I warmed up in a waterproof jacket and kept it on until the last possible moment on the start ramp. As Serge Beucherie reached to take it off me, he offered some last-minute advice about the course and the conditions, desperate to convey the belief that it was still doable. I didn’t need it. By this point, the yellow mist had descended and all sense had gone.
I charged down the ramp and onto the rain-soaked streets. I settled into position and drove into the first gentle curves, the spray off the front wheel hitting my legs. A kilometre later I swung hard left onto the Rue de l’Europe, wet tyres skipping sideways over the shiny cobbles that decorated many of the town’s road junctions. The next obstacle was a 280 degree loop onto the Pont de Toupin. I took it in the same reckless style. Even mid-race, a small part of my mind was looking backwards, wondering how I’d got around those corners. Alarm bells were ringing but I wasn’t listening.
Two and a half minutes in, a third of the way through. Another right and I was onto the Boulevard de la Mer, the start of the descent, the cobbled patches and tight bends behind me. There was just this fast run down to the river and a single serious corner between me and yellow. Behind, I could hear Roger’s tinny excitement through the speaker mounted to the front of his car: ‘Just two seconds from Durand! Is finished now, you can go flat out!’ Those where his exact words and they were the last I heard before it happened.
Sprinting onto the descent and up to full speed, I took the first easy right, drifting almost into the left-side ditch before I was through. The rain was still falling, the streetlights starbursts on the water streaking my visor. I was pedalling in surges now, going so fast that I’d run out of gears. I got over to the right just in time for the next left-hand curve and again I had to use all the road.
This time, though, the succeeding bend was in the same direction: another, slightly tighter left for which I was now totally out of position. Suddenly I was aware of just how fast I was travelling – about 80 kph. My subconscious mind projected possible courses of action, examined the trajectory changes and braking patterns that might help me rectify my error and came up blank. All I could do was lean in, as gently as possible, and hope. But I already knew it wasn’t going to work.
Despite being in one of the most northerly parts of France, Saint-Brieuc still gets very hot weather, hot enough sometimes to melt the tar on the roads. When this happens, particularly on corners, the lateral pressure applied by countless car tyres massages the malleable surface into tiny furrows, pushing the embedded gravel away from the surface and deep into the tar. Once they cool and set, these barely noticeable troughs are perfect for holding water, producing a road surface as smooth as glass. This is what had happened on the Boulevard de la Mer. Below the sheen of water, the meagre few millimetres of my tyre rubber that had until then been valiantly clinging to the tarmac encountered one of these sun-smoothed patches and finally gave up the battle for traction.
The anticipation of a crash is always worse than the thing itself. It usually happens so fast that you examine it retrospectively, but not here. This one took about five seconds from start to finish, a lifetime for a brain already speeding on adrenalin. I hit the surface of the road on my left side and was skidding in a semi-seated position, feet still clipped into the pedals. On the lubricated surface, I’d barely slowed at all from my racing speed. ‘It’s OK,’ I thought, ‘I’m down and sliding. No major damage.’ Even then I still hadn’t stopped looking for options. And then I saw the barriers coming towards me.
It didn’t hurt. There was just a thud, a dullness and a pressure in my ankle. Then there was a tap on my head from behind. It was the front bumper of the team car. Unable to stop in the rain, it had hit both me and the barrier, puncturing the front tyre. I didn’t find out until later that the impact had reverberated through my skull and broken my nose.
Perhaps this is what people mean when they talk about temporary madness, because I still wouldn’t concede defeat. Somehow – and I only know this from watching the TV pictures of the incident – I got up, climbed onto the proffered spare bike and rolled down the hill, trying to click my non-functioning left foot into the pedal. But it just wouldn’t go in. At last, a voice deep inside my head started to make itself heard: ‘DO NOT TRY TO DO THAT AGAIN!’ I gave in and sat down on the soaking road.
