We Were Young and Carefree

by Laurent Fignon

  The whole bac was like that: one fluke after another. With a pass in my pocket, summer beckoned. I could go off on my bike with a clear conscience.

  The only snag was that my parents kept putting pressure on me. They had their minds on my future. ‘Your studies, your studies,’ came the clarion call. With a D-grade in my bac, I couldn’t do what I wanted. I needed a higher qualification, a DEUG (Diplôme d’études universitaires générales). But which one? Until my teenage years nature and animals had always intrigued me. Becoming a vet or an ornithologist was what I was aiming for but with only a D-grade there was no point thinking about it now. So as electricity fascinated me I began a DEUG in ‘structural and material science’. A pompous title which sounded impressive. It wasn’t.

  When studies began again in autumn 1978 I enrolled at the university in Villetaneuse; it was a fair old trek from the far reaches of Seine-et-Marne to the back end of Seine-Saint-Denis. To be at lessons at 8 a.m., I had to leave Tournan-en-Brie at 6 a.m. It was an epic journey across the city. The only problem was that in that year a major conflict had broken out in the faculty: the ministry wanted to move the university. Often, when I arrived in the morning, lessons were cancelled. I was outraged. So I would turn on my heel and go all the way home without even waiting to find out if the professors were finally going to make it to the lecture halls. I was frustrated and a bit disenchanted.

  It was the start of a difficult spell. I didn’t feel good, because the ‘soul’ of a university department, the way it works, its mechanics, didn’t suit me at all. I’ve always needed to have structure and direction otherwise nature comes rushing in and my instincts take over. I can hear freedom calling. If I’m not forced to work, I don’t work, and it’s as simple as that. At the fac, I had to structure my studies for myself. The professors made no demands on us. They gave lessons, which we could go to or not, and there was no follow-up, no checks on who was putting the work in and who wasn’t.

  I cracked. Crashed and burned. If you want devastating evidence that the system was slack and risky, here it is. Overnight I decided I wouldn’t attend lessons any more, without telling anyone and yet not once did the university staff try to find out the reasons for my disappearance. I could have been sick or dead but it was all the same to them. I wasn’t even called in for the intermediate exams in February and received no warning for not attending. It was bizarre. You could go AWOL voluntarily or just go astray, but the university wasn’t watching in any case.

  What next? I thought ‘cycling’. More and more. Every day the idea gained a stronger hold on me. Did my setback at university explain this inevitable transfer? Or was it that my passion for cycling had grown to a point where it had swept away everything else?

  I thought about cycling from morning until night. And as soon as I woke up all I thought about was my bike. In the evening I went to sleep dreaming of being on my bike. Cycling. Nothing but cycling.

  So I plucked up my courage. One evening, I dared to talk to my parents. I told them I was giving up my studies. They were stunned. I added: ‘At the end of the year I’m doing my military service.’ After a closely-fought argument they were bright enough to accept what I was suggesting. A whole world fell apart for them. You have to see it their way: they had always put studying above every other concern. My father said firmly: ‘All right, but if you don’t go to the army for any reason, you go out to work.’

  It sounded like a judge delivering his verdict. I knew the terms of the deal now, and I was apprehensive. Right in front of me the door had opened into an unknown world. The most beautiful unknown of them all: life.

  CHAPTER 4

  * * *

  BIKE OR WORK?

  Highwaymen on the road of life. Robbers stealing fire. Time bandits. Pirates with open arms. We were all these things in that blessed age.

  The world was frowning after the first oil crisis. France was getting used to mass unemployment but for some strange reason the younger generation – or the ones I knew, at least – were living through a time of few restraints. The slightest pretext would be seized on to gulp down mouthfuls of life. The tiniest event, the most insignificant day out with my mates, a faint whiff of skirt, anything was an adventure. We were springs loaded with a vital force.

  The world had to be experienced to the full. You had to be everything. And all at the same time. It wasn’t a philosophy, it was a way of life.

  And when I got on my bike, the call of the wild infected me with blasts of emotion. I had the feeling that I could conquer anything, and I would, even though I didn’t know how or why; I would be dragged along merely by the yearning for it, like an explorer in new territory. Our minds were probably less restrained than those of our children. Living in virtual worlds has become their daily bread. As for us, the state of things meant that we were rooted in real life. And that is the magic of cycling: the simple forward motion from the power in your legs treats you to great bursts of freedom. Your legs and nothing more. That’s the little miracle that is the bike, where man and machine conjoin. It’s a unique invention. The fusion of a man with himself.

  It was a blessed era, particularly if you were a cyclist learning the métier. At the end of the 1970s clubs were churning out hordes of young riders and there were too many races in France to count, for all categories. At the height of the cycling season, France was like one big bike race. As for entering races, it couldn’t have been simpler: there were still selections by départements and régions. All that is gone now and it’s just down to the clubs, which is a shame. Because the way it was organised at the time might not have been perfect but it put everyone on an equal footing, no matter what club you came from, and it made it easier to mix up the different generations. What that meant was that you were racing against different riders more often. We were all in the melting pot. There was greater diversity.

