by Paul Kimmage
In Chapter 10, I talked about my experiences in my first Tour, 1986. On the last day we all knew that there would be no random testing, just the race winner and stage winner, and so on. Whenever there is no random testing, people will always find a reason to charge up. Several of my team-mates didn't hesitate. It was a way of ensuring they would ride well on the Champs Elysées and would be mentioned on TV. Publicity automatically increases your market value. Nothing much, mind: the sports shop owner in your local village sees you breaking clear on the Champs Elysées and asks you around for some promotion. Or the criterium manager notices, and offers you a few contracts. But it all adds up. It's all cash in the bank.
In Chapter 12 I described riding on an RMO team in the Midi Libre stage race. One of our riders, Patrick Esnault, was race leader at the start of the last day, a split stage. Because it was a split stage there was no random testing after the morning stage. And because the afternoon stage was the last stage it meant there was no random testing in the afternoon either. This gave us the green light to charge up on both stages to defend our teammate's lead. And provided we didn't win the stage we would get away scot-free (not winning really is child's play, believe me). Esnault duly won and his loyal team-mates were rewarded with a big lump of prize money and a nice bonus from the sponsor.
In 1989 my season opened with two races in the south of France but I then flew off to a race in Venezuela. My good friend, Jean-Claude Colotti, spent the best part of six weeks racing on the Cote d'Azur with his team, RMO. He rode the usual season's openers: Bessèges, the Tour of the Mediterranean, the Grand Prix of Cannes, the Tour of Haut Var. All prestigious races, all carrying world-ranking points. NOT ONE CONTROL. In March he lined up for Paris-Nice and Criterium International, ten days of stage racing. There were controls on just three of those days.
In May I rode in the Trophée des Grimpeurs. It's a circuit race held at Chanteloup les Vignes, north-west of Paris near Pontoise. The Grimpeurs is a chaudières race that has always received good coverage on French television. This year the organisers had trouble finding a sponsor, but with the help of French Prime Minister, Michel Rocard, who lives in the region, the necessary finance was raised – on one condition: Stephen Roche, another 'local boy' had to ride. Stephen agreed, but imposed his own condition – he insisted on dope control after the race. The organiser agreed.
On the night before the race, Patrick Valke conducted his team meeting around the dinner table. He emphasised that there would be dope control after the race and warned us not to take any chances. On the morning of the event, Patrick attended a meeting for the directeurs sportifs. After the meeting the race organiser discreetly pulled him aside. She had a slight problem, no doctor to conduct the test. The French Federation designate certain doctors to conduct controls in the different regions. Patrick was told that the official regional doctor could not attend because it was his child's Communion day. Please don't laugh.
Patrick returned from the meeting and told us there would be no control. Perhaps he should have said nothing, but in a way it was his duty. Most of the other teams would know there was no control. Some of the riders would charge up and our lads would be at a disadvantage. It was Patrick's duty to tell us, even though it disgusted him to have to do so. This is what we are up against: we play with the rules we have been given to play with.
We are not to blame.
Perhaps that's not totally correct. One of the most frustrating parts of it all is the reluctance of the riders to change things. Too many are unwilling to breach the law of silence. The big men never talk and to be honest I don't really blame them – what have they to gain? They too were once young and innocent. Why should they jeopardise their hard-earned respect? If they took illegal substances it was only because everyone else was doing it. It's not their fault. If races were tightly controlled they would still come out on top. Why should they talk? So that some smutty columnist can label them 'cheats'? No, we must not wait for confessions from the champions before taking action. They won't be painted as devils. I respect this. But I don't respect them when they start passing the buck, pointing the finger, promoting themselves as angels, as is often the case.
On 21 November 1989 the French television channel TF1 broadcast a special programme on the problems of drugs in sport. A large panel of invited French sportsmen was present, including one professional cyclist, Marc Madiot. Madiot, a former winner of Paris-Roubaix, is one of the stars of French cycling. He knows what goes on and he has seen what I have seen. By agreeing to appear he knew exactly what he was getting himself into. He knew he would be questioned.
The panel were shown pre-recorded declarations from sportsmen and women whose lives were almost destroyed by drugs abuse. Didier Garcia was one of those interviewed. In 1985 Didier turned professional with the old System-U team and raced with them for two years. He was just nineteen years old when he was thrown into Mauleon-Moulin and other 'chaudières' races. They were unbelievably fast, and he couldn't understand this at first. It didn't take him long to realise why, and he was faced with the choice of doing the same as everyone else or being fired at the end of the year. He started taking amphetamines for the chaudières races, but also started on a course of corticoids. Each cure lasted ten days, and he would do four cures a year. In the winter he rode six-day races. It was worse on the track. He needed amphetamines every night to race, and Valium to sleep once the races were over. He once saw a rider go completely berserk at three o'clock in the morning: he smashed his room to pieces, broke the toilet bowl and was unapproachable for fifteen minutes. The drugs started to affect Didier also. His personality changed, his friends deserted him. In 1987 his employer, Kas, did not renew his contract. He was out of a job. It was hard at first and he went into depression. For three months he continued using amphetamines for kicks, but with help from his girlfriend he gradually returned to a sane lifestyle. He now earns £700 a month working in a hospital. It's three times less than he was earning on a bike, but he's happy.
