by Freya North
Fifteen minutes later, Rachel answered her door in her towel, so insistent was the rapping and banging and hollering outside her room.
‘What you think you do?’ Massimo spat, pushing past her, his eyes searching every nook of the room.
‘I’m about to have a bath!’ Rachel remonstrated, noting that she ought to change the dressing on his knee first.
‘You bad bitch,’ Massimo growled, ‘what you do? You poison me?’
‘Mass!’ Rachel exclaimed, flummoxed and truly taken aback.
‘Or you are stupid and maybe he put something in my drink, no?’ he shouted. ‘He make me bonk.’
‘Who?’ Rachel pleaded, thinking she ought to work also on Massimo’s shoulder to prevent it stiffening.
‘Maybe he turn you away from me,’ Massimo declared, ‘make you not look after me so well?’
‘Who?’ Rachel implored, prophesying that Massimo would either hit her or burst into tears.
Massimo did the latter. Rachel secured her towel and sat on her bed beside him, laying an arm across the rider’s quivering shoulders.
‘Poor Mass,’ she said, ‘what a terrible day for you.’
‘Bad bitch,’ he sobbed.
‘What have I done?’ Rachel asked, trying not to be offended.
‘I see you in the truck – with the Viper mechanic. You are stupid! He is dangerous!’
Rachel, who was utterly at ease with her level of intelligence and with the authenticity of André’s virtues, was nonetheless agitated by Massimo bombarding into her personal life.
‘I go tell our directeur!’ Massimo cautioned. ‘Then I go tell L’Equipe.’
Though Rachel would have quite liked a profile in France’s famous sports paper, she knew that it would not be her sex life which warranted any such exposure. She accepted that Massimo’s concerns were legitimate, for the good of the team, but still Rachel was exasperated.
‘I’m entitled to some privacy, Massimo,’ she said.
‘Why you do it?’ Massimo demanded. ‘You spy? Who you poison next? Vasily? He ride like shit today.’
‘For Christ’s sake,’ Rachel said emphatically, ‘I was just having a shag.’
Massimo regarded her blankly. ‘You?’ he gasped, utterly staggered, as if considering for the first time that Rachel McEwen had a libido, let alone an active sex life. ‘You? Rachel?’
‘Me, Rachel,’ she said with steel in her voice.
‘You had a fuck in the truck?’ Massimo exclaimed, wide-eyed and gobsmacked.
‘Not that it’s any of your business,’ Rachel replied. It irritated her to see that Massimo’s primary concern and immediate relief was more that she was not a spy or drink spiker, than he was pleased for her to have found someone she liked.
‘Good,’ he said, ‘I apologize. You great soigneur and lovely lady. Why you not choose a guy from some other team?’
‘For fuck’s sake,’ said Rachel, now thinking it all so tedious, ‘as if I chose the team before the man. Give me a break.’
‘You are very hard biscuit,’ Massimo said earnestly.
‘A tough cookie,’ Rachel deduced.
Massimo rubbed his newly shaved chin. ‘I fail, Rachel, I am no good,’ he rued, his voice cracking.
Rachel was relieved to have the focus taken away from herself. ‘You didn’t fail,’ she told the rider.
‘I lose my jersey. I lose my dream,’ he sobbed. ‘I lose my beard. Now I live a nightmare.’ Rachel put a supportive arm around his shoulder because there was no way she could massage his ego just then.
‘Oh,’ he wept, ‘I cannot return home. I must exile myself. How could I do this! To the team? To the sport? To my family? To the people of Italy!’
Rachel let the rider sob and rant, accepting it to be a fundamental requirement of her job. She listened attentively and said soothing things that he was incapable of hearing and which would have had little effect anyway. She would have liked to let her mind wander back to André, to how he made her body feel, to relish the excitement and anticipation she felt. But all that panoply would have to wait. She had a job to do. She changed Massimo’s dressings, did a little work on his shoulder, and made him hot milky malty cocoa to take to bed.