My memories of what happened next are blurry, fragmented and probably out of sequence. Officials surrounding us, concerned for the next rider who’d be coming around the corner in a little over a minute. Roger carrying me to the car, which he had to drive with a flat. Being loaded into an ambulance, someone saying ‘The organisers will let him start tomorrow if he’s OK.’ X-rays showing ghost-like images of two sticks: the bones in my lower left leg, each clearly broken near the end. Orbiting the unnaturally sharp edges were what looked like small white balls on strings. These were pieces of bone that the tendons had torn off. Roger, standing next to my hospital gurney repeating over and over, ‘Is not possible, is not possible.’ That my wrist was also broken seemed inconsequential, but it would make using crutches for the next few months really awkward.
All I felt was calm. It was over, there was nothing I could do or think to change things. Even then, lying there, still in damp race kit, I knew this was not a healthy reaction.
Heavily pregnant, Sally had chosen to stay at home for the start of the Tour. She’d invited friends round to watch the prologue on television, laying on wine from the region and making a spread of French-themed food. The poor weather and limited number of live TV motorbikes meant it was Channel 4’s Phil Liggett who first broke the news that I might have had a problem out on the course. Over the next 20 minutes, information was drip-fed from the race officials to the commentary box and from there to our front room in Meols. It was five minutes from the end of the live programme before they finally got some images of the crash. Eventually, Sally got a call from Roger to say that I was in hospital, banged up but fundamentally OK.
It was a long night in that small hospital room, staring at the clock and counting the pulse of my throbbing ankle. I eventually got some morphine and drifted off, dreaming about cameras in my face and giving an interview, trying to explain what had happened. At least I thought it was a dream until years later when Gary Imlach confessed that it was him and cameraman John Tinetti who had sneaked in the rear entrance of the hospital.
Although we’ve never spoken about it, I think Roger felt he was to blame for the crash, that his encouragement had pushed me that little bit too far on a rain-soaked descent. But it wasn’t his fault. I was the man with his hands on the brakes – or not. They were my choices and I never held anyone else responsible. The team dearly wanted a result, but I chose to go along and try to win the unwinnable prologue.
Getting home from a small town in Brittany on a Sunday was not an easy thing to arrange, but it needed to be done fast, before the bones started to calcify. With no scheduled flights, Roger hired the Tour’s private jet to take me directly to Manchester where an ambulance would be waiting to take me to my home hospital, Arrowe Park. Being carried onto a private jet in your underpants might, in other circumstances, be the start of an excellent day. Not this one, sadly. Anne O’Hare and Pete Woodworth travelled back with me and their in-flight entertainment was the sight of me repeatedly throwing up as we crossed the Channel.
I was operated on at six o’clock that evening. Two six centimetre screws were inserted into my ankle to hold all the pieces together and a cast was also put on my arm while I was under the anaesthetic. I was then dosed up with more morphine and largely left to sleep away the next week. By the time I was allowed home I was 64 kg, I’d lost nearly a stone from my already low racing weight.
I tried to read in a garden hammock, which made me feel sick, slept in the Wendy House with the kids and got to see Oscar Miles Boardman born (ironic, as I haven’t seen many of his birthdays since, due to them falling in the middle of the race I’d just crashed out of). I loved it. I’d stepped – fallen – off the per
formance train which carried on without me, taking all the madness, media and responsibilities with it.
CHAPTER 11
1996
In the movie version of this story, I would have come roaring back to the Tour de France in 1996 to win the prologue in a howling thunderstorm, conquering demons and rediscovering my passion for cycling along the way.
As it turned out, I came second in a light drizzle.
Despite the damp conditions in the Dutch city of ’s-Hertogenbosch, it came as a shock to lose to ONCE’s Alex Zülle, but in retrospect it shouldn’t have. The year to that point had been full of unwelcome surprises. Burning to rectify the mistakes of 1995, I’d trained right through the winter and come into the new season at a lower weight and in better condition than ever before. Based on my form-to-results ratio from previous years, I’d expected to reap big rewards. But despite being both lighter and stronger – every cyclist’s dream combination – I seemed to be using all of my increased power output just to cling on to other people’s wheels. In time trials, my winning margins were being eroded – or erased.
