Eddy Merckx: The Cannibal

by Daniel Friebe

  Merckx listens as patiently as he can then turns. ‘OK, come on, we go…’

  As he leads one gathering on the road, another small one of Godefroot, a couple of photographers and journalists step out of the cold and into a brasserie overlooking the square. Godefroot takes the seat next to the fireplace, while everyone else huddles their hands around cups of coffee. Fifteen minutes later, a voice announces that ‘they’ – as in the riders – are back and the group again decants outside just in time to see Merckx and Van Springel swinging into the square. The rolling reunion is expected to stop but instead only slows to take instructions from the camera crew filming out of the back of an estate car. No, apparently, they have ridden the lap too fast again, for the second time, and will have to repeat the circuit again for a third.

  Today is all about Herman Van Springel and the book documenting his career by the television presenter and journalist Mark Uytterhoeven. In many ways, Van Springel’s memoirs are interchangeable with those of all of the former riders here today – except of course Merckx’s. He would figure in each of them as he has here, a hopeful face and an unwritten script like all the others in a class photograph which years later would be rescued from attics and pinned on walls, but then only because of him. The title of Van Springel’s biography, Herman Van Springel 68, dates not only his best season but also the moment when life and Merckx began their cruel discrimination.

  A man so mild of manner that his every word and action seems like an apology, Van Springel wouldn’t dream of bearing a grudge. Merckx signed him for Molteni in 1971, partly because it was better to have a rider as talented as Van Springel riding with rather than against you, only to then leave him out of the 1972 Tour de France team. That, at least, is assuming Merckx was in charge of or at least had significant influence over selection, which Van Springel did assume, and Merckx denied. The mystery of why Merckx often seemed so loath to take responsibility for fractious decisions was solved when they grew close again in retirement, and a convivial bonhomme emerged from the rigid shell of the former cyclist. It turned out that Merckx was and always had been a people pleaser. You try that, though, when you’re also busy being a cannibal.

  Having finished their ride, while Merckx, De Vlaeminck and the others convene and reminisce in the other room, Van Springel tries not to dwell on what might have been. This can’t be easy for a man who lost the 1968 Tour de France in a time trial on the final day – ‘my last chance. I knew Merckx was coming’ – but Van Springel has at least had forty years’ practice. ‘It was an amazing generation in Belgium, and we should be happy that we could at least put up some resistance and win a few incredible races ourselves…’ he says.

  Still, Van Spingel will admit under duress, it wasn’t easy to live with a man so fixated on constantly feeding his winning addiction, yet seemingly so insensitive to the fact that others, just on the odd occasion, might need the same sort of affirmation. Van Springel now laughs when you ask him about the 1972 GP Mendrisio, but only with time has the memory lost its bitter edge.

  ‘We were riding off the front in a group of eight, with all the best Italians and Eddy, who of course was my teammate,’ he remembers. ‘I attacked, got away and with two kilometres left was sure I was going to win. That was until I looked back and saw Eddy coming on his own. Before I knew it, he was past me and had won the race – yet another race. I can remember us getting into the elevator together back at the hotel, just me and him, and me just turning to him and saying, “Eddy, could you not have given me just this one?” He said, “But, Herman, the fans, the organisers…everyone wants me to win”. When I heard that I let out a big sigh. “Yeah, but Eddy,” I said, “everyone always wants you to win…”’

  ‘Avec plaisir.’

  The first words that Eddy Merckx has spoken to me, or at least in my vicinity, since our serendipitous meeting in May midway through an interview with Felice Gimondi, are these.

  Merckx has of course declined to collaborate with my project. That is his right, just as it was his right to attempt to win every race that he entered. With time, I have also come to be grateful for his decision, not only because his input might compromise my objectivity, but more because there is an unknowable quality that is central to Merckx, more than to other, apparently less accessible stars. If a biographer who did get to know him, the Frenchman Philippe Brunel, tells me, ‘When I see Merckx, I wish it could be just as another human being and not Eddy Merckx, because he’s a wonderful person to spend time with,’ I realise that even Merckx himself has become crushed, submerged beneath his aura. The flesh-and-blood Eddy Merckx may just have died, been eaten with all the other mortals, the moment that Merckx became Merckx. There came a day, different for everyone, when the palmarès was overtaken by a mystique, and from which there was and never will be any going back.