STAGE 17
Aix-les-Bains-Neuchâtel. 218.5 kilometres
What on earth are you doing, Ben? It’s just gone two in the morning and you’re creeping along the hotel corridor, listening hard at the doors of your riders. You’re opening the door to Luca and Didier’s room – why are you doing that? See, they’re both sleeping soundly. You can hear them breathing. So go. But you’re hovering and listening attentively – why?
I had to check something.
What?
That if Didier wasn’t dangling himself from a door frame, he was sleeping soundly.
You’re talking about EPO, aren’t you?
Yup, erythropoietin.
The recent drug of choice for cyclists?
Er, the tennis and athletics associations might do well to ferret around their sports too.
Doesn’t EPO simulate the advantages of altitude training on the body?
It’s a hormone produced naturally by the kidneys. Administered, it boosts the red blood cell count and increases the amount of oxygen that can be carried in the blood; as the bloodstream can transport more oxygen around the system, endurance is enhanced and aerobic capacity is increased.
It sounds wonderful.
Undoubtedly – when used by the medical profession to treat people with kidney failure, anaemia and alleviate the side-effects of some AIDS treatments.
How fantastic.
It can also turn the blood to jam. A few years ago, there was a spate of riders dying mysteriously in their sleep. Cyclists’ superfit hearts can pump at around 190 bpm and then rest as low as 30 bpm. That’s when EPO can become lethal. The slower the heartbeat, the thicker the blood, the quicker it begins to clot and the heart begins to stall. That’s why I wanted to check if Didier was hanging off a door, stretching out to thin his blood. That’s why I needed to listen to his breathing pattern in his sleep.
And he was OK, so why not go back to bed?
True, Didier is sleeping soundly but maybe he’s taken a good dose of aspirin. The danger of taking anticoagulants to thin the blood is the risk of haemorrhaging should Didier crash.
Do you think Didier is on something?
I don’t know. I really don’t. The thing with EPO is that it must be taken up to a week in advance and then every couple of days. He wasn’t well, if you remember, towards the end of the first week of the Tour.
But where would he get it?
Shady characters and clandestine deals aren’t restricted to grim alleyways and crack cocaine.
We’re talking about a banned substance, not a class A illegal drug. Doesn’t pro cycling have one of the longest lists of banned substances in professional sport?
Yes. However, riders can spout the disclaimer ‘I’ve never tested positive’ – that’s different from saying they’ve never used dope.
But isn’t this the sport with the most dope controls and the lowest number of positive tests?
Some riders will always seek ways to stay a step ahead of detection. Ever heard of Michel Pollentier? In the 1978 Tour, after he had taken the yellow jersey on L’Alpe D’Huez, he failed the dope test by attempting to pass off someone else’s urine concealed in a rubber tube hidden in his shorts.
That’s actually quite funny.
Yeah, right – did you hear the one about the cyclist who went to dope control and was told, ‘You’ve tested negative and congratulations, you’re also pregnant’?
Oh, very droll.
EPO, however, is for the most part undetectable – it is virtually impossible to tell the difference between a rider who has a naturally high haematocrit level because he trains at altitude and a rider whose levels are high because he’s pumped with EPO.
Can’t a limit be set?
The UCI, cycling’s governing body,
have set one. But somewhat arbitrarily. If a rider’s red blood cell count is over 50 per cent, he is forced to take two weeks rest until his level is lower.
That’s a start.
Hardly. Say Didier’s natural haematocrit level is 42, and say Luca’s is naturally 48 – Didier can legally dope himself to Luca’s level, to within a hair’s breadth of the limit, suffer no penalties and reap the benefits of an artificially stimulated performance from a prohibited substance.
That’s cheating.
Correct.
So when does doping begin exactly?
Precisely.
And where does medical care end?
Exactly. Just before the infamous 1998 Tour – where brilliant riding was utterly overshadowed by the drugs scandal cum witch-hunt despite not one rider testing positive – well, another team approached me. The directeur made it very clear that I was to maximize the riders’ performances under stringent medical control.
What did that mean between the lines?
It meant that doping was part of team policy expressly to prevent the riders obtaining drugs for themselves and threatening their health in doing so.
You didn’t take the job, then.
God, no. I’m a conventional gentleman doctor and I’m also a romantic when it comes to sport – I like to admire supreme muscle tone without suspicion as to its provenance, to marvel at consummate athletic triumph without wondering if it’s synthetically enhanced.