I’d arrived at that year’s Tour ready to prove that I was not only the best time trialist on the planet but a real contender for the general classification. Second place in the prologue was a blow, but I was still determined to finish high in the overall rankings in Paris. Fortunately, Fred Moncassin relieved the pressure on the team for a big result by winning the bunch finish on stage one. As a Frenchman on a French team, his victory probably meant more to GAN than mine would have.
The second plank of my Tour strategy snapped on the first real mountain day, stage seven from Chambéry to Les Arcs. I finished 47th, almost half an hour behind the leaders. The first long time trial of the race was the following day, and this was hilly too, a 30 km test from Bourg-St-Maurice up to the ski resort of Val d’Isère. After my struggles on stage seven, I didn’t expect to do well but still chose to ride it flat out. I surprised myself by finishing eighth, ahead of some notable climbers. The performance might have been worth a mention in dispatches but it was still far from a win and did little to improve my mood.
On the morning of stage nine, scheduled to be the toughest day in the Alps, we woke to high winds, talk of snow and rumours of the leg to Sestriere being shortened, cutting out the climbs of the Iseran and the legendary Galibier. We sat around in the team cars waiting for instructions. Although it was spitting with rain and not exactly pleasant, the weather didn’t look too bad to us, but we certainly weren’t going to complain if the organisers wanted to remove the hardest mountains from the day’s menu. An hour later, the decision was made: the stage would start just 46 km from the finish. I was ecstatic.
Since the alternative was a massive detour through valley roads clogged with traffic, we still had to tackle the Galibier by car. A long, snaking line of team and Tour support vehicles set off along the race route. On the lower slopes, we passed sodden fans who were none too pleased to see us cruising past in heated, motorised comfort. Some even spat at the convoy. At first I felt guilty, but as we approached the top the weather quickly deteriorated. By the time we crested the summit at 2,645 metres it was a full-on blizzard. The terrible conditions covered just a six-kilometre stretch of the race route, but with no feasible way to circumvent it the organisers had been left with no choice. What was supposed to be a stage of 189 km featuring the two biggest mountains in the race, had been turned into a mass-start hill climb. I finished 20th, conceding another two minutes. Still, it had been a very welcome gift.
By the time we started stage 17 to Pamplona I was over 40 minutes behind the race leader, Bjarne Riis, and almost totally drained. The 260 km route ahead of us would not only be the longest of the race, it would take us over five serious climbs. It was a daunting prospect, but for those who survived it Paris would effectively be in sight. The minute the race left Argelès-Gazost the road went up and so did the pace. After just five kilometres of riding, I was unable to stay with the peloton and found myself out the back, alone.
I couldn’t believe it. I’d invested so much in this race, this season, and I’d been disappointed at every turn. After two weeks of suffering, and with the prospect of finishing the Tour for the first time the only prize left to me, I couldn’t see how I was going to get to the end of the day inside the time limit. Certainly, feeling sorry for myself wasn’t going to do it. At the summit of the Col du Soulor I snapped out of my self-pity and on the short descent fought my way through the team cars and onto the back of the peloton. I rejoined just as the race started to climb the Col d’Aubisque and was immediately dropped again. It was a mental and physical process I repeated several times over the next 90 km until eventually, on the lower slopes of the Col de Soudet, the gruppetto formed.
The gruppetto or autobus is based on the old premise that misery loves company. It’s a temporary alliance between riders from different teams who, without each other’s help, might not be able to finish the stage inside the time limit. Together, they ride the climbs at a steady pace – one sustainable by the slowest member of the group – and once over the top, they descend at full tilt to claw back what time they can. On the flat they spread the workload until the next climb, where the cycle begins again. Because of this shared, often unpleasant experience, there is usually a strong sense of camaraderie amid the suffering. The bus has unwritten rules, which are usually enforced by an experienced member, a respected individual who takes it upon himself to coordinate matters for the greater good; controlling the pace on the climbs and cajoling people to work on the flat. The driver of our vehicle was the Italian giant, Eros Poli.
