Rough Ride

by Paul Kimmage

  Saturday, 27 May

  Stage 7: Isernia to Rome (208 kilometres)

  Stage winner: Urs Freuler (Switzerland)

  Race leader: Silvano Contini

  It's a pathetic sport. Here we are, in probably the most beautiful city in the world, and we don't have time to look around it. The stage finished outside the Colosseum, but we were sprinting so hard that I never got the chance to look left. On the way to the hotel we drove past the Vatican, but there wasn't even time to visit the square. The hotel was another disappointment. It was more like a factory than a hotel: too many teams there, not to mention the coachloads of tourists. We waited over an hour before they served us dinner, and when they did it wasn't worth waiting for. Tomorrow's a big day, the first mountain stage of the race.

  Sunday, 28 May

  Stage 8: Rome to Gran Sasso d'ltalia (183 kilometres)

  Stage winner: John Carlsen (Denmark)

  Race leader: Erik Breukink (Netherlands)

  Today we finished at the top of Gran Sasso d'Italia, Giant Stone of Italy. It was another fast start, but I was going really well and never felt under pressure. There was some fierce attacking on a long drag after sixty-five kilometres and the bunch split into bits. For once, Stephen was badly placed, but I bridged all the gaps with him in my slipstream and got the same pleasure from it as if I had won the stage. I never left his side until the final climb to the summit, where I lost the front group three kilometres from the top. It was a great day for the team, with our Dane, John Carlsen, winning the stage. Tonight, we had champagne and extra dessert as a reward, and spirits are high. The team is pulling well together under Patrick and uniting behind Stephen, who is still very much going for the win. I have been sharing a room with him since the start and I love it. Living with a champion gives me such great motivation: talking about his worries, dreaming his dreams, reliving the race as if I were in front.

  Monday, 29 May

  Stage 9: L'Aquila to Gubbio (221 kilometres)

  Stage winner: Bjarne Riis (Denmark)

  Race leader: Acasio da Silva

  Grovelling to Gubbio. It's what I did today, grovelled. It was a bad day, a really bad day. I must have pushed too hard into my reserves yesterday for I hadn't an ounce of strength today. I cracked on the first climb after just eighty kilometres and spent the day in a big group of stragglers chasing to beat the time limit. The climb was terrible, so unbelievably hot I thought my head was going to blow open. The tar was running down the road like water in places: the tyres stuck to it, and I had the impression I was riding through a bog. The heat cracked me, and for the first time in the race I considered abandoning. That I didn't is no comfort to me tonight. The line between hanging in there and getting off can sometimes be so thin. It scares me. I want so desperately to finish this race, but heat and gradient can melt the strongest of resolves. Today I was close to the edge.

  We had a long drive to the hotel when it was over. I was in a car with Robert Forest and Laurent Biondi. They had both ridden well and were chirping away like two little sparrows. They both knew I had ridden badly, and this no doubt added to their joy. In their shoes, I would undoubtedly act in the same way, so I don't hold it against them. It's just so absurd – grown men acting like children, delighted to have scored a few points against a rival. But as I say, I would have been the same.

  Tuesday, 30 May

  Stage 10: Pesaro to Riccione (36.8 kilometres TT)

  Stage winner: Lech Piasecki (Poland)

  Race leader: Erik Breukink

  What a lovely place. Our hotel is fifty metres from the most beautiful beach I have ever seen in my life (my current situation is no doubt distorting its true valuation), but we can't use it. Still, the view from our terrace is just wonderful. Bare breasts and G-strings – the sexual frustration is unbearable. The mechanics have a great time: as soon as their work is done, it's off on the town for the night. And then, each morning at breakfast, they take such delight in reliving their lustful exploits. In the hotel opposite us, two elderly women are sunbathing naked on the terrace of their room. I was too embarrassed to look, but Patrick called the whole crew into the room and they gawped in disbelief before shouting obscenities. All of this took place after the time trial, of course.

  It was a hard test, thirty-six kilometres of rolling coastal road, but I enjoyed it. I rode it at 80 per cent and caught a Russian from the Alfa Lum team, who had been off three minutes in front of me. Never thought I'd see the day when I'd be catching Russians in time trials. I used the free time in the afternoon to do some washing and to type some of Sunday's article.

  Stephen has moved up to second overall behind Dutchman Erik Breukink. He is pleased with his performance but is getting a lot of pain from his back and tonight his doctor flew down by private plane from Germany to examine him. The doctor had just returned from Wimbledon, where he was treating another of his patients, Boris Becker. Roche doesn't do things by halves. Tonight was special. When we switched off the lights, we talked for over an hour about how he could win the race. That's something new for me – to be working out how to win a Giro – it's very exciting and motivating. He proved today he can win the race. I must be at his side at all times until the finish. I want to be his lieutenant.

