by Paul Kimmage
'Have you ridden up the Lauteret from this side before?'
Martin shakes his head for 'no'.
'It's a long bastard.'
Soon we turn left and the climb begins. There are climbs you like and climbs you hate. I like the Alpe d'Huez. I hate the Lauteret. It is thirty-three kilometres long, is badly surfaced and I never ride well on it. After just one kilometre I am sweating. My arms and face are dripping and I feel most uncomfortable.
'Shit, I should have brought a caffeine tablet.'
The pace is fast but bearable when we enter the first of five tunnels on the climb. It is unlit. The riders in the front accelerate, safe from all obstruction. Behind, it is chaos. It is almost impossible to see the wheel in front and we are forced to ride through at a snail's pace. Coming out of the tunnel we are forty-five seconds behind the tête of the peloton. I chase hard for two kilometres with Peiper to rejoin. The chase confirms my earlier impressions. I am having a really bad day. Others are suffering too.
'Did you see the guy that crashed in the tunnel?'
I look across. It's Dede.
'No, didn't see a thing.'
'He was covered in blood.'
A race official's motorbike moves up alongside and we learn that the Dutch rider Nijboer has abandoned and is being taken to hospital. We enter another tunnel and another Dutchman, Solleveld, falls off just in front of me – but this time without serious injury. Fignon stops for a pee. Martin decides it's a good idea and stops with him. Jean-François Bernard stops, and with him his watchdog Dominique Garde. And for two kilometres we ramble along and I am thankful for the common sense being shown. Then it happens. The attack. Shouts and whistles go round the bunch and I look up to see who it is. Yes it's him. Chozas. He does this every year, the Spanish bastard. Takes off at the start of a hard mountain stage when everyone is content to take it easy. The million dollar question is: will they chase him? If they do, it will blow the race apart. If they don't, we shall ramble along for a good bit longer until someone decides it's a reasonable time to start racing. I look up, waiting for a reaction. I can hear it. The imaginary fuse burning on the end of the imaginary dynamite. More cries. Two more riders dash off the front. The chase is on. Badooom!
The peloton stretches out in one long line, and all I can do is try to hang on. Those with tired legs are soon in difficulty. The points leader, Van Poppel, is dropped along with eight others including Peiper and the Swiss Zimmerman. The chase intensifies. I am directly behind Dede. He lets the gap open.
'Allez Dede!'
'I am sick of this bloody race.'
I ride past. I look around and he is twenty or thirty metres behind. I'm suffering but am surprised and encouraged at my ability to close the gaps opening all over the place. There are just five kilometres to the top of the Lauteret, then we swing left immediately to start the eight-kilometre ascent of the Galibier. Martin is in trouble. He lets the gap open and I ride up behind him.
'Hang on, it's too early to lose contact.'
We take turns at trying to reduce the deficit. We close to thirty metres, twenty, then I pass him and grit my teeth in one last effort to make the junction. But suddenly I run out of gas. I can't make it and can no longer stay with Martin. My legs are turning, but without power. The tiredness mounts from my legs to my arms, and soon it has paralysed my whole body. I look up just as Martin makes contact. And then the group pulls away.
The Van Poppel group catches me. I grit my teeth and take my place in the slipstream of the last rider. We pass the cafe at the top of the Lauteret and turn left to start the Galibier. I am finding it harder and harder to stay with the group. My body feels empty and my morale is tumbling. One length, two, and I lose contact with the group. Panic, desperation and the realisation that I am in big trouble. Rault catches me and shouts for me to stay with him.
'Go on, the Tour is finished for me.'
Why did I say that? Thevenet passes me in the team car.
'Paul you must try to get up to Van Poppel's group.'
I look across to him and shake my head and he drives past. The pedals turn but with no conviction. Self-pity is now the abiding sentiment, and once that starts there is no hope. I am doomed. I see a banner, 'ROCHE EARLEY KIMMAGE', and my friend Seamus Downey standing under it. I look to him and shake my head, and then feel angry with myself for giving up. Dede catches me.
'Allez Paul!'
'No Dede, go on leave me.'
But he insists on staying with me, so I scream abuse at him to leave me alone. He does. Michaud is behind now, in the second team car. Tears fill my eyes. I decide to try again. I begin to ride faster, deciding not to give up. But the effort lasts just one kilometre. My legs are just empty. A rider passes me on the right at twice my speed. I look across to see who it is. It's a bearded tourist, riding up the mountain with pannier bags on his bike. A bloody Fred. Michaud drives up alongside and tells the tourist to get off his bike. But the damage is done, and I am now completely demoralised. Spectators are now pushing me, and Michaud realises that I'm cooked and drives past saying that he will shortly return. I look behind. The broom wagon is just 500 metres back, with just two riders in front of it. It is drawing me in like a giant magnet.
