by Paul Kimmage
I enjoyed the solitude of racing on my own. The last few days have been terrible for crashes, and it was great to give the nerves a day off. That damned song continues to irritate me. They played it before the start, and my brain got hooked on it – playing it and replaying it during every kilometre of the time trial. Painful.
Friday, 7 July
Stage 6: Rennes to Futuroscope (255 kilometres)
Stage winner: Joel Pelier (France)
Race leader: Greg LeMond
Shit – the word that best describes the stage. I was on and off the back like a yo-yo all day. Crashes, punctures – today I had it all. I spent the last fifty kilometres of the stage grovelling like an animal in the gutter. It's dangerous in the gutter, riding so close to the edge. I hit a ridge with twenty kilometres to go and my front wheel turned sideways on it and started slicing. I got such a fright that I let out a roar of frustration – the others thought I was mad. Clavet came down in one of the many crashes and broke a bone in his hand. His days in the race are numbered. L'Equipe still haven't published the interview! What are they waiting for? The way things are going I might not be around much longer.
Saturday, 8 July
Stage 7: Poitiers to Bordeaux (258.8 kilometres)
Stage winner: Etienne de Wilde (Belgium)
Race leader: Greg LeMond
Today the story appeared – it looked quite well. There was a small photo of me sitting at my typewriter with my Fagor jersey and half a page of script. A lot of what I had said had been cut, but the good bits were still in. One of the most respected riders in the peloton, the System U rider Dominique Garde, told me he thought it was good. This pleased me. I feel a bit like the Lech Walesa of the peloton. A rebel with a cause.
It was the only bright note of the day. It rained heavily for most of the 260 kilometres and I was in a foul humour at the finish. A minute after I had crossed the line, Jim McArdle of the Irish Times approached me. The Sunday Tribune had asked him to contact me; they were waiting urgently for my copy to arrive. I couldn't understand why they hadn't got it. Before the stage I had paid a hotel receptionist £25 to fax off the six pages of typescript. Had the bastard pulled a fast one? Obviously. I was furious. The sprint that I made to the hotel would probably have won me the stage. I jumped off the bike and ran into reception. Had they a fax machine? Yes, my luck was in. I galloped up to my room and retrieved the original pages, which I had luckily stored in my suitcase. Another dash back to reception and into the fax machine. Pheeeew . . . !
My urgency to send away my piece made one thing suddenly clear to me. Unknown to myself, I had changed from a 'cyclist journalist' to a 'journalist cyclist'.
Sunday, 9 July
Stage 8: La Bastide d'Armagnac to Pau (157 kilometres)
Stage winner: Martin Earley (Ireland)
Race leader: Greg LeMond
Found my legs for the first time this week. I was going well when things got hot at the end and even managed an attack. To my great delight, Martin won the stage. He jumped clear of three others a kilometre from the finish and won on his own. I knew he was going to win. I said it to Kelly about an hour from the finish, I just got this gut feeling he was going to do it. As we arrived in Pau, I strained my ears to the commentary of race speaker Daniel Mangeas. When I heard him shout M-A-R-T-I-N E-A-R-L-E-Y, I waved a triumphant fist in the air. I am thrilled for him, but, 'Why must there always be a "but" whenever I talk of Martin?'
I suppose it's because we were such keen rivals as amateurs. I suppose, deep down, I always felt I was better than him. Not any more. He has done something I know I can never do. I am not jealous of him. I really am pleased he won today, but I'm so envious. Years ago, when we were two schoolboys cycling around Howth Head, we'd dream of one day winning stages of the Tour. Today, he made the dream a reality. He guaranteed his place in the history books of this great race.
Monday, 10 July
Stage 9: Pau to Cauterets (147 kilometres)
Stage winner: Miguel Indurain (Spain)
Race leader: Greg LeMond
Everything was fine. I was going OK and really looking forward to the first day in the mountains. We had ridden about twenty kilometres and were approaching the first Col, Marie Blanque, when Stephen's hand went up. I dashed to his side immediately. It's a great thrill having him in your slipstream, weaving in and out of the team cars after he has punctured. But this time it wasn't a puncture. It was his knee, the weak knee that he damaged in a six-day race in Paris in the winter of 1984. Suddenly it was giving him fierce pain, and we called the race doctor. The spray can was produced but we all knew that the solution was not to be found in an aerosol. He was cooked, it was over, the bête noire had struck again.
I stayed with him on Marie Blanque along with Eddy, his faithful lieutenant. Stephen was in terrible pain and riding on one leg. We were quickly distanced by the leaders, but left a lot of struggling bodies behind us – men with two good knees. I stayed at his right shoulder, Eddy on his left. I never once put my bike in front of his, riding all of the time a half-length behind – I didn't want to insult his dignity any further. Photographers and television crews surrounded us, like vultures waiting to be called to dinner. They all wanted to capture the moment when the great champion puts his foot to the ground and abandons the race. But he wasn't going to give them that pleasure. Roche's golden rule was that he never abandoned. He was riding to Cauterets.