  Wednesday, 31 May

  Stage 11: Riccione to Mantua (244 kilometres)

  Stage winner: Urs Freuler

  Race leader: Erik Breukink

  The good weather deserted Riccione sometime during the night and when we awoke this morning, it was to blackened skies and pouring rain. We were soaked to the skin before we even left the outskirts of the town and the 240 kilometres were ridden under a constant deluge. My mood was at one with the skies. I hate racing in the rain, it makes life so uncomfortable. Spray from the wheels injects every kind of filth into your eyes and the cold wetness penetrates every pore in your skin. At Wimbledon, as soon as it rains they pull over the covers and everyone retires for tea. But the poor cyclist has always been the peasant of the sporting world: shove a fiver in his back pocket and he will do anything you ask him to.

  I fell off today, which is unusual – I don't often crash. It happened thirty kilometres from the finish, the speed was up and the lads were jostling for a good position. One guy touched a wheel, so those behind tried to brake, but the brake pads don't work as efficiently in the wet and thirty of us ran up the guy's arse. I wasn't hurt, just a few cuts and bruises. I suppose it was just one of those days.

  Thursday, 1 June

  Stage 12: Mantua to Mira (148 kilometres)

  Stage winner: Mario Cipollini (Italy)

  Race leader: Erik Breukink

  There was another crash today, much more serious than yesterday's. It happened 100 metres from the line at over sixty kilometres an hour and at least six riders went down. I'm not a bit surprised as they are crazy bastards here. Pulling and pushing, elbowing and shoving: my experiences at Cosenza had taught me that sprinting it out against the Italians was only for the very brave or the stupid. It was pretty horrific and the Dane Rolf Sorensen came off worse. As I passed him, he lay against the barriers, blood gushing from his head. It took the quick intervention of a race official to stop him choking on his tongue, and he was immediately rushed to hospital. Seeing him lying there makes you wonder about the risks we take. I asked Stephen about it and he agrees, so it's not just me. But then you forget it, you have to. C'est la vie.

  Tomorrow we enter the Dolomites, where the race will be decided. It's another summit finish, to the three summits of Laverado – which is said to be incredibly steep.

  Friday, 2 June

  Stage 13: Padua to Tre Cime de Lavaredo (207 kilometres)

  Stage winner: Luis Herrara (Colombia)

  Race leader: Erik Breukink

  The rain started about half-way through the 207-kilometre stage, turning heavier as we neared the final mountain. The Laverado was as steep as its reputation, and we all suffered terribly. Near the top the rain turned to sleet, then snow, and we were froz
en getting off our bikes. I was ushered into the kitchen of a hotel opposite the finishing line and was given a basin of hot water and some hot tea. I had almost finished washing myself down when Greg LeMond walked in. I passed him at the bottom of the climb and he was riding really badly. He was shivering, and didn't bother to remove his shoes or socks before placing both feet in the basin of water. His words echoed the thoughts of many.

  'God, that was awful.'

  Stephen lost time to Breukink and is a bit disappointed tonight. He is talking about going out tomorrow and throwing down the gauntlet. An all-out attack that will win or lose him the race. Tomorrow is the race's big mountain rendezvous. It is only 130 kilometres, but we must climb five mountains.

  Saturday, 3 June

  Stage 14: Misurina to Corvara (131 kilometres)

  Stage winner: Flavio Giupponi (Italy)

  Race leader: Laurent Fignon (France)

  When I think of the hundreds of thousands of kilometres I have ridden since my Da, Christy, gave me my first racing bicycle, the 130 between Misurina and Corvara are those I will remember longest. I remember every single kilometre, every single metre. It was an incredible day.

  It was overcast but dry on the morning of the stage, but we all knew the rain was coming. I asked Silvano for a caffeine suppository, just as an insurance in case of emergency. As we lined up, the first drops of rain started falling. Most of the lads immediately turned around and rushed back to their team cars for extra clothing. I pulled on a pair of woollen leg-warmers but couldn't find my gloves; I had left them at the hotel. Before leaving the car, I took the tin foil from the caffeine suppository, and shoved it up. There were just five minutes to the start and I hoped it might take effect immediately. I needed a lift, boy did I need a lift.

  Sunday Tribune,

  11 June 1989

  How do I explain today? A day quite unlike any other that I have known in the sixteen years I have been racing. Looking back it all seems so unreal. The 130 kilometres stage from Misurina to Corvara was one of the shortest of the race, but with five mountains to be climbed it promised to be one of the hardest. It was.

  As we approach the Marmolada, the third and hardest of the climbs, I am part of a forty-man group already ten minutes behind the leading riders. It has rained since the start. I look towards the summit but it was hidden. Hidden in a mass of angry jet black clouds.

  A huge crack of thunder warns us of the dangers to come, but on we climb. The cold rain turning to sleet and then three kilometres from the summit to snow. Hundreds of spectators leave the warmth of their cars to encourage us.

  Two thousand metres above sea level I stop to take out the plastic jacket from my pocket. A group of tifosi (fans) surround me, one sheltering me from the falling snowflakes with his umbrella. Another offers me a sheet of newspaper which I place under my jersey. And then, I set off, their cheers warming me as I go to face my Calvary.

  You see climbing a mountain in snow is not really a problem. With your heart tapping at 175 beats a minute the body generates enough heat to fend off the worst of weather. The trouble starts when you go down the other side.

