Rough Ride (24 page)

I had thought about that moment every day for twenty-one days: the moment, 300 metres before the line, when you look up and see the final finishing banner,
Arrivo.
I knew what I was going to do, had it all planned out. On crossing the line I took both hands off the bars and blew two kisses at the banner and then waved a clenched fist in triumph. The adventure was over, and I had survived. My inner satisfaction was enormous. The nightmare of abandoning the Tour in 1987 was now buried and I could hold my head high. I was, once again, a Giant of the Road.

A beach. A warm, sunny beach looking out on a blue Mediterranean sea. Wind, a cooling, glorious puff blowing in off the waves. Sand – hot, golden sand, scorching the naked feet.

Far from the maddening
tifosi.
A million miles from piddling on my fingers, from sticking needles in my bum, from being deafened by car klaxons and sweating, lies Carnon Plage. A twenty-kilometre drive from Montpellier, it was just the place for a pro cyclist who had recently ridden a hard Giro D'Italia. One week after returning from the Giro, Ann and I spent four of the most relaxing days of our lives there. We breakfasted late most mornings – coffee with croissants on the sunny terrace of the apartment. After breakfast I would take the bike and ride for two hours along the coastline, taking advantage of my wife's absence to admire the vast assortment of pretty girls tanning their beautiful bodies. I returned for a shower and a light lunch, and then it was down to the beach for the afternoon. It felt great to sit there and do nothing. I would sleep and read and stare and think.

I thought quite a lot.

In the evenings we dined out, strolled around the port admiring the sailing craft and sipped beers on the terrace of a cafe. For the first time in my career I could honestly say that everything was rosy. It had been a good Giro. Stephen had finished ninth, Carlsen had won a stage, Fagor were best team and I had finished 84th out of 198 starters. My future was secure. I was assured of employment for as long as Stephen could remain competitive. And I had been told I was riding the Tour. Yes, everything really was rosy. But on our third evening at the bar, I decided I didn't want it any more. I decided to retire at the end of the season.

From the first day I threw my leg over a bike I have always tried to be honest with myself, a quality I inherited from my father. It was true I had ridden a good solid Giro, but in my own eyes I had failed. I was incapable of staying with Roche in the mountains and wasn't strong enough to drive for him on the flat. The days when I was capable of good things were always followed by bad ones. I was sure of a job with Stephen, but did I really merit it? If we weren't friends, would he still want me in his team? I didn't think so.

I wasn't good enough: the Giro had spelled it out for me. I had given the race my best shot, had looked after myself with vitamin and mineral supplements from the start to finish. And for what? To be average! There was no way I was prepared to stick needles in my arse for the rest of my career just to survive, to be average. Not now that there was a way out – journalism.

The Tour of Italy pieces had produced a great reaction back in Ireland. The sports editor of the
Sunday Tribune,
Stephen Ryan, told me I could start with them whenever I wanted to. But the most satisfying thing was that my journalistic options were not confined to the
Tribune.
A rival paper was also interested in acquiring my services. I was thrilled. The future didn't look quite so daunting. So, in a quiet seafront bar, and after three days of examining the options, I decided to quit. I would ride the Tour, finish out the season with Fagor and then hang up my wheels.

A week before the start of Le Grand Boucle, Patrick organised two kermesse races for us in Belgium. I hadn't planned to tell them yet of my decision to retire at the end of the year, but I ended up telling them anyway. They had been negotiating with Fagor for a new contract for months and things were not working out. The deal was supposed to have been signed at the start of the Giro, then at the end of the Giro and then at the start of the Tour. But each time Fagor found a new excuse for delaying the signing of the contract. We all knew what they were playing at. They wanted to see how Stephen performed in the Tour before signing him up for another year. On the weekend of the Belgian kermesses Patrick had received news of a possible move for Stephen and seven of his team-mates to the Colombian team, Postobon. Patrick told me of the deal, and assured me that I was one of the seven Stephen would take with him. I was delighted that Stephen still wanted me in his team, but felt compelled to tell them of my decision. Their initial reaction was to advise me against doing anything hasty, but as soon as I explained about my opportunity to go into journalism, both agreed I would be foolish to turn it down. After I had told them, I felt a huge weight roll off my shoulders. I was no longer part of Stephen's plans for next year. I had taken the dive and there was no turning back.

