by Paul Kimmage
We change into our strip. There are five of us in the room. I apply grease to the chamois leather of my racing shorts and pull them on to my bare bum, the cold grease sending a shiver up through my body. A bit like putting on wet swimming gear. I pull on a short-sleeved woollen vest, a pair of white ankle socks, two short-fingered leather mitts, cycling shoes and finally the white RMO jersey of my sponsor. I sit on the bed watching the others get ready, waiting for the moment. I know it has to happen. I'm waiting for it to happen. Fuck it, I want it to happen. The pressure – I can't take this pressure. It happens: the smiles . . . a bag is produced. In it small white ampoules of amphetamines and a handful of short syringes. A glance is thrown in my direction. My 'chastity' is well known within the team but it is only polite to offer. I scratch my head and breathe in deeply. If I walk out through the door with only the hotel lunch in my system I will crack mentally. As a result I will probably be dropped and ridiculed after two laps. I can't face any more humiliation. The pressure. I need the money. I nod in acceptance.
My syringe is prepared. As it's my first time it is decided that 7cc will be enough. Ten to fifteen is the average dose, but the real hard men often use double or treble this. Amphetamines work strongly for about two to three hours, after which the effects diminish. The criterium will last just two hours, which means we can take them in the privacy of the hotel room before going out to the start. I roll back the sleeve of my jersey. No turning back now. The needle is slipped under the skin of my left shoulder. I'm charged. One of my ambitions had always been to leave the sport without ever having taken anything. I got a certain satisfaction in casting myself as the pure white hero fighting to hold on to my virginity in an evil black world. But that was over now. To hell with the past.
They tell me to remain perfectly still. They say I will soon feel the urge to talk and jump around the place, but that I must refrain from talking and gesturing excessively. People have eyes. If they see the normally calm and withdrawn Paul Kimmage arrive on the street shaking hands and patting everyone on the back they will put two and two together. I don't want that. My mind is clear and lucid, but after five minutes I start to feel the first effects. A little buzz. It gets stronger and stronger and is soon a big buzz. It turns my head a bit at first, but then it manifests itself in a new way: aggression. I feel a terrible urge to get on the bike and make it bend under me. I feel invincible, that nothing can defeat me. The lads start joking about the effects the charge will have on me.
'You will drive back to Vizille like Fangio and tonight you won't be able to sleep a wink. Your girlfriend will have a great time.'
I laugh with them. Someone says he will give me a sleeping tablet for later. But sleeping is the last thing on my mind. I'm ready for action.
'Come on lads, let's get to the start.'
More laughter. We pick up the machines from the hotel garage and cycle the two kilometres to the start. My head is clear. I can't let anyone notice anything different. I must remain calm. I must remain calm. I must remain calm. Then I hear it. The voice. The voice calling out my name. An Irish voice. Jesus, an Irish voice calling for me, and here I am charged up to the gills. Stay calm. Stay calm. I turn around to see who it is. He is young, and, yes, I recognise him from somewhere but can't quite place him. We start talking. Paul, don't look him in the eye. If he sees the dilated pupils he will cop it straight away. I try not to look him in the eye. The name comes to me: Gareth Donahue, a young Irish amateur cyclist racing with a local French team. I said I had to rush and would talk to him again after the race. Of all the luck. The one time in my life I charge up, I run into someone who knows me. The finish line is crowded. We must sign on at the podium and collect our numbers. There is a metal crowd-control barrier blocking the entrance to the podium. I am in full buzz and, feeling full of energy, I decide to jump it. I clear it by at least ten feet but land on my backside. I look up to see if anyone has noticed. Thierry Clavet is fighting hard to hold back his laughter. 'For God's sake, take it easy, Polo.'
I sign on at the podium, making a special effort at calmness. Most of the lads are sitting on the chairs pinning their numbers on, so I join them. My fingers are rattling a bit as I try to pin mine on, but eventually I manage to do it. We are called to the line. The peloton is made up of twenty-five pros and six of the best local amateurs. Charly Mottet and Jean-François Bernard are the two stars – the men the crowd have come to see. I presume one of them is to win, but no one has said anything to me. I ask Clavet what the story is, but even he's confused. There seems to be a bit of a problem between Mottet and Bernard – both want to win. Because he rode in the Tour, Jean-François Bernard would normally have been designated to win. But 'Jeff' lives in the region and there's an unwritten rule that the local man never wins in front of his home crowd. This is to avoid any crowd suspicion of race-rigging. The Peugeot rider Gilbert Duclos is boss. He acts as mediator between the different leaders and then informs the smaller riders how the race is to be won. He controls things during the race. If a small rider steps out of line by attacking when he isn't supposed to attack, Duclos will kick his arse. Punishment for a big offence is a word in the ear of the criterium manager. The offender will then have to wait for a while before he is offered another criterium contract. First, second and third are always designated, but anyone can race for the other placings. Sometimes the leaders don't agree and a free-for-all is announced, resulting in the victory of a smaller rider. Fathers don't always appreciate explaining to their sons how Joe Bloggs managed to beat Charly Mottet when Charly Mottet is supposed to be the best. So it is in the interests of all the riders to toe the line by having a good, 'organised' race, so everyone goes away happy. But although the race is organised this doesn't necessarily make it easier. It's not that easy to fool the crowd. Unless they see the stars whizzing by at sixty kilometres an hour they won't be happy. There is nothing false about the average lap speed, which rarely falls below fifty kilometres an hour. There is nothing false about the grimacing faces. It is just the result that is, well, 'doctored'. Duclos rides up to me on the first lap.
