and I could not help noticing what a pathetic sight he was as he took his place on the start grid. He had had it all, this man. It was rumoured he had lost everything through poor investments and that he was penniless and forced to get back on the bike after years in retirement. The race started and we took off like rockets. The fast start surprised me and I was immediately in trouble. Slipping down through the bunch I had almost reached the end of it, going into this corner, when Maertens came up on my inside and nearly lifted me out of it with his elbow. I lost a length, two lengths and was dropped. This was the final straw: to be dropped after six miles was too much to take, and I abandoned and told myself I was finished. I phoned home to my parents' house to talk about my problems. They did not really understand. How could I be disheartened about something I had dreamed all my life of achieving?

  The three Kas boys were kind. One of them, Jacques Decrion, offered to take me to his house in Besançon, where I could train with him in the mountains and get my morale back. We rode one more race in Belgium, which I managed to finish and then we left for Besançon. I stayed with Jacques for five days and then we all left for a race near Nantes at Mauleon, where I was to pick up my team. When we arrived at the hotel I got out of the car with my suitcase, briefcase and bicycle. When they saw me my team-mates started laughing at my briefcase. 'Ah, Paul, the briefcase, you're a real warrior all right.' I hadn't got a clue what they were talking about. On visiting the riders' rooms that night I noticed that many had briefcases, but whereas mine contained my passport, letters and writing materials, theirs contained pills, syringes and little bottles of liquids of every colour and shape. 'So that's what they were laughing at, they thought my briefcase was full of pills. They thought I was a fucking junkie. Jesus, I am guilty without even a trial.' I was shocked, and decided to leave my briefcase open in my room so that any passers by would notice it contained papers and pens and wasn't a medical cabinet. Not all the riders had briefcases. Andre 'Dede' (pronounced 'deaday') Chappuis used to store his gear in an old shoebox he hid in his suitcase.

  I asked about the contents and Dede went through the various boxes and pills, explaining what each was for. There were pills for avoiding cramp, for cleaning out the liver, vitamins, caffeine tablets, salts, minerals and small glass tubes of a white liquid he laughed and joked about. He said it was 'du peau' ('skin') a slang word for pervitine. 'Ton ton' and 'tan tan' were slang words for tonedron. I hadn't a clue what he was talking about and my ignorance seemed to make him laugh even harder. 'Amphetamines.' This I did understand. 'But what about the controls?' I asked. 'There are never any controls at Mauleon,' he replied. This point was validated later that evening at the team meeting by Vallaeys, who was looking after us in Thevenet's absence. There were grins all around the room and we left. Vallaeys did not directly encourage us to charge up for the next day, but in reminding us that we were professionals he was giving us the green light. This was worrying.

  The peloton was unusually jolly at the start next morning. In the opening kilometres where the atmosphere was relaxed and jovial I noticed a new game being played. Riders were going around and putting their hands in the back pockets of other riders' jerseys. To me it didn't seem all that funny, but they seemed to be finding it hilarious. Someone explained that a rider who was prepared to inject himself with amphetamines had to do so two to two and a half hours from the finish. A normal bike race lasted six to se
ven hours so it was necessary to carry the amphetamine for three to four hours before using it. It could be taken in tablet form or through injection. Tablet was handy, as it could be carried and taken discreetly; but because it had to pass through the stomach, the effects were slower and not as good. Injection straight into the muscle gave an almost instant reaction and was much stronger, but was awkward because it meant transporting a syringe for most of the race. For transport, the syringe first had to be doctored. It was cut just above the piston that pushed out the liquid and a plastic cap was placed over the needle. Then the syringe was placed in a metal tube, usually a vitamin tube, and a piece of cotton wool pressed in on top to protect it from vibration. The tube was then placed among the fruit cake and other race food in the rider's jersey pocket until the time to use it arrived.