The races in Belgium were a disaster. My legs were still heavy from the sun on Carnon Plage and my mind was totally switched off. I returned to Grenoble and did some hard rides in the mountains to prepare myself for the Tour. One of these brought me to the slopes of the Galibier. It was a real trip down memory lane, for I had not cycled its gradient since abandoning the Tour two years earlier. Riding it alone was a strange sensation, a bit like walking into an empty football stadium. I rode up the mountain locked in a trance, reliving the pedal strokes of my last visit. I saw my name on the road. It was written in fading white paint alongside the names of Roche and Earley. And as I examined other faded names I was reminded of a graveyard, the faded letters sticking out like tombstones. Would I notice my name in three weeks' time? Would I make it this far?

Saturday, 1 July 1989
Prologue: Luxembourg (7.8 kilometres TT)
Stage winner: Erik Breulink (Netherlands)
Race leader: Erik Breulink

It feels good to be back in the race. The Tour is changing, becoming more modern. When I first rode in 1986, it was still the era of Monsieur Levitan's reign as race director. The public address system churned out never-ending accordion music, giving the event a uniquely French flavour. That's all gone now: the race has been modernised, it's all Bon Jovi and Jean-Michel Jarre now. Paul McCartney is the flavour of the month. They played 'My Brave Face' at least ten times this morning. I hate that song.

It's going to be a very difficult three weeks, and I'm not just talking about the race. We haven't started yet, but already the ambience is at rock bottom. There are many reasons. Fagor still have not agreed Stephen's contract stipulations for next year. They were nearing verbal agreement and were originally going to sign a month ago, but it's still at status quo. None of the other riders have signed either, and some are starting to get anxious about next year.

The second problem is the appointment of Pierre Bazzo as number one
directeur sportif
for the race. One of Stephen's demands for signing for another year was that Patrick be given control of the team for the Tour. Fagor initially agreed, but backed down three days before the race. Patrick is here, but must play second fiddle to Bazzo – and it's killing him. It's killing me too: I don't respect or have any confidence in Bazzo as
directeur sportif
and he knows it.

Patrick is taking it badly. He was not allowed to follow Stephen in this morning's prologue time trial and it's the first time in nine years he hasn't followed his friend in a time trial. We watched it together in my room and he was so upset that tears started rolling down his face. Stephen didn't ride a good prologue. The mechanics gave him a front wheel with a bald tyre and a slow puncture, and forgot to bring his aerodynamic hat to the start – he was furious. When he returned to the hotel, he had a fierce row with Bazzo that nearly ended in blows. I have never seen him so mad.

My own prologue was pretty dismal. I was never going well and
a dose of Tour nerves before the start didn't help either. The big news of
the day was Pedro Delgado missing his start time by two minutes and forty
seconds. I rang home tonight and talked to my brother Christopher. He wasn't
very complimentary about my prologue performance: 'Delgado nearly beat you.'
The sarcastic little swine.

Sunday, 2 July
Stage 1: Luxembourg to Luxembourg (135.5 kilometres)
Stage 2: Luxembourg to Luxembourg (46 kilometres Team Time Trial)
Stage 1 winner: Acasio da Silva (Portugal)
Stage 2 winner: Super U (team)
Race leader: Acasio da Silva

Fame at last. Today was a split stage – 130-kilometre road stage in the morning, team time trial in the afternoon. After the time trial, I was invited to appear on French television station Antenne 2's chat show, broadcast daily at the finish of each stage. The show usually concentrates on the stars, but this year they have introduced a daily slot where they interview the lesser lights in the race. My conversion to journalism was my
raison d'être,
and I used the time allotted to me to talk about my former team-mate Andre, and tried to blow the myth that it was a glamorous life. I was just warming up when they cut me short. Bible-thumping is not in mode with these people. The attitude here is: 'Don't rock the boat, for God's sake don't rock the boat. Talk about the Fignons and the LeMonds with awe and wonder, and say no more. It's what the people expect to hear.'

I rang Ann tonight. She didn't see me on TV – typical. Television apart, it was not a good day. I am riding very poorly. Maybe I took too much time off after the Giro, I don't know. I do know that I'm struggling at the moment. I rode badly in the morning's stage, so badly that I had to take a caffeine tablet for the team trial in the afternoon. We did twenty kilometres of a warm-up before it started, and I tried to shove it up as I was going along. But it was awkward because Bazzo was in the car behind and I didn't want him to notice. He'd have a field day if he saw me with my finger up my arse and I wasn't leaving myself open to his jibes. I stopped and pretended I was having a piss, and did it at the side of the road. It felt bloody degrading. I knew it wasn't going to make much difference but it was just a little insurance. It was doping, no mistake about it, but it was only pigeon shit to what some of the others were doing. It bothered me, but this was my last Tour and I didn't want to go out of it after just two days.

I rode better than in the team trials in the Giro, but I still
wasn't great. I don't feel very proud of myself tonight.