'It's Mottet in front of Bernard and Colotti. D'accord (OK)?'
'D'accord.'
There is no way I'm going to rock the boat. If he tells me to dive off and fake crashing, I'll do it. If he wants me to make a spectacle by riding around with my shorts around my ankles I'll do it. I just want the money. I just want to be one of the boys.
The race is one of the easiest I have ever ridden. I am never under pressure. I have such absolute confidence that I won't get dropped, and I'm able to attack off the front and contribute to the spectacle. This is all that matters to me. To be able to perform. To merit the few quid I have come for. I am prominent in several breakaways. Each time we ride hard to build up a good lead and then ease up without making it look too obvious. Duclos controls things masterfully. Physically I feel the effort. I feel the pedals, the shortness of breath on the climb, but mentally I'm so strong that it's never a problem. My mind has been stimulated. Stimulated by amphetamines. I believe I'm invincible therefore I am.
Bernard and Mottet break clear with three laps to go. Bernard is still not happy about not being allowed to win so they fight out a straight sprint and he just edges Charly out. The gap between them is so close that I'm wondering if indeed it was a straight sprint, but anyway this is unimportant. The crowd have been given a good race and go away happy. We ride back to the hotel. After showering and changing we divide the room and lunch bill between us. I offer to pay for the 'charge'. Amphetamines are hard to come by and very expensive. An average charge costs about fifty pounds, but I'm not surprised when the offer is refused. It is rare that money passes hands between the riders. It's a case of 'See me right today, and I'll see you right tomorrow.' I have joined the club, and it feels almost satisfying to have done so.
The club contract cheques are distributed in a room at the town hall. We line up to enter one by one and receive our envelope from a member of the organising comm
ittee, under the watchful eye of the criterium manager. Sometimes the bastards make you wait until after the race reception. They know full well that you might have 300 kilometres to drive home, but expect you to shake hands and talk small talk to the locals before they hand over the hard-earned few bob. This is the fault of the criterium manager. They cream off 10 to 12 per cent of all the riders' contracts, and also demand a large chunk from the race budget of the organising committee. They are parasites and I despise them. They exploit the smaller riders, paying them small amounts, knowing only too well that the poor sod has no choice but to accept. Real scum.
A large crowd of enthusiasts gathers outside the town hall, and I sign a hundred autographs on the way back to the car. Clavet and Colotti are also going home, but Vallet is engaged at a criterium somewhere else next day. Clavet gives me some advice as I get into the car. 'You will probably feel guilty later on. It happens to us all, but you must not blame yourself. It's just part of the job.'
I thank him but forget to ask for the sleeping tablet. He catches me an hour later and we race for five minutes, but I don't feel comfortable driving at speed so I let him go. The drive back seems much shorter but not short enough to avoid the pangs of conscience stinging my brain. After the upper there is inevitably the downer. It is after twelve when I arrive home, and Ann is in bed but awake. I decide to tell her of my day's activities. All of them. She is lenient.
'You did what you thought was best. As long as it does not become a habit there is no harm done.'
This is said to comfort me, to ease the guilt. But her attitude annoys me. It's too casual. I mean, I took drugs and cheated myself of my honour. How can she be so casual about something so serious? I want to be told off, to be chastised. We have a row, and she turns her back to me and falls asleep. I lie there, my two eyes glaring out of my head like headlights. I'm a million miles from sleep. The events of the day are turning in my head, the arguments for and against crossing my head like a tennis ball in a seemingly never-ending rally. The 'againsts' are hitting beautifully.
'Where was the logic in taking a charge for a race that was fixed? Where was the benefit? You realise that now you'll never be able to ride a criterium without taking something? And more than likely they'll find you dead in some hotel room in five years' time with a syringe sticking out of your arm and your eyes bulging out of your head. And the lads will crowd around your tombstone and later raise a glass to you and praise you for being one of them. One of the boys.'
But the 'fors' return with some lovely volleys.
'No, that's rubbish. You've sat on the fence for long enough. Aren't you forgetting how vulnerable you felt before the race? If you hadn't taken it you would have been slaughtered. You didn't do it to cheat. You did it to survive. To fight the battle with the same arms as everyone else.'
Over and back. Over and back. The last thing I remember is the 'fors' being two sets up and then the lights going out.