  There is no physical effort involved here, just the mental concentration of braking and turning. The heart rate drops and the body no longer produces heat and within minutes you are not sweating but shivering.

  The snow was falling at such a rate that it started to clog up the teeth of the back wheel, making the chain jump. It was difficult to see and our group had now disintegrated as we descended one by one, every man for himself.

  My body got colder and colder, the leg muscles hardening and the arms now vibrating. I had no gloves. They were the last thing I had packed in my suitcase before leaving for the race, but I had forgotten them at the hotel. My fingers started freezing to the handlebars and I was finding it more and more difficult to brake.

  I passed my young French team-mate Francis Moreau. He was doubled over at the side of the road trying to warm his hands. He looked at me as I passed and his eyes told me he had had enough.

  This frightened me. I screamed at the top of my voice in an effort to motivate myself, but it was getting harder and harder to brake and I pulled to a halt at the side of the road.

  I shook my arms and fingers, blowing my icy breath on them for warmth. The cold had gone into my bladder, giving me the urge to urinate. I was almost surprised at the steam rising from the yellow liquid flowing from my body. I placed my fingers in the hot springs and warmed them.

  I still don't understand why I didn't follow Moreau into the warmth of the team car. The conditions were inhuman. No directeur sportif in the world could criticise one of his riders abandoning on such a dreadful day.

  But Roche was up ahead. What if he took the race lead? But no, it was not that, either. I suppose in a way it became a challenge, a survival of the fittest that appealed to the cannibal instincts in me. Absurd isn't it?

  I was so happy to reach the bottom. The remaining two climbs of the day were not too hard and it was a relief to start climbing again to generate some heat. My mouth still quivered and I whined like a dog in pain until half-way up the climb, when I started to get warmer. The team car pulled alongside me. The mechanic taped two cloth feeding bags on my hands and this helped greatly on the last descents of the day.

  I crossed the finish line thirty-three minutes after stage winner Flavio Giupponi. We drove to the hotel and once again there was no hot water. Well, I mean, after a day like that how could anyone expect hot water? I did not care. I just covered my filthy legs with a tracksuit bottom and climbed into bed. I turned to Stephen and said, 'Don't bother waking me for dinner, just wake me in the morning and put me on my bike.'

  Tonight I am happy. Ten riders abandoned the stage. Twenty others were outside the time limit but were excused because of deplorable weather conditions. I survived. The cannibal.

  Sunday, 4 June

  Stage 15 (a): Corvara to Trento (131 kilometres)

  Stage 15 (b): Trento to Trento (83.2 kilometres)

  Stage 15 (a) winner: Jean-Paul Van Poppel (Netherlands)

  Stage 15 (b) winner: Lech Piasecki

  Race leader: Laurent Fignon

  A split stage. The breakfast menu was a climb of Val Gardena pass, a long descent and some flat roads to Trento. It was snowing hard on Val Gardena and the sufferings of yesterday were repeated, but it wasn't quite as bad – we were prepared this time. I started the stage with so much clothing I looked like the Michelin man – but it still wasn't enough, I was still frozen on the descent. I didn't bother with caffeine today. Yesterday, my heart felt like it was going to jump out of my chest on the first climb, but after that, the effects wore off and I started to feel sick.

  They should not have made us ride over Val Gardena. It would have been easy to divert us around the mountain, but yesterday's foul conditions have brought great publicity to the race and no changes were made. It's ironic really: Val Gardena is better known as a world cup downhill ski resort, but in weather like this the downhill would have been cancelled. We descended to Trento, the snow turning to sleet and then to rain. It wasn't a good day to be a pro cyclist.

  The weather changed, and it was warm and sunny for the afternoon's circuit race around the town. I was knackered, riding down to the start, but an Irish voice in the crowd drew my attention. It was my wife's cousin. She is working in Milan, but it was Sunday, so she got the train across to see the race. I told her of the snow and of the dreadful conditions we had endured that morning but it didn't register with her. All she could see were the bright colours of the jerseys and the glitter of the shiny wheel spokes.

  'It must be very exciting being part of it all,' she said.

  'No,' I replied, 'not a bit.'

  I don't think she believed me.

  Monday, 5 June

  Stage 16: Trento to S. Caterina Valfurva (205 kilometres)

  CANCELLED (Bad weather)

  Oh happy day. We had woken to another fierce downpour. It was supposed to be
another mountain stage, taking in the notorious Gavia climb. The mood was very sombre at breakfast time. No one in the hotel wanted to ride bikes that day. We all knew what was waiting for us. I knew there was no way I could survive another day of snow and shivering. All I knew was that I would ride as far as possible within reason. We changed into our racing kit and gathered in the soigneurs' room to have embrocation and protection creams applied to legs and body. Patrick had been called to a manager's meeting and returned just as we were leaving the room. We looked to him, hoping but not expecting, and there was total silence as he spoke.

  'Messieurs, due to a landslide on the Gavia pass, I have the pleasure of informing you that the stage has been cancelled. Today is a rest day, you can return to bed.'