  Nevertheless, this is the closest I will get, the last and only opportunity. Merckx doesn’t know my face, won’t remember my name and therefore won’t suspect my motives. As we know, he also has trouble saying ‘No’. As it turns out, after one interview with a TV crew, intercepted between a lounge in the front of the restaurant and the bar where his old colleagues are now drinking to Van Springel, he says, ‘Avec plaisir’.

  So we turn back into the lounge, find a table, and sit down. Merckx wears a blue, open-neck shirt under a brown suede jacket and black trousers. His hands are folded in his lap and his expression is neutral. The first question is about him ‘ruining’ Van Springel’s career, and is supposed to be light-hearted, but Merckx also light-heartedly interrupts it by protesting that ‘ruin’ is too strong a word. If anyone has reason to curse him and his domination, he’ll say in a minute, it’s Felice Gimondi, who had won the Tour de France, the Giro d’Italia, Paris–Roubaix and Paris–Bruxelles, all before Merckx became Merckx.

  He speaks quickly, Eddy Merckx. His eyebrows are almost permanently raised, not in surprise but arched almost like brackets around everything he says, or around everything he is; almost as if to say, ‘I’m telling you this, but you have to remember that I’m Eddy Merckx, and not even I know what that means…’ That, at least, is my impression. It could be just a mannerism.

  In 1970, the journalist Odélie Grand likened the experience of interviewing Eddy Merckx to a ‘black-out’. She had the distinct feeling that Merckx’s gaze ‘[erased] you from the picture’. From where I’m sitting now, it’s himself that Merckx at least manages to hide if not efface. His replies are detailed but also instantaneous and shorn of any kind of emphasis, emotion or dramatic intonation. His eyes flit like a metronome back and forth between me and the same empty space on the tile floor.

  We talk for ten minutes, all he has before the next journalist and the next round of questions he has heard endless times before. Why did you always want to win? ‘It’s not a question of wanting to win. The strongest wins. It’s the law of sport’; Why were you the best? ‘Talent and hard work’. When did you become Merckx? ‘I think at the Giro ’68 everyone realised that I would win the Tour de France the next year…’ Why were you so ruthless? ‘You give gifts at Christmas and birthdays, not at bike races…’

  The answers will appear in print or on film but their essence, like Merckx’s, will never be as vividly reflected as on the road where his legacy really resides, a road strewn with the shattered dreams of the men whom, after he’s shaken my hand and said ‘you’re welcome’, he’ll rejoin in the bar for a glass of champagne. They say they don’t mind, that the greatest cyclist ever added lustre to their careers, but who knows what they’ll be thinking in a few minutes’ time, when someone proposes a toast to Herman Van Springel and it’s their turn to clink glasses, look into the eyes and consider the effect on their lives of Baron Edouard Louis Joseph Merckx.

  Behind the smile, he, we know, will be thinking ‘Avec plaisir.’

  © POPPERFOTO/GETTY

  Merckx’s jubilation after winning the amateur World Championship road race in Sallanches in the French Alps in 1964. He was 19 at the ti
me.

  Rik Van Looy, Merckx’s team leader and tormentor at Solo-Superia in 1965. Merckx would leave Van Looy’s number after just one season but their feud titillated Belgian cycling fans for years.

  Barry Hoban, left, and Merckx enjoy the shelter of some unorthodox headgear and a moment’s light relief in Paris–Nice in 1966.

  A dazzling sprint gives Merckx his first major victory in the 1966 Milan–San Remo ahead of Adriano Durante (far left) and Herman Van Springel (right). He would triumph on San Remo’s Via Roma a further six times.

  Riding alongside the Italian ‘King of Cool’ Gianni Motta on his way to victory in the 1966 Milan–San Remo. At this stage in their careers, the smart money was still on Motta becoming a dominant force in major stage races.