Haven’t drugs always been synonymous with cycling?
In the 1930s, it was tiny doses of strychnine, soon enough and for a long time, amphetamines. Now EPO, human growth hormone. There’s PFC – a chemical relative of fucking Teflon. Oh, and the charming Belgian Pot.
Belgian Pot – surely a laid-back stoned cyclist is a contradiction in terms?
I’m not talking marijuana but a delightful combination of up to ten drugs – amphetamines, cocaine, heroin, analgesics, nasal or bronchial dilators, corticoids, morphine. Very pleasant.
Tell me that Belgian Pot isn’t rife?
It isn’t. But it’s there. Think of the pressures on a rider – not just the physical duress of three weeks, two mountain ranges and 4,000 k sandwiched between the equally taxing Giro D’Italia and the Vuelta Español. Consider the pressures of riding for a team sponsor on a short contract. Ride better, ride faster, reap glory. The pursuit of success can be just as addictive as substances.
But their health – are the riders stupid?
Not stupid. But consider, on the one hand, how many come from small, rural, simple backgrounds. They join a team. They ride for all they’re worth, their bodies are ravaged, their spirits are exhausted. The directeur, the doctor, the soigneur say, ‘Take this, it’s recuperative, it will help, it will do you good.’ Why wouldn’t they? These are the rider’s mentors, their father figures. They trust them and they depend on them.
And on the other hand?
Some riders proclaim themselves victims duped into dope but these are the same shrewd guys who ruthlessly negotiate huge contracts.
And you, Ben?
‘Trust me, I’m a doctor’ can be the most dangerous words in pro cycling and that frustrates and depresses me. Personally, I believe my duty as a doctor is ethical as much as medical. My obligation to my vocation, my employer and my riders is to ensure that my charges suffer as little and recover as quickly as possible. I study each man intensively and I administer a range of substances – nutritional, hormonal, anabolic – to maintain optimal balance. My scientific background enables me to do this – what the fuck and why the fuck would a rider know anything about how much beta-hydroxy beta-methyl butyrate and how often?
And Didier?
I can’t sleep, that’s why I’m in the corridor. Feeling impotent. Feeling pretty enraged. I can’t have drugs on my team. I will not tolerate such a flagrant abuse of the team ethos, of all the work I do to maintain my riders’ health. I fear Didier’s stupidity and selfishness – if he dares, if he even dares, he could put all our jobs, our credibility, the very future of the team, on the line – to say nothing of his health.
And Vasily?
Vasily has a checkered past. He is now a crusader. I’m hoping his experience and the respect he now has universally, will enlighten Didier.
Why comes temptation but for man to meet
And master and make crouch beneath his foot
And so be pedestalled in triumph?
But I don’t know how Robert Browning translates into Russian or French.
Through breathtaking scenery, incredible overhangs of rock, tunnels burrowing through the mountains, stunning bridges old and new, the peloton of the Tour de France headed for its brief sojourn in Switzerland. Luca and Didier had woken in contemplative self-engrossed moods, having gone to sleep much the same the night before. Neither were aware that their doctor had eavesdropped on their slumber. Now they were cycling quietly side by side in a throng of yakking Spanish riders; through the beautiful town of Seyssel, elegantly atop a picturesque river, through the lovely flower-festooned old village of Billiat where Sassetta took the hot-spot sprint while aged men waved slowly and widely. The Tour de France – every year, since these septuagenarians were boys; defining their calendar, compounding their patriotism, affirming their past and confirming the futures of their grandsons. There would always be the Tour de France. A birthright. A heritage. An heirloom. Wave and smile and then a leisurely reminisce over Pernod about Louison Bobet, Jacques Anquetil, Thèvenet, Hinault, Fignon. Look forward to next year. Vive le Tour.
After 126 kilometres, a sprint, a fourth-, a third- and a second-category climb, Didier and Luca snatched their musettes as they flew past the feed station.
‘I’m so tired,’ Luca said, ‘I’m not even hungry.’
‘Me too,’ Didier agreed. ‘Mind you, I’ve been fantasizing about a day-long MacDonalds binge when the Tour is over.’