  This was the little world in which I had to abide by the promise I’d made to my parents: ‘If I don’t do military service as expected, I go out to work.’ The Bataillon de Joinville, which caters for aspiring young sportsmen of all kinds, was asked to give me a place, and I was accepted, to my great surprise. Eighteen victories among the juniors and ten or so in my first senior year had clearly helped the recruitment panel make up their minds.

  I was in the ‘79/10’; the group that was enlisted in October 1979. As soon as I arrived at Joinville, I came across fellow cyclists I’d raced against. I didn’t feel homesick in the slightest. That was where I got to know Alain Gallopin, who would later become one of my closest friends. He had just joined up for a second term, as a corporal: we nicknamed him ‘Second Go’. On the bike, he was unbelievably talented. He didn’t know that fate was about to destroy his dreams and wreck the career towards which he was aiming.

  I had initially believed that it would be a bit of a tricky year for me in this milieu, but I was pleasantly surprised. Even though we were in a military environment with strict rules and discipline, paradoxically I soon felt like I had done at university; left to look after myself without enough supervision. I’m not kidding. Of course, I went home only at weekends, so that I could race. Naturally, we had to keep to the training programmes which were specifically drawn up for the cyclists in the battalion – and we followed them to the letter. But apart from these necessities, the least you can say is that we were left in perfect peace. A little too perfect.

  The outcome was what it would have been with any recruits of our age. We mucked about, never quite enough to get in real trouble, but more than enough to have fun and escape a bit. As soon as our superior officers had their backs turned – which was pretty much every day – we would disappear, and stroll around Paris; we began to hang out in a few bars, try and pick up girls, just get up to things like any young lads might. There was just one thing: we were careful how much we drank, but the problem was that going out like this was not recommended for young sportsmen aiming for the highest level, as we were. And we didn’t pay attention to how we ate, or what, or when.
But I have happy memories of those nights on the town.

  When it came to racing, the Bataillon de Joinville was a solid squad, a decent brigade of mates. It was a transitional year for me, good for learning how a team works. I still raced in the same way, always going like a mad dog, indefatigable in attack but with no tactical grounding. My only truly sublime experience with the battalion was a magnificent race in the Isle of Man which came down to a three-man team time trial with myself, Alain Gallopin and Pascal Guyot. We worked perfectly together, in complete youthful harmony. We won, but you could see something else in our eyes besides mere delight at the victory. Try and explain that to people who haven’t done sport.

  When I was demobilised, I still had no idea what I planned to do in life, but I didn’t see it in the same uncertain way. In spite of the distractions of this brief diversion into soldiering my love of cycling had emerged stronger than ever and my sense of certainty about the bike was solid where before it had been merely vague.

  My parents had not forgotten a word of our negotiations. Nor had I. They sounded me out: ‘So, how do you see your future?’

  Without thinking twice I replied, ‘I’m going to ride my bike. I’ve decided and that’s all there is to it.’ My father wanted to make one thing clear: ‘OK, but you have to go out to work.’

  That was no problem. Finding a place at another club and getting the job that went with it was simple. I was making a little bit of a name in the area around Paris and that did the trick: I signed a handsome contract with the US Créteil club, which had already brought through greats such as Pierre Trentin and Daniel Morelon.

  The terms of employment were just what I needed. In the mornings I had to go to work in the town hall at Créteil. The afternoons were set aside for club training. To start with I wasn’t formally placed anywhere: in other words, I had nothing to do. So to pass the time I hung around one department or another, which seemed to go down well with some of the secretaries. The council chief saw me spending time with his personal assistant and decided my attentions might be better directed elsewhere. There was a minor internal redeployment to ensure that my time was spent more efficiently.

  I was put on a special assignment: I had to go from one city sports hall to another, measure how big they were, get a precise figure for the number of kit lockers, make absolutely certain that the entrance doors had proper handles, assess the bounciness of the gymnastic mats and so on. I didn’t find it demeaning: it was just rather a laugh.

  The good side of municipal employment was that it put my mind firmly back on cycling. I was becoming better all the time. Any urge to seek distraction slowly faded. And at the start of 1981 I was drafted into the French national amateur team. I don’t remember being particularly happy about such a distinction. Presumably, for me, I saw it as just the logical next step in my progress onwards and upwards.

  CHAPTER 5

  * * *

  SHOULDER TO SHOULDER WITH THE BADGER

  As I got to know the other riders who made it into the national team in 1981, I eventually came across a friend I’d already made when we were both under-16s. He was a good friend and soon a very close one: Pascal Jules. We had ridden for different clubs so had not seen much of each other as first-year seniors, but we soon got to know each other again. There was a clear connection between us even though he came from more of a blue-collar background than I did. We were the same generation, both Parisians, both steadfast in our insolence, with a shared basic trait to our characters: an outrageous, voracious appetite for life. Our personalities were complementary. Together, we could whip up storms. It was unsaid but there was a pact of kinship between us which was so strong, so inviolable, almost sacred, that it would last as long as life lasted. But some lives don’t last that long.