16
THE FAB FOUR
The repression of amphetamines through dope controls has had varying consequences. The use of the drug in the major tours and championships is minimal, almost non-existent. It is number one on the controllers' list and is easily detectable. The current trend is towards a different area of doping: hormones. They are natural, the body produces them and so detection of hormone abuse is difficult. The 'sin' lies not in taking illegal products, but in getting caught. Hormones, when used intelligently, offer the security of undetectability. The abuse is frightening.
An amphetamine charge lasts roughly three hours and is then flushed out of the system. Frequent use can result in addiction and maybe one or two problems with heart rhythm – but nothing too serious. Hormones are different. They don't flush out after three hours. They screw up the body's chemistry, lingering in the system for months, even years. Abuse can result in cancer and death. I was tempted many times to try hormones. I could see their beneficial effects on other members of the team, but the consequences of abuse scared me and I never touched them. I did, however, dabble with amphetamines.
I used them twice in criteriums shortly after Château Chinon. In twenty months of professionalism I had stayed clean but, incredibly, in the space of two weeks I charged on three occasions. It becomes so easy to slip into a routine. Once you experience the feeling of invincibility it is hard to race with just Vittel in your bottle, especially when you see other riders taking stuff.
I had always taken pride in my strength of character and my new habit started to worry me. I was losing control of my ability to say no, and on analysing the problem I decided never again to put myself in the position of riding a criterium without having trained. It was difficult at first but I managed to hold out. Even so, I never felt comfortable starting a criterium without at least two vitamin C tablets in my drinking bottle. I suppose it was doping, but at least it was legal. In my two final years in the peloton I stayed clean, but I am not particularly proud of this. There were many reasons why I never again touched it – a guilty conscience was the principal one, but there were other factors. I suppose you could say I was 'chicken'. The fear of being caught terrified me. The scandal it would have caused back in good old Catholic Ireland would have ruined me for life. I couldn't bear to bring that shame on my parents. But there was another factor. I was not prepared actually to stick the needle into my own arm. When my team-mates did it, I would look away. It was not a fear of pain or of needles, it was just the act of doping oneself that I found repellent. Another reason was the acquisition of the amphetamines. I had heard stories of police raids on riders' cars, and this scared me. I hadn't the balls to purchase and transport the stuff myself, and there was no way I could continue to borrow it from others. This would have given me a bad name among them and, above all, I wanted to be liked.
Back in Ireland, Stephen's Tour triumph was celebrated as a national victory. He was welcomed home to scenes of incredible adulation in an open-top bus tour of Dublin. Cycling was 'the' sport, and winning the Tour made Stephen the greatest sportsman the country had ever produced – and one of the most popular. I felt sorry for Kelly. Before Roche's Tour win Kelly had always been regarded as the country's number one cyclist. July 1987 must have been the most miserable month of his life. On the 12th he crashed out of the Tour, and to have sat at home injured and watch another Irishman wipe out everything he had ever done with one triumph must have been unbearable.
If Kelly was in agony then Roche was very much in ecstasy. For years he had played second fiddle to the 'King', but every dog has his day and this was Stephen's. He could have been forgiven for making the most of it, but he refrained from proclaiming himself as the country's greatest, which was admirable.
'People shouldn't say I have won this race and Sean had won that. They should look at our careers and say that between us we have won every race on the continent worth winning.'
When I look back on the nice things he has said and done throughout his career, it is to his eternal credit that he was nicest in his finest hour.
I met up with Kelly again in August. He was making his return to competition in the five-day Kelloggs Tour of Britain. My first words to him were those of consolation and encouragement, which I think he appreciated. I liked him and admired him more than any other rider in the peloton. It hadn't always been this way. Before I turned professional I never understood him: I'm still not quite sure that I do, but I'd go as far as saying that in those early days I actually disliked him. I found him solemn, a machine with no heart and no personality. He was the world's number one who could have helped me when I was struggling for my contract, but didn't. Ireland was split between the 'Kelly' men and the 'Roche' men. I was definitely a Roche man. It has taken me four years of professional cycling to break down the complex layers of Kelly. Talking to him was never easy. It still isn't. You have to make an effort to reach him, but once you do then the effort is worth it. He is colourful; he has a caring heart and a great personality. I am grateful now that he didn't help with my
contract when I was struggling as an amateur. It made me fight harder. I earned it under my own steam, which is the only way.
I remember riding the Criterium International in my first year. I was eliminated in the Sunday morning mountain stage and as a result was exempt from the final-stage time trial in the afternoon. I left for the airport to fly back to Lille before the time trial finished and as the plane was about to close its door Kelly ran in, still in his racing gear. He had just won the final time trial, clinching the race, but had no time to change – there was just one evening flight to Lille, and his wife Linda was picking him up and driving him to their home in Brussels. We had to change flights at Lyon and he bought me dinner. We dined and talked and being with him was such a thrill that I completely forgot about the lousy weekend I'd had.