I am resigned now to abandon, as I know there is no way I will make the time limit in my present state. I pass the statue of the Tour founder Henri Desgrange. It's as good a place as any to get off, but there are too many spectators. Allochio, an Italian and Gorospe, a Spaniard pass me just before the summit and leave me. The broom wagon is now directly behind. The descent of the Galibier is twisting and dangerous but I take no risks. There is an icy wind blowing up from the valley below and it freezes me as I drop. Down through the village of Valloire and then the short five kilometre climb of the Telegraph. Oh God, that feeling of jadedness when I am asked once again for effort. There is nothing in my legs. I look for a place to end it. A place void of people so that I can retire with dignity. I stop on the right-hand side of the road after a kilometre of climbing. I have cracked. It is over. The broom wagon and ambulance stop behind me. I stand, head bent down over my bike, as a nurse descends from the ambulance and offers her sympathies. A commissar gets out of the broom wagon and unpins the two race numbers from my back. 'C'est dure,' he sighs, as he completes this unpleasant duty. People further up the mountain come running down to witness the excitement. There are ohs and ahs as I climb into the bus, and then cheers as I am driven away. I feel numb and dazed and cold. I wrap myself in a blanket and ask the commissar how many abandonments there have been. Four.
We catch Gorospe and Allochio at the feeding station at St Jean de Maurienne. Gorospe abandons. The commissar gets out to remove his numbers. He gets into one of his team cars. Michaud is waiting for me. He tells me I must stay in the broom wagon until the end of the stage. I nod, accepting my punishment. He gives me a bag of food and drives off. We catch Allochio at the bottom of the Madeleine. My eyelids are so heavy and I must fight to stay awake, but there is no fight left in me and exhausted I fall asleep. I wake half an hour later near the summit of the mountain. It's like waking from a bad dream and encountering a nightmare. I can't come to terms with the fact that I am in the bus. What am I doing here? How the fuck could I have abandoned the Tour de France? Oh God, what have I done?
My body has warmed up now, so I discard the blanket. Some spectators recognise my jersey in the back of the broom wagon. 'Look, an RMO has abandoned.' I pull the blanket around myself again, this time to hide my identity. I am in disgrace.
The final climb to La Plagne seems unending. The nearer we get to the finish the worse I feel. We drive past a huge Irish tricolour flag with the names of the four Irishmen on it. Ashamed, I look away. We pass the little red triangle that signifies the last kilometre and arrive at the finish line. As usual it's chaotic. The race announcer Daniel Mangeas announces the list of the day's abandonments. His voice is soft and sad. The tones are those you would expect from a man announcing a list of soldiers killed in a war
. I leave the bus and walk, head down, to the team car. Coval is at the wheel. 'Thevenet is gone looking for you.' I sit in the front seat and Thevenet returns five minutes later. He knows exactly how I am feeling and his words are chosen carefully.
'Ah Polo. You gave it all you could. We can ask no more of you.'
The kind words have the effect of an aquarium just shattered by the blows of a hammer. Three hours of caged-in disappointment, anguish and shame come flowing out as I break down and weep as I have not done for a long, long time. There is a short drive to the hotel. Thankfully I am rooming with Dede. He tries his hardest to sympathise, but it really isn't easy and I realise exactly how Gauthier felt at Pau a year earlier. Dede goes off for massage and I am happy to be left alone. Alone with my thoughts. I have failed.
I left La Plagne the very next morning about half an hour before the start of the stage. The team equipment truck was to leave me at the station at Albertville, where I could catch a train to Grenoble. There were cars everywhere and we got stuck in a traffic jam just outside La Plagne. Some teams had stayed in the valley below and had to drive back up the mountain. The Carrera car stopped opposite us and Stephen was in the front seat. I tried to hide, hoping he would not see me but he did and immediately rolled down the window. I smiled a false smile. He grinned that typical Roche grin and shouted playfully.
'Oh, Kimmage, what are you doing there?'
This hurt. It hurt badly, but I tried not to show it. He recognised the hurt.
'Take it easy for a few days, Paul, but get back on your bike as quickly as possible.'
The words were sincere and greatly appreciated. The cars in front started to move, and our conversation was interrupted.
'Good luck to you Stephen.'
Although it was only seventy kilometres away, it was two train rides and a bus journey back to Vizille. Ann was waiting at the flat. I hadn't phoned and this had hurt her. I was narky and tired. She felt hurt and upset. We had a huge row as soon as I entered the flat. She was quite right to be angry, but my disappointment had been so complete that I could not bring myself to pick up a phone to talk about it.
Back in Ireland the whole country was following Stephen's bid to win cycling's biggest prize. I couldn't bear to watch any of it during those final three days. On the day of the race-deciding time trial at Dijon I was out shopping with Ann. I remember walking by a furniture shop with a television set in the window. It was the live broadcast of the time trial that drew my attention. I had left the house to avoid watching it, but as I passed the shop the temptation was too much. I stood in front of the window and watched as the screen split showing Delgado and Roche and the time gap that separated them. Stephen was winning the Tour. The next day, Sunday, we took the train to Paris. I had promised Thevenet I would come up for the end-of-Tour team night out. But as I arrived at the Sofitel I was sorry I had come. It wasn't the same. I couldn't rid myself of the feeling of guilt. The feeling that I had sinned.