I had always wanted to be at Stephen's side in the mountains, but not in these circumstances. I advised him not to torture himself for I could see he was in great pain. Tears welled up in his eyes as we crossed the top and I felt terribly sorry for him. If he had abandoned at the top I am sure I would have abandoned too, but he kept going. He rode better on the second Col, Aubisque, and I dropped back three-quarters of the way up the climb. Eddy remained at his side.
Tonight they were all banging on his door, looking for a story, but the door remained closed. There were just Patrick and Stephen and me to talk out his future. I have never seen him so low. He won't be starting tomorrow. Patrick has advised him to fly to Munich for treatment. I don't know how I'll get through the race without him. I don't have a great rapport with the other fellows on the team. I have noticed the way some of them are 'sneaking back to bed' with Bazzo, now that Stephen is having problems. I suppose they are worried for their futures; but even so, it never ceases to amaze me how low some will stoop to stay in a job. Stephen still hasn't signed his new contract with Fagor, and tonight Patrick saw two of the management in discussion with race leader Greg LeMond. The scum. Roche is not even out of the hotel and they are talking to other leaders.
Tuesday, 11 July
Stage 10: Cauterets to Luchon (136 kilometres)
Stage winner: Robert Millar (Scotland)
Race leader: Laurent Fignon (France)
Patrick knew what was going through my head. He saw me being passed by group after group on the first climb of the day, the giant Tourmalet, and knew I was just giving up. He drove alongside me and tried to persuade me to keep going. I looked at him and thought about it. Roche's last words to me were instructions to ride all the way to Paris. Patrick said I would be letting him down if I climbed off. This hit the right note and I sprinted after the group ahead. I was playing with fire. Physically I was going quite well, but my indecision about whether or not I was continuing in the race had cost me a lot of time. As we approached Superbagnères and its summit finish, we all knew it would be touch and go for the time limit. There were about thirty of us at the bottom but only twelve made it inside the limit. I made it by three minutes. Tonight I thanked Patrick for helping me on the Tourmalet. I am happy to be still in the race.
Wednesday, 12 July
Stage 11: Luchon to Blagnac (154.5 kilometres)
Stage winner: Mathieu Hermans (Netherlands)
Race leader: Laurent Fignon
Bazzo called a team meeting this morning at the hotel, 'to generate some team spirit'. Patrick was not invited. He
told us that Fagor would definitely be sponsoring a team in 1990 and that the contracts would be signed as soon as a leader for the team was found.
I am normally passive at team meetings and it takes a lot to get me riled, but this was too much. I cracked.
'Why was this meeting not held before the start of the race, two weeks ago, because it's a bit fucking late to be talking about team spirit now? And what's wrong with Roche as a leader? For two months now Fagor have been messing us about. The contracts were supposed to have been signed at the start of the Giro.'
Bazzo didn't appreciate my comments, and immediately started criticising Stephen. Only two other riders spoke up in Stephen's defence: Eddy and Laurent Biondi. This disgusted me.
Downstairs another war was taking place. Patrick was having a go at Julien Navarro, our team doctor. The previous evening Navarro had been interviewed on French television and spoke with great authority on the state of Stephen's knee. He claimed that modern medicine had reached its proper limits with Roche's knee. It was an amazing declaration from a doctor who had never treated the patient. Patrick was furious. He advised Navarro to keep his mouth shut regarding something he knew nothing about. Patrick has a volatile temper and has broken fingers throwing punches in Stephen's defence. That he refrained from decking the doctor was a small miracle.
I repeat that all of this took place before the stage. Part two took place after the 150-kilometre ride to Blagnac-Toulouse. This time Patrick called the meeting. Bazzo was invited, but didn't turn up – which was probably just as well, as it would definitely have finished in violence. It was hot enough as it was.
Patrick wanted to flush the rats out of the cupboard. He wanted the riders to commit themselves either to Stephen or to Fagor for next season. It was a bit unfair to ask riders to choose when he had nothing concrete to offer, but this was the attraction for Patrick. It was a test of loyalty. Biondi committed himself and chose Stephen. But Lavenu and Chaubet resented being cross-examined, so there was a row and a shouting match. The argument did not concern me – I was giving up at the end of the year. I said nothing. I watched and listened, but couldn't really decide who was right and who was wrong. A month earlier the same bunch of lads had been totally committed as a group. In three weeks we had been reduced to this, disharmony and bitterness. Such a pity.
Patrick was told tonight by management to pack his bags and go home. It seems that Navarro put a gun to their heads and gave them the ultimatum, 'Valke or me'. Patrick will fly home to Lille tomorrow morning.
Thursday, 13 July
Stage 12: Toulouse to Montpellier (242 kilometres)
Stage winner: Valerio Tebaldi (Italy)
Race leader: Laurent Fignon
I had no idea, riding into Toulouse before the start, that this would be my last day on the race. I was a million miles from thinking it would be the last race I would ever ride. The bickering and fighting had disgusted and disheartened me, but I had put it out of my head – there were other reasons for carrying on. If I abandoned the race it would mean the end of my race diary column for the Sunday Tribune. I was getting such great pleasure from writing it that it made the suffering worthwhile. I wanted another Tour medal. The 1986 medal meant more to me than anything I had ever won.