  As we rode out of Mauleon the game was to see who had the tube and who hadn't. From the guffaws and laughter it became clear to me that quite a few tubes had been found. This was very disheartening. What chance had I against guys riding on amphetamines? At the time I looked on them as cheats, and as I had always despised cheating I couldn't understand how they could be happy winning, knowing they had taken a stimulant to do so. Try as I might, I couldn't catch anyone actually taking the stuff. I was still convinced I couldn't do anything, so I was content to finish in the bunch.

  Because I lived in Wasquehal, fifteen kilometres from the border, Thevenet assumed that I liked racing in Belgium. I was, therefore, a natural choice to dispute the one-day classics that were now imminent. The Tour of Flanders was the first. I raced the first 150 kilometres trying my hardest to get out of the bunch before we reached the series of cobbled climbs near the end, where the race would be blown apart. I tried, but to no avail, and I was forced to remain in the bunch until the approach to the first climb. Twenty kilometres before it the pace started hotting up. Thevenet had told us that unless we were at the front going into the first cobbles then we could forget about it. The problem was that every other rider in the bunch had been told the same thing by their respective directeurs sportifs, and the result was absolute mayhem. There was pushing, shoving and shoulder rubbing at forty miles an hour on narrow roads full of holes and other hidden traps such as raised shore covers and ridges. I suddenly realised that all it took was for one rider to fall in this speeding packed bunch to bring 50 per cent of the others with him. I chickened out of trying to stay in the front, and slipped down to the back, where it was much more sociable. I knew that our team car had had a bad draw, so Thevenet was seventeen cars behind and could not possibly see the tail of the field and he therefore was unaware of my presence there. I was soon dropped and I abandoned after just 150 kilometres.

  Ghent-Wevelgem was next. The difficulties of this are the crosswinds which blow in from the sea when the race hugs the coastline between Zeebrugge and De Panne. On a cold Wednesday morning the winds were gale force, blowing sand all over the road as the bunch split into ten large groups on the seafront. I was in about the seventh group but then slipped back to the eighth, the ninth and the tenth. Questioning the point of this madness, I lost contact and was passed by the different team cars. Thevenet drove alongside but it was Vallaeys who rolled down the window. 'What's the problem?' he asked. Now, with the bunch in ten groups and bodies literally everywhere, it seemed perfectly obvious to me what the problem was; but just as I was about to answer another gust of wind blew sand across the road and into his face, blinding him. He quickly rolled up the window without waiting any longer for a reply and I laughed to myself: 'I think he got the message.'

  Jean-Claude Vallaeys was not liked among the riders, which made his job of assistant directeur sportif very difficult. His problem was that he had never raced and so did not command the same respect from us as Thevenet, who had won the Tour de France twice. Vallaeys had been secretary of the La Redoute team and at paperwork and organisation he was very efficient, but we didn't think he had a clue about pro cycling. How were we supposed to take orders from a man who chain-smoked, and ate like there was no tomorrow? I didn't like him; I found him false and insincere. He often made fun of my efforts to speak French, which I would have accepted if he spoke English – but he hadn't a word. It was a mystery to me how a guy like Vallaeys could be at the head of a professional cycling team.

  Two days after Ghent I abandoned the Grand Prix Pino Cerami in Belgium. It was a vicious circle. I needed a stage race to build up strength for the classics. But as I had not ridden Paris-Nice I was unprepared for these savage one-day events and was unable to ride much further than half-way in most of them. In between races we stayed at a hotel in Moeskron, where they served the most gigantic juicy steaks, and we ate like kings; but we raced like juniors, and the result was that my condition deteriorated instead of improved. There was also the mental side of it. Not finishing races was a bad habit that was becoming addictive. When it snowed or rained or was freezing cold, as it often was for the classics, it was all too easy to abandon the bike for the warmth of the soigneurs' car. Once in the car the remorse would start. The self-analysis that led to deep depression. Finishing races instilled confidence and self-respect. Abandoning destroyed both.