  Merckx’s inexperience caused the crash that ended his first Tour of Flanders in 1966. Barry Hoban escaped with the distinct impression that the Belgian wunderkind still had much to learn.

  Merckx wins in a blizzard on the Tre Cime di Lavaredo in the 1968 Giro. It was, Merckx has claimed ever since, his greatest victory in the mountains of a major tour.

  From left to right, Felice Gimondi, Merckx and Vittorio Adorni soak up the applause on the final Giro podium in Naples in 1968.

  Merckx with his wife Claudine, who he had married the previous December, after his first victory in Paris-Roubaix in April 1968.

  ‘Merckx, you’re the strongest’ says the banner on the Via Roma. No one could have argued otherwise by the spring of 1969.

  Merckx is the first rider on the start ramp in his first Tour de France in 1969. He would go on to win the Tour by just under 18 minutes and take all four prize jerseys.

  © UNIVERSAL/TEMPSPORT/CORBIS

  Hostility towards Merckx would take a while to infect the French public – and even longer to blunt the enthusiasm of schoolchildren like these ones awaiting the arrival of the 1969 Tour.

  Showing the first signs of strain near the top of the Aubisque on his way to maybe his most famous Tour de France stage win in Mourenx in 1969.

  ‘Cycling’s Napoleon’, directeur sportif Lomme Driessens, muscles in on the lap of honour around the Cipale velodrome at the end of the ’69 Tour, riding the special yellow street bike he’d had prepared for the occasion.

  © AFP/GETTY

  Merckx lies unconscious in the middle of the Pierre Tessier velodrome in Blois after the crash that killed his derny rider Fernand Wambst in September 1969.

  A packed circuit in Leicester, England played host to the 1970 World Championship road race. For once, Merckx was overshadowed and beaten by another precocious Belgian, Jean-Pierre ‘Jempi’ Monseré.

  Merckx often revelled in the very worst weather conditions, as was the case here in Paris–Roubaix in 1970. Though Roger de Vlaeminck claimed that only his puncture allowed Merckx to drop him and win.

  The drama of Luis Ocaña’s crash on the Col de Menté in the 1971 Tour de France. Race director Jacques Goddet, far left, is a beleaguered spectator.

  © POPPERFOTO/GETTY

  Merckx winning his first Tour of Lombardy in the Sinigaglia velodrome in Como in 1971. The race was the first major cycling event outside the Olympics to be broadcast live in the United States.

  Merckx marauds to the Hour record on the Agustín Melgar velodrome in Mexico City in October 1972.

  Joseph Bruyère, followed here by Merckx and Raymond Poulidor, became Molteni and Merckx’s irreplaceable mountain enforcer.

  © AFP/GETTY

  With Théo Mathy. Merckx had a difficult relationship with the press throughout his career, who became increasingly frustrated with their failure to get under his skin.

  © PIERE VAUTHEY/SYGMA/CORBIS

  ‘I’m only truly happy when I’m on my bike,’ Merckx once said. Or, it seemed, when making endless, infinitesimal adjustments to the three dozen or so machines he kept in his garage.

  © PIERE VAUTHEY/SYGMA/CORBIS

  Balancing daughter Sabrina on his handlebars as he arrives home in Kraainem after a training ride in 1973.

  © GAMMA-RATHO VIA GETTY

  Merckx shares a joke with Jos Huysmans, one of his longest-serving domestiques, over dinner at the 1973 Giro d’Italia.

  From the left, Messers Parecchini, Mintjens, Merckx, Swerts, Spruyt, Huysmans, Van Schil, Bruyère, De Schoenmaecker, Janssens – Molteni’s formidable team at the 1973 Giro.

  Merckx leads Roger De Vlaeminck, Walter Godefroot and, only just in shot on the left, Freddy Maertens, on his way to the last of his seven Milan–San Remo victories.

  Still in the yellow jersey, but is Merckx praying for a miracle in the 1975 Tour?

  Did Merckx’s hopes of a sixth Tour win in 1975 disappear when a spectator punched him on the Puy de Dôme? Is that already his fear here, within minutes of the fateful blow?