None of this even entered my head when I ran into trouble shortly after the start. I abandoned the race after fifty-five kilometres.
I don't regret it, it was almost a pleasure to leave the race. My grief on climbing into the broom wagon was nothing compared with what I had experienced in 1987 -
where I can't hide
my brave face
my brave my brave
my brave face
My intention had been still to finish my career at the Nissan Classic in Ireland in October, but I soon realised that I would never race again. As a cyclist I was broken. I had no spirit. Thinking about racing made me ill and after a week's reflection I decided enough was enough. I was not going to race again. There would be no dramatic final day, no tearful wave of adieu to my 'adoring fans'. Tearful adieus were reserved for heroes, and I was no hero. I was a domestique, an also-ran. Also-rans did not have tearful adieus. They raced as pros in anonymity. They quit in anonymity. And I was one of them. Adieu.
23
SPITTING IN THE SOUP
The law of silence: it exists not only in the Mafia but also in the peloton. Those who break the law, who talk to the press about the dope problems in the sport are despised. They are branded as having 'craché dans la soupe', they have 'spat in the soup'. In writing this book I have broken the law of silence. I have spat in the soup and a lot of people will resent me for it. It wasn't easy, and on numerous occasions in three months of writing I wondered if I was doing the right thing. The last attack of conscience was on 28 December, just before writing this chapter. I was banging away at my machine when the phone rang. It was Ma.
'Quick, Paul, switch on your TV. Channel 4 are showing a review of the Tour, and they've just shown the bit where you abandon.'
I followed her orders and tuned in just in time to hear Phil Ligget choking with excitement as Greg LeMond snatched the Tour from Laurent Fignon's grasp. It was riveting stuff, and my enthusiasm for a race that five months earlier had caused me so much pain surprised me. I was still in love with the sport. But was this really the same sport? I could see nothing bad on the TV screen. Was I justified in writing about my experiences? Would my shocking tales not spoil too many dreams? I was troubled for the remainder of the day.
Then I started thinking about it. Before all this, I had looked at the sweaty faces of the stars on the television screen and in photographs and seen only glory. And now what do I see? I see dilated pupils and unnatural spots. I study not what they eat but what they swallow. Where once I applauded muscle, I now question its fabrication.
What has happened in between?
Inspired by the glory, enthralled by their courage, I set out on my dream to join them. It was a hard struggle, one I gave my youth to, but I made it. I became a glorious, sweaty face. Unfortunately the promised land was not what I had dreamed it would be. It strangely resembled the world I was trying to escape. It was hard, desperately hard. It was also dirty and corrupt. I wanted to leave, but realised that leaving was almost as hard as getting there. I had donated my youth to the acquisition of cycling excellence. But what use was cycling excellence in the real world? No, there was no turning back. So I played the game by their rules. To survive, I was forced, against my will, to take drugs. It happened three times. I was never caught. If I had been caught I would have been branded, as all drug takers are branded, a cheat. Isn't that ridiculous? A cheat, 'an unfair player'. I was never a cheat. I WAS A VICTIM. A victim of a corrupt system, a system that actually promotes drug taking in the sport.
In 1983, in an effort to modernise the sport, the professional world cycling body, FCIP, established two new ranking tables. The first was for the riders as individuals. It was run along the same lines as the ATP ratings for tennis. Every event was awarded a set number of points to be given to the first, second, third, and so on – the number of points varying with the size of the event. The second ranking table was for teams. Too many teams wanted to ride the big events, and the massive bunches were making racing much too dangerous. Under the new system the points of the five best riders of each team were added, giving the team's total. The top twenty teams had automatic entry for all the classics and major tours. It was a good idea which had damaging repercussions. Sponsors of the weaker teams were not prepared to pay out money to play in the 'second division'. Some pulled out and their teams folded. Others merged and suddenly a lot of professionals were without a job. The domestiques were in big trouble. There were no world-ranking points to be gained for helping someone else, and directeurs sportifs were obliged to hire riders with points in order to survive. Riders became more selfish and it didn't take them long to cash in on the new system. The more points you had the more noughts you could put on the end of your salary. Po
ints meant pounds.
The relevance of all this to the system promoting drug-taking becomes clear on reading the list of races where points are awarded. Throughout this book I have talked about certain French classics that never have controls, the notorious Grand Prix des Chaudières. Take just one of these, Mauleon-Moulin, as an example. To the uninformed it's a small race, worth a few paragraphs in L'Equipe and a nice trophy to the winner. Wrong: it's worth much more – world-ranking points. A win in Mauleon is worth the same number of points as being fifth in Paris-Roubaix, the queen of classics. And so the night before Mauleon, when the directeur sportif starts the pre-race meeting by stressing the points to be gained, and in the same breath reminds you that there are never any controls here, what do you do? Do you laugh with the rest, or do you cry? How can you win? And all of these races, the 'GP de Chaudières', carry points. What a ridiculous system.