  Two days after Cerami we drove to Compiègne for Paris-Roubaix. The weather was atrocious, and I wondered if the race would be cancelled as it was snowing heavily as we went to bed. The La Vie Claire team were staying in the same hotel and during the night one of their new professionals, the American Thurlow Rogers, left his room and the hotel without saying a word. The next day the story was that he had cracked and was returning to the States. The hardened Europeans found this very amusing, but I understood how he felt and often considered doing the same. On this cold, wet morning it was easy to make such decisions. It was snowing in Compiègne when we rode out of the cobbled square and I knew there was no way I was going to make it to Roubaix. The tactic was simple: try to get the hell out of the bunch before crossing the first pave. I attacked several times in the first hundred kilometres without success and as we approached the first pave, the pace shot up as the big guns moved to the front, while the small fry like myself slipped to the back. I bumped into Kelly. He was on the way up and I was on the way down. For him the race was now starting; for me it was over. The enormous gap in our abilities became apparent to me.

  There was a huge crash just before the first section, and I fell off without hurting myself. I met Dede at the bottom of the tangled mess. He had lumps out of him, so I waited and then we chased together. At the exit of the first pave we were seven minutes behind the leaders and we abandoned almost immediately. We climbed into the broom wagon and were brought to the showers, where I washed and changed in time to see 'King Kelly' win his second Paris-Roubaix.

  It was obvious to me that I needed to take drastic action to climb out of the pit into which I had fallen. Thevenet was not pleased with my performances and after a long discussion I told him I wanted to leave Wasquehal and move to Grenoble. The head office of RMO was based in the Alpine town, and five of the team's cyclists lived in the region. The only problem would be a place to stay. RMO sponsored the Grenoble football team and also a training centre for its apprentices. Thevenet rang the centre and they agreed to lodge me until I could find an apartment. The thought of getting out of Wasquehal worked wonders on me. A week after Paris-Roubaix we rode Liège-Bastogne-Liège. In freezing cold rain Bruno Huger and I were the only two riders to finish from our team. Only sixty riders finished and Thevenet praised me for my courage – it was the first good word he had had for me in a month. Not that I blamed him, for I had abandoned seven races on the trot, but I felt sure the run was at an end. For finishing forty-eighth I managed to get my name in L'Equipe. This may seem trivial, but it was quite important. Monsieur Braillon would buy the sports daily every morning and scrutinise the results to find where his men had finished. By having my name in print, I proved to him that I was earning my keep, which would make it easier for him to sign my pay cheque at the end of each month.

 
; Grenoble was sunny, bright and beautiful. From the first glimpse of the city I knew I had made the right decision. Things would now get better and I felt a page had turned.

  9

  GRENOBLE

  I like to think that I am a survivor. I've always had good survival instincts. Moving from Lille to Grenoble was not just a matter of a change of scenery: it was essential. The two months spent at Wasquehal had given me time to analyse my situation. Because I lived so close to Belgium, they thought I liked racing there. I hated it. By living so close to Vallaeys, I was under his thumb, one of his boys. I didn't like him; and, worse, he knew I disliked him, so it seemed to me he was never going to do me any favours. I had to get out. 'Go south, young man.'

  Grenoble was the hub of the team. The firm's headquarters, the team's headquarters, the decision-making, all were here. France is a huge country. The flight time from Lille to Grenoble is the same as between Paris and Dublin. So to Thevenet it was all the same if I lived in Dublin or Lille; either way, I was a foreigner. Now, if I were a foreigner like Stephen Roche or Sean Kelly and could pedal my bike faster than anyone else in the world, then my sponsor and directeur would bend over backwards to please me, no matter where I lived. But being Paul Kimmage was different. I knew that once my two-year contract was terminated they would look at me and say, 'Well, Kimmage is Irish but he's not Roche or Kelly; he's an ordinary solid pro but why bother hiring a foreigner when we can hire a hundred Frenchmen with the same ability?' I knew this would happen, so I had to get close to them. Living in Grenoble would enable me to keep my finger on the pulse of all that was happening in the team. I had to integrate as much as possible, make them forget that I was Irish. I told them I loved France and especially Grenoble and that I was going to remain here long after my career was finished.