When the interview ended the spotlight turned to the invited panel for their reaction. Marc Madiot was asked to comment. He looked straight at the camera.
'Well, this is a typical comment from a guy who was never any good.'
I was furious. I could identify with everything Garcia had said and agreed with him. It was the ideal occasion for Madiot to stand up and explain the problems we endure when organisers refuse to enforce dope controls, and what it can lead to. But what did we get?
'Typical comment from a guy who was never any good.'
Thank you Saint Marc, protector of the professional peloton. I won't bother phoning to ask his impressions of my book. I know exactly what he will say about it: 'Typical comment from a guy who was never any good.'
A lot of my former colleagues won't be pleased with what I have written. In particular I refer to two French team-mates I raced with at Fagor. They are two smashing guys, but they have strange views on the drugs issue. They believe in the law of silence. Whenever a big fish was caught in the drugs net they would always say: 'Encore un sale coup pour le vélo' ('Another dirty blow for cycling'). They love cycling, never see anything bad in the game. It's their life, their passion. Both use amphetamines liberally whenever the occasion demands it – part of the job. One of them told me an interesting story about the 1988 Paris Six. The story gives an insight into how he views the drugs question.
On the third night, a medical team from the French Ministry of Sport arrived at the track. They had a ministerial order to perform controls on the top ten riders. It was supposed to have been a surprise swoop, but there was a leak. All the riders knew and all those tested were clean. Now if I had been riding, I would have been delighted with a control that kept everyone clean, but my team-mate objected to it.
'Is it any wonder the crowds don't come to the six days any more? I mean, we have just come from a hard season on the road, all of us totally knackered. The people expect to see a performance, a show. How can we be expected to put on
a show with just Vittel in our bottles?'
Hard as I try, I just can't come to terms with his argument. I know what he is saying but I simply can't find any justification in it. Perhaps I don't love the game as he does.
There are others who believe that the fairest way is to abolish dope controls completely. 'Let guys take what they want to take, and if they want to kill themselves then so be it – we're all grown men.'
Time Out: 3 January, 16.14
This chapter really is heavy going, can't quite take all this analysis. I'm typing it out in David's office in the wilds of Kinnegad in County Westmeath. It's a nice office, he must have a hundred sports books. They tempt me each time I lift my head from the page. I've just picked one up called Running in the Distance, written by an athlete, Jack Buckner. Interesting fellow, a lot more famous than me: in 1986 he was European 5,000 metres champion. I'm glancing through its pages, a diary of a year in athletics, Olympic year. 'Hmmm now that's interesting. We all know what happened at Seoul, don't we? Ben got caught. Jack should have something to say about that but the Johnson affair only gets half a page.' He writes:
Johnson's positive test once again throws the spotlight back on the problem of drugs in sport. No doubt there will be endless discussion and suggestions on what action should be taken. What I find most frustrating is how every athlete is smeared by the drugs story. There will be widespread pontificating on the immorality of modern sport, yet I and thousands of other Olympic athletes would hardly know the difference between an anabolic steroid and a packet of Smarties. I find it most irritating that the drugs story, which for me is the least interesting and relevant aspect of these Games, will dominate the Olympics.
The problem is that for years too many people have considered the drugs issue the least interesting and relevant aspect of the Games and of other major events. When these people awaken to the realities of modern sport, namely that it stinks and needs help, then perhaps some progress can be made.
Who is to blame for the madness? Where is the antidote for this cancer incessantly devouring what was once straightforward competition? Well, in order to combat the cancer we must admit that it exists. The professional cycling body won't admit their sport is dying of cancer. They will admit to a sore toe but not a cancer. Their defence of the system never changes: 'No other sport controls their members with the regularity with which cyclists are controlled.'
So what? If this book is saying anything, it is saying that these controls are inadequate. Passing the buck is not a solution. Sooner or later the can of worms must be opened and the full magnitude of the abuse exposed. The governing body must be prepared to wash its dirty laundry in public if the sport is to hang on to some decency. When every professional race has comprehensive dope controls; when random controls are carried out anywhere and at any time; when penalties for offenders are stiffened to provide a reasonable deterrent: then, and only then, can we relax.
But at the moment we are a million years from change. The men in power want a solution all right, but a painless one. One that won't damage the sport in the eyes of the public and the television companies. There are few morals in business, and cycling has become a business. The television companies have stepped in, cheque book in hand, followed closely by the marketing men and their lucrative sponsorship deals. It's all about money now. Make it on the small screen and you make it big, and the sport of cycling now holds a coveted place. There are no morals left in professional sport and amateur sport ceased to exist a long time ago. Money, money, money: television sport is big business. There are a lot of race organisers lining their pockets and the last thing they want is a dope scandal. It's bad publicity, it tarnishes the glitter – and with bad publicity the sponsors start running.