Just before we went out to dinner Stephen, the triumphant Tour winner, arrived back at the hotel. He was surrounded by a million people, which suited me because I wanted to avoid him. I felt compelled to approach him and congratulate him, but the revulsion I felt about having quit was stronger. But there was another factor. I was happy he had won, but I was also jealous. Jealous that he had made it to the top of the world, while I had just fallen off it. He was a star now, and I could find no likeness to the Roche I had adored as a youngster. So I decided to stay clear of him. But the most incredible thing happened. He was being jostled from all sides and was pushed and shoved across the marble floor until he was right under my nose. He had a warm greeting for me, and I felt instantly ashamed. I put my arms around him and congratulated him as best I could. And then he was whisked away on a tidal wave of handshakes.
Five days later when we had returned to Vizille, I got a call from Jacques Chevegneon, a criterium manager. He said he had a place for me at a criterium at Château Chinon on Monday and would pay me £250 if I turned up. I agreed and put the phone down. I was sorry I had agreed. I had been off the bike for nine days. I would surely get the hell knocked out of me at a criterium where 90 per cent of the guys would be charged up. I dreaded facing another hammering – another humiliating slap on the face in front of thousands of spectators. But I had given my word. Early on Monday morning I loaded the car and headed for Château Chinon.
15
ONE OF THE BOYS
Château Chinon is a four-hour drive from the flat in Vizille. I arrived at 11.30, three and a half hours before the race, but I like giving myself plenty of time. The town is smothered in a thick, wet fog and it's hard to avoid the Monday morning blues. I expected it to be much bigger, but it's really quite small. Too small to accommodate the hundreds of spectators' cars already choking the streets. Still, the locals don't mind, especially les commerçants: it's the only traffic jam of the year, and the bars and cafes are full. I park in the main street and wait. I don't really know what to do, but Vallet and Claveyrolat will arrive soon and I plan to follow them. After spending half an hour in the car I recognise their two cars driving through the town. They have come from Bordeaux, where they raced a criterium the day before. Vallet has not been home for nearly six weeks now. The day after the Tour finished he set off from Paris and has ridden a criterium a day for eight days. Nine days and thousands of kilometres of driving from one small village to another. I'm not sure how much he gets per race but I know he will go home with about six grand in his pocket – which is not far off what I earn in a year. His wife and two daughters are travelling with him and they look almost as tired as he does. Claveyrolat is travelling with Colotti. Jean-Claude is completely shagged and has also had a hard week.
The greeting is as it always is, a handshake and a smile. I follow them to a small hotel at the end of the main street. It's a typical criterium hotel. Run-down and cheap, but clean. Two rooms have been reserved and we will also eat lunch here before the race. Most of the riders are eating and changing here. But first the bikes must be prepared. I take mine from the car boot and put the wheels in and inflate the tyres. The bike is spotless. I washed it yesterday, to make sure it was shining for my first criterium race. Appearances are everything. If I make a good impression today then the criterium manager might offer me one or two others. The other lads' bikes are not so clean, still caked in the grime of the Bordeaux criterium. But a wipe with a cloth makes them presentable. It feels strange, being responsible once again for the cleanliness and good working order of your own bike.
Lunch is simple and light and digestion is helped by the constant good humour to be found whenever cyclists eat together. Outside the fog is lifting and the roads are starting to dry. The Château Chinon criterium, Le Critérium de France, is one of the most prestigious in the country. It is one of the few modern-day criteriums where spectators have to pay an entry fee on to the circuit to watch, thirty-five francs. They are still coming into the town in droves and as I look down on them from the hotel bedroom I feel pressure. Today I am not just a professional cyclist: I'm a performer. These people are paying to see me perform. In a normal race you don't give a damn about what the guy at the side of the road thinks. Some are very abusive. It's not uncommon to be insulted as a lazy bastard or an over-paid lout by a spectator peeved by the fact that we are taking it easy. People are not happy unless they see us riding by at sixty kilometres an hour with our eyes in the backs of our heads. Or grovelling up some mountain on our hands and knees. If they insult us, then we feel justified in insulting them in return. I mean, nobody forced them to stand at the side of the road. Today is different: today they are paying to see a spectacle, and therefore we are obliged to perform. What if I can't? What if I'm unable to follow the others? The lads say that Chateau Chinon is one of the hardest criteriums with a climb each time on the short two-kilometre lap. The Tour left me feeling terribly bitter. Didn't ride my bike for nine days after it. Couldn't face it. But I will surely pay the price today. I'll probab
ly be dropped. Will the manager still pay me my contract? Will I have the neck to approach him for it? I shouldn't have come here – but hell, I need the money. Ann is living with me now. There's more expense, more responsibility. I have never had that responsibility before. We won nothing in the Tour this year, a pittance. I need the money. It's the only reason I'm here.