  Not long after the first training camp of the season at La Londe-les-Maures in the south of France the national trainer told us to our great surprise we were to ride the Tour of Corsica, one of the ‘open’ races that enabled amateurs to take on the professionals. It was a big step up.

  On the Île de Beauté the race favourite had a name that was feared worldwide throughout cycling. He had already won two Tours de France, the Giro, Liège–Bastogne–Liège and an incalculable number of major races. That year, he was not merely the wearer of the rainbow jersey of world champion – won in prodigious style at Sallanches the previous August – but since his abandon at Pau in the last year’s Tour de France everyone was predicting that this was to be a season in which he would avenge the slight to his pride. And it would be a year of tears for everyone else. The man’s name was Bernard Hinault. The Badger.

  He didn’t say much and in front of us he didn’t show off. He just showed the power in his jutting chin. Everything about him breathed confidence. His whole being expressed a single thought: ‘I know who I am.’

  As for us, we didn’t have much to show apart from our youth. Apart from ‘Julot’ and me, Marc Gomez, Philippe Chevalier, Philippe Leleu and Philippe Senez were the hard core of an adventurous little group. I only wanted to do three things: observe, learn and understand. And I had to make as much use as I could of the fact that ‘the Badger’ was there. So on the very first stage, guess how I rode? I resolutely glued myself to Hinault’s wheel. As soon as the ebb and flow of the race pulled us apart, I would immediately return to his slipstream. After a little while he began to wonder what this display was all about. He wasn’t born yesterday, so he pulled to one side and said: ‘What are you doing stuck to my backside?’

  I answered: ‘I’ve never ridden my bike behind a world champion so I wanted to see what it felt like.’

  A similar thing happened a long time after my racing career ended. I was riding a cycle-tourist event in which Eddy Merckx was taking part and made sure I sat in behind him. Just to see if you could still see the whole world behind his two wheels.

  The first mountain stage came. Only two amateurs were able to hold the tempo set by the pros during the final kilometres of the passes; Rostolan, and me. I was riding pretty well, except on some of the descents where we raced like there was no tomorrow. It was impressive but terrifying. My technique left much to be desired: I thought I was going to die on every hairpin, but even so I got through, dragged along, sheltered by the other riders. I was seventh at the finish, which was not bad for an inexperienced amateur.

  The organisers had come up with the idea of a time-trial stage, to be run after dark. Just before the start something fortunate happened. Cyrille Guimard himself came up to talk to me. As directeur sportif of the Renault team – Hinault’s manager, in other words – the former rider embodied cycling science, the art and profession of bike racing. When he began talking it was as if a century of accumulated knowledge was coming out of his brain. He had such an aura that the slightest movement of his arm could command a whole peloton of cyclists travelling at full speed.

  So what did he talk to me about? I can’t remember now. Finally, enigmatically, he took a long slow look at me as if to prick my curiosity. He eventually murmured: ‘You know how to do it tonight, don’t you?’ I said: ‘More or less.’ He spoke again. ‘This is my advice. Listen up. In a time trial you start quickly, accelerate in the middle bit and finish flat out.’ It was a bizarre way to behave: I believe he actually couldn’t think of anything else to say to me. But I didn’t dare laugh. One hour later in the midst of all these pros, I found out where I stood: fifteenth. Promising.

  After four days I had really acclimatised well to the whole environment, to the ambience of the professional cycling world, to their way of doing things, of which I could only get glimpses of the most obvious parts, their self-discipline, their obvious seriousness. More than anything else, the style of racing suited me. The early kilometres of each stage slipped gently by at low average speeds which allowed me enough time to get my engine warmed up and then, with no warning, the pace would be raised abruptly and it was eyeballs out all of a sudden. It was ideal for me. I was in my element. I was an attacking rider,
able to go time and again, and quick enough when I needed to be. Above all, I could keep up with the sustained, high speeds. Professional racing was made for me.

  On the last day, Guimard came and saw me. Pascal Jules had also been riding superbly all week and was there as well. Guimard had asked for the meeting; we couldn’t say no. We got there early. ‘Do you want me to keep an eye on you this year . . .’ he said. We were frozen with desire. After a brief pause, he continued ‘. . . with an eye to having you as pros one day?’

  There was no reply we could give Cyrille Guimard. He would speak, do as he wished and arrange it all. We must have just muttered a vague, meaningless ‘Of course, Monsieur Guimard.’ He presumably wanted to impress us and he had managed it.

  During that Tour of Corsica he was the only directeur sportif from a French team who came to talk to us. Was that a coincidence? Clearly not. We were hotheaded young amateurs riding for the first time with the pros and anyone could see we didn’t lack courage. But only Guimard felt the need to come and make our acquaintance.

  What he had said to us – not to mention the fact that he had wanted to have some involvement in what we did – was as good as a contract. At the very least, it felt like a moral contract. Guimard had spoken. There was nothing more to say. It was now up to us to prove that he had not made a mistake. We were honour-bound to try, in whatever way we could.

  A lot of things have been said about the closed little world of amateur racing. There is a lot of fantasising. Some of the stories are true, of course, but they need to be clarified, situated in their time and their context. A lot of the old wives’ tales need to be refuted.