I’d lost time in races before but I’d never been in this situation: left behind by the majority of the peloton, beaten. Although I was relieved to have some company at last, my confidence was shot, and with more than 150 km left to ride I was still fretting about making the time-cut. That’s when a grinning Eros dropped back down the line and with typical Italian brio said, ‘Hey, relax! Is no problem – we ride easy on the climbs, à bloc on the descents and all is good. No problem!’ His reassurance, delivered in a warm and friendly tone with a lot of arm-waving, pulled me out of my miserable introspection. Eros put everything back into perspective: no one was going to live or die by this result, it was just a bike race. Everything about his demeanour suggested that this 260 km slog through the mountains was a cross between a day off and a day out.
At six foot four and nearly 90 kg, Eros Poli was a key member of the lead-out train for Saeco’s star sprinter, Mario Cipollini. Cipo himself wasn’t in the autobus, he’d had the good sense to abandon before the big mountains as he did every year. It was the first time I’d spoken to Eros, but I knew he was well thought of in the peloton; one of the last super-domestiques, a breed who respected the opposition, held themselves accountable to some invisible code of honour and spent their careers giving their all in the service of others, even when they had the ability to ride for themselves. The following year, Eros would join GAN to work for our sprinter, Fred Moncassin. We’d ride together until his retirement in 1999, and his positive outlook on life would be a godsend over the next few seasons.
Eight hours after we’d set off, our 32-strong group rolled over the line, more than 45 minutes behind the leaders but inside the time limit. We looked at each other and smiled. Pats on the back were exchanged and everyone headed off to find their respective hotels. It remains the hardest day on a bike I have ever had.
Fred Moncassin, who’d finished on the podium three times in the first week, got his second win in Bordeaux on stage 19. Having two victories took the pressure off team management, who were subsequently more inclined to look upon my just finishing the Tour for the first time as sufficient for this year. By the time we reached the penultimate stage, a 63.5 km time trial from Bordeaux to Saint-Émilion, I was actually feeling quite good. Very good, even. So I decided to give race-mode another go.
The flat smooth roads meant the stage was all about aerodynamics and pace judge
ment – my forte – but in the event I was able to finish only sixth, two minutes and thirty seconds off the pace. It was one of my worst ever results in a flat time trial. Incredibly, Festina’s Laurent Dufaux, who never usually got within minutes of me on a stage like this, finished fifth.
To ride into Paris for the first time, see the Eiffel tower in the distance and feel the cobbles of the Champs-Élysées under my wheels, was an emotional experience. I’m not ashamed to say there was a tear in my eye. It had been a hellishly tough month, 3,765 kilometres of mostly despair and disappointment. I’d wanted to show myself as a possible podium contender. In the end, I was almost an hour and a half behind the winner. But for the next few hours all that was set aside.
The 100 km of the route from the start in Palaiseau to the centre of the French capital had been the slowest I’d ever ridden in an actual race. In a long-held tradition, riders took the time to reflect on what they had just been through, chat to friends and colleagues in other teams and celebrate their collective achievements. There was a sense of kinship I’d never experienced before. Everyone here – many, like me, for the first time – now belonged to a special club. The password for entry was your own name on the list of finishers in the world’s greatest bike race. I might not have beaten the Tour but neither had the Tour beaten me.
On the circuit of the Champs-Élysées, the pace picked up for the final hour and Fred Moncassin came close to his third stage win, pipped at the line by Fabio Baldato of MG-Technogym. I rode the last few kilometres up at the front with the team, trying to control the race for Fred, and enjoyed being in on the action for the final stage. It was just days since the nightmare of stage 17, yet I felt fantastic, as if I could just carry on racing. It was too late now.
The post-Tour party was one of the few times in my life I’ve stayed up until dawn. In the basement club of the Concorde La Fayette hotel we danced and drank and I seem to recall being on a stage, shirtless. But that’s another story: what happens in the nightclub, stays in the nightclub. Plus, it was pre-camera phone. Getting up for my flight was not fun, but I couldn’t afford to miss it. I had just 48 hours to get home and repack before heading to Atlanta and the Olympics.
Triumphs and Turbulence Page 14