  Moments before Bernard Thévenet passes and leaves Merckx for dead on the climb to Pra-Loup in the 1975 Tour de France. He would be the first man to defeat the Cannibal in the Tour.

  The anguish of Merckx’s capitulation en route to Alpe d’Huez in the 1977 Tour de France is vividly captured in this picture taken seconds after he has crossed the line.

  acknowledgements

  Much like many of Eddy Merckx’s victories, this book has been a collaborative effort, facilitated and infinitely improved by a team, nay an entire peloton of loyal domestiques.

  In the Lomme Driessens role, but definitely not his mould, Andrew Goodfellow and Liz Marvin at Ebury Press should receive my eternal thanks for their faith in the project and their patience, as should Justine Taylor for her editing. My literary agent, the inimitable David ‘The Deal’ Luxton, may be no Jean van Buggenhout, but is just as adept at dealing with a sometimes fragile and difficult client. I am also sincerely grateful to him.

  Dozens of fellow journalists in the UK and abroad, the cherished colleagues of a decade covering cycle races, have contributed to this book, be it with help arranging interviews or simply advice. In Belgium, I would especially like to thank Jan Pieter de Vlieger and Bert Heyvaert, both mates and lieutenants de luxe, as well as Walter Pauli, Hugo Coorevits, Marc Ghyselinck, Joeri de Knop, Walter Pauli, Eric De Falleur, Philippe Van Holle and Sven Spoormakers. Charlotte Elton’s humour and translations have also been hugely appreciated.

  In Italy, Ciro Scognamiglio, Luigi Perna and Pier Augusto Stagi have proven to be formidable gregari, and Herbie Sykes a kind supplier of books and press cuttings. Pierre Carrey, in France, was extremely generous in providing research materials. Be it for help directly relating to this book, or over the last ten years culminating in this project, I would also like to say thank you to dear fellow hacks or photographers overseas Andy Hood, Leon De Kort, Gregor Brown-Burgundy, Pier Maulini, Gary Boulanger and Bonnie Ford in particular – providers of quotes, beds for the odd night and emergency supplies of Haribo sweets.

  If I am still writing about cycling, it is in large part thanks to (or the fault of) friends and former colleagues at Procycling, Pete Cossins, Ellis Bacon, Paul Godfrey, James Poole and especially Jeremy Whittle. Now instead of workmates I have…Richard Moore, a one-man reservoir of piss-taking, irritation and occasionally great friendship, ego-massaging and advice. Rich, seriously, thanks.

  I would also like to thank my dear mum and dad, to whom this book is dedicated, and my sister and brother-in-law Maria and Rob Sellers for their unstinting support and generosity/hospitality. My darling girlfriend, Kate Clarence, has been a paragon of serenity, grace and love throughout the hectic months I have devoted to this book, as she always is. Kate, thank you.

  My gratitude should go, finally, to the people who agreed to be interviewed. Take a bow, Vittorio Adorni, Felice Gimondi, Freddy Maertens, Claude Lair, Rini Wagtmans, Giancarlo Ferretti, Philippe Crépel, Barry Hoban, Raymond Poulidor, Shelley Verses, Bernard Thévenet, Johny Schleck, Dino Zandegù, Joseph Bruyère, Marino Vigna, Gianpaolo Ormezzano, Alfredo Martini, Raymond Riotte, Davide Boifava, Chris Boardman, Christian Raymond, Italo Zilioli, Roger De Vlaeminck, Walter Godefroo
t, Martin Van Den Bossche, Walter Pauli, Patrick Sercu, Jan Janssen, Franco Bitossi, Hugo Coorevits, Philippe Brunel, Gaston Plaud, Herman Van Springel, Gianni Motta, Mark Uyttehoeven, Paul Van Himst, Gianbattista Baronchelli, Hennie Kuiper, David Lloyd, Michel Audran, Helge Riepenhof, Giancarlo Lavezzaro, Rik Van Looy (for two minutes) and finally, Eddy Merckx.

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