‘I’m going to have oysters and champagne,’ said Luca, brightening up. It was the first thing either had said all day.
‘On Jules Le Grand’s expense account, no doubt,’ Didier tested.
Luca regarded him and shrugged. ‘What would you do?’
‘What you mean is, what do I think you should do,’ Didier responded astutely.
‘What should I do?’ Luca asked quietly.
‘Are you tempted?’
‘Fuck, man! Système Vipère!’ Luca exclaimed, as if resting his case.
‘Loads of money, cool hi-fi, great bikes, cool team strip, the greatest team in the world,’ Didier defined nonchalantly while Luca cycled a few metres ahead. ‘So why,’ Didier asked, catching up, ‘are you asking me what to do? Why aren’t you telling me that you’re already signed up, that the cap fits, that you’re a Viper Boy in the making? Why do you even need to ask?’
Luca sighed but decided instead to wonder why the spectators were waving ski poles. Didier let him sigh again before fixing him with a searching stare.
‘It’s blown my mind,’ Luca said honestly. ‘There has to be a catch.’
‘Did you see Le Grand this morning at the village?’ asked Didier, having waited for Jesper Lomers to overtake and be out of earshot.
‘Yeah,’ Luca replied, ‘talking to Magnus Backstedt.’
‘I saw him in a corner with Bo Hamburger,’ Didier remarked.
Luca pedalled on ahead to reflect and, instinctively, Didier held back. Luca wondered whether those riders had also been told that it would be a travesty not to nurture talent, that they too had the makings of true champions and that Système Vipère would be honoured to have them? Two women bouncing ebulliently in bikini tops provided timely distraction and Luca cycled on, living for the moment, riding the day’s Stage, his body knackered, his soul exhausted. Eventually, he sat up and looked back to see Didier, his team-mate, room-mate and friend, riding alongside the yellow jersey. Neither Vasily nor Didier spoke but Luca could sense some deep communication between the two. Like yesterday. Intrigued, he dropped his pace and returne
d to the bunch at the same time as Vasily, Fabian and a clutch of final-week glory-seekers sped off the front.
‘Fuck! You’re going to Zucca MV, aren’t you?’ Luca asked Didier accusatorially. Didier looked confused. ‘You and your new best friend Vasily,’ Luca probed. ‘He’s been sent to lure you, hasn’t he?’ Didier looked resolutely ahead, picking up the pace to pursue the breakaway. Luca matched his speed. ‘We can’t be on rival teams,’ he bemoaned, ‘and anyway, I can’t believe he’s picked you and not me after I rode with him that day I won the Stage.’
Didier glanced at Luca. ‘I’m not going to Zucca, I’m staying with Megapac.’
‘But Vasily asked – right? He’s been wooing you,’ Luca probed, ‘all that shoulder-rubbing yesterday. When I came by, he flicked me – stopped talking and his stare said it all, said for me to fuck off.’
‘It was a sensitive subject,’ Didier said.
‘He was trying to poach you,’ Luca said sulkily, ‘and I really thought he rated me.’
‘Listen to you!’ Didier snapped. ‘You’ve got transfer fever bad – it’s affecting your ride. It’s affecting me. I’m completely knackered but I’m away. Adieu.’
Cat contemplated Didier’s ride. For a quiet rider, a bulwark for Megapac, a stalwart of the peloton, LeDucq was suddenly making a huge splash, pelting after the breakaway, dropping anyone attempting to take his wheel.
‘Blimey,’ Josh marvelled out loud, ‘what’s he on?’
‘Nothing, I hope,’ said Cat.
Vasily is pleased to see Didier coming up to his group but instead of slowing the pace to welcome him, he accelerates forward causing Fabian to motor after him and the hangers-on to grip hard to hang on. It doesn’t offend Didier. He understands the Russian’s motive and Didier is motivated to reach them and ride on. There are 50 kilometres to go, Didier’s head is down and he is cycling strongly, attaining great rhythm and maintaining utter focus. Conversation is sparse amongst the group but it is clangorous in Didier’s head. Over and again, he hears Vasily’s confrontation of yesterday.