The grapevine is a dreadfully frustrating source of knowledge. Facts are often distorted, but there is no smoke without fire. I've heard stories of corruption that would make you ill: of race organisers giving the green light to champions to take anything they want; of urine samples that never reach laboratories. The temptation for those on the make is to cover up rather than own up. But by not owning up we will continue to suck in the innocents and spit out the victims.
Thank God we don't see any of this on television. Thank God we don't hear about the nastiness, the dealing, the dirt. The champions deserve our applause. They merit our encouragement. They are not to blame. They need our help. Should I remain silent? No, I can't because it's what they want, the people who profit from the rule of silence. They would prefer that we sit back in awe, admiring but not questioning. Well, I'm questioning. It's such a beautiful sport . . .
Would I encourage my child in the pursuit of sporting excellence? No. I don't think I would.
24
ANDRE
Rumilly, Sunday, 29 October 1989. A crisp October afternoon. At three, the sharp sunlight has only just lifted the last whiteness of the morning's heavy frost. Soon, light will fade and the whiteness return. The apartment block is difficult to find. I had been here once before, late at night. We had taken his car to go to a cyclo-cross, but I hadn't paid much attention to where he lived. Today, I don't recognise anything. Thought it was posher than this, though. It's a bit rougher looking in the daylight. You sense hostility in the kids' stares. Perhaps they sense it in mine. These are not apartments, more like flats. Andre's was definitely an apartment. After a long search we find one that fits that description. It has four floors, seven dwellings to a floor. Twenty-seven of the doors have plaques with the occupant's name, then just one door with no plaque. We ring. It opens. André Chappuis is standing at the other side. He smiles his lovely, innocent smile and we shake hands.
He is thirty-four and going a bit light on the crown. We used to slag him about it. There was a cheese ad on television, with monks gathered at a dinner table singing in praise of the cheese, their bald patches glowing. We used to sing it for Andre, but he never liked it.
He needs new shoes. He is wearing a pair of those given to us by RMO two years ago. The jeans are almost as worn, but the leather jacket is nice – his sister gave it to him. I haven't seen him since we were both given our marching orders from Vallet, twelve months earlier. I had panicked, worried about my future, but was saved by the offer from Stephen. I rode the Tour de France, stopped, and am now a journalist. God, it seems more than a year. Andre didn't panic, he knew it was coming: 'Que sera, sera.' He was an unemployed cyclist. He still is.
He spent the winter in Africa. He was one of six unemployed pros invited to tour the African continent for a series of criteriums against amateurs. Rumilly wasn't offering much. Why not? He laughs about it now. The amateurs, mostly inexperienced blacks, were not much opposition. Ghana, Togo, Senegal, Benin, Nigeria, there was no end to the countries he visited. The travelling was tiring, but the wily old pros would reach for their medicine bags and a tiny syringe. The secrets of the old job were an instant cure. There was no money to be made, but all expenses were taken care of. When the series ended, five of the wild geese returned to France, but Andre stayed on. He got friendly with the organiser, himself an ex-pro, and was asked to help organise the next series. He returned to France in the summer to recruit new men for the next campaign, but never appeared at a pro race. There was no point: only the desperate go to Africa, those just laid off and disillusioned. He had their phone numbers.
The flat is almost empty. He has decided there is not much point in paying rent for it when he is never there and is moving out. The phone has been disconnected, the furniture sold and all that's left is a couch and a cabinet containing relics of old glory, cups and medals. He has moved his personal belongings to his parents' derelict house just up the road. He sold his bikes and racing equipment and only kept an old frame and a few bits and pieces for Africa.
He doesn't have to go back. The headquarters of Tefal, the non-stick kitchen appliance company are in Rumilly. If he wants, he can start work and earn £500 a month on the conveyor belt. But he doesn't want to. He's not ready for the factory flo
or yet. He's not ready for anything at the moment. He stopped being a professional cyclist a year ago, but he hasn't come to terms with it. It's hard for him in Rumilly. Everyone knows him. Along with the rugby team he was once the town's most famous asset. That was in the early 1980s, when he was winning stages in races like Criterium International. Now, after seven years of professionalism, of the Tour de France, of life at the top, he's an ex, a has-been. He has no house, owns no land and isn't married. He doesn't even own a car. He loves cars, loves driving and has gone through nineteen cars since he left school, all good cars, powerful: Porsche, Alfa Romeo and his favourite BMW. The last BMW he had was a 528. He bought it in Marseille and we think it was 'hot' because one day, when he went to have a job done on the engine, the garage told him it wasn't a 528 engine but a 535. Anyone else would have been disgusted, but Andre was thrilled – more power.