Monday, 3 July
Stage 3: Luxembourg to Spa-Francorchamps (241 kilometres)
Stage winner: Raul Alcala (Mexico)
Race leader: Acasio da Silva

The first long stage, 240 kilometres. We had a really hard headwind most of the day, which slowed us down a lot. It was a blessing in disguise, as I rode badly again. Stephen is having problems too: all this haggling and fighting is upsetting him. Team morale continues to slump. Bazzo addresses me now as
le journaliste
in a mocking tone which really winds me up. Some of the riders call me
le journaliste
too, but from them it's almost a compliment. My conversation with Bazzo is limited to 'Bonjour' and 'Bonsoir', but I'm not sure I can even keep this up. We had no disc wheels for yesterday's team time trial. They were supposed to have been delivered at Fagor headquarters the week before the Tour but they have 'gone missing'. The team's supply of jerseys and shorts has gone missing too. It's total chaos.

Tomorrow we ride over the cobbles to Wasquehal, entering France
for the first time. I hate cobbles.

Tuesday, 4 July
Stage 4: Liège to Wasquehal (255 kilometres)
Stage winner: Jelle Nijdam (Netherlands)
Race leader: Acasio da Silva

Today was awful. Tonight, my body is just so sore from those horrible stones. Bouncing along them, my balls up around my ears, sore hands, sore feet.

The stage finished two hundred yards from where we lived as
amateurs, at Wasquehal. When I think about it I realise what a long way I've
come – and I'm still not happy.

Wednesday, 5 July
Transfer: Lille to Dinard

The morning was a right cock-up. The organisers had chartered a plane to fly us to Dinard, but there was a problem with it and we had to wait most of the morning until a replacement was found. We did two hours this evening to loosen out our legs a bit and I was able to wash and do some work on my article.

Tonight I hit the jackpot. Phillipe Brunei from
L'Equipe
phoned to ask me if he could come for an interview. He arrived just as we were finishing dinner, and the other lads couldn't believe he had come to talk to me. The French lads would give both balls for an interview with
L'Equipe.
I could sense their frustration as I left the table to talk to him.

I was quite impressed with Brunei. He was intelligent and obviously
loves his job. We talked about my origins and my relationship with Stephen
and Sean. I edited my comments on Kelly and Roche to a strict minimum and
tried again to strike a blow for Chappuis. We talked late into the evening.
He told me of his love for journalism and I enthused. My ranting over Chappuis
had impressed him. He said I wasn't ruthless enough to be a pro cyclist. I
took it as a compliment.

Thursday, 6 July
Stage 5: Dinard to Rennes (73 kilometres TT)
Stage winner: Greg LeMond (USA)
Race leader: Greg LeMond

Time trial day – the first of the race. Patrick insisted on following Stephen for the time trial, and Bazzo backed down and followed one of the others. Greg LeMond won, and I can't quite believe it. Three weeks ago I was dropping him on climbs of the Giro. I am happy for him. He has had a hard time of it since he won the Tour in 1986, but today bounced back in style – the real mark of a champion.

I enjoyed the solitude of racing on my own. The last few days
have been terrible for crashes, and it was great to give the nerves a day
off. That damned song continues to irritate me. They played it before the
start, and my brain got hooked on it – playing it and replaying it during
every kilometre of the time trial. Painful.

Friday, 7 July
Stage 6: Rennes to Futuroscope (255 kilometres)
Stage winner: Joel Pelier (France)
Race leader: Greg LeMond

Shit – the word that best describes the stage. I was on and off the back
like a yo-yo all day. Crashes, punctures – today I had it all. I spent
the last fifty kilometres of the stage grovelling like an animal in the gutter.
It's dangerous in the gutter, riding so close to the edge. I hit a ridge with
twenty kilometres to go and my front wheel turned sideways on it and started
slicing. I got such a fright that I let out a roar of frustration –
the others thought I was mad. Clavet came down in one of the many crashes
and broke a bone in his hand. His days in the race are numbered.
L'Equipe
still haven't published the interview! What are they waiting for? The way
things are going I might not be around much longer.

Saturday, 8 July
Stage 7: Poitiers to Bordeaux (258.8 kilometres)
Stage winner: Etienne de Wilde (Belgium)
Race leader: Greg LeMond

Today the story appeared – it looked quite well. There was a small photo of me sitting at my typewriter with my Fagor jersey and half a page of script. A lot of what I had said had been cut, but the good bits were still in. One of the most respected riders in the peloton, the System U rider Dominique Garde, told me he thought it was good. This pleased me. I feel a bit like the Lech Walesa of the peloton. A rebel with a cause.

It was the only bright note of the day. It rained heavily for most of the 260 kilometres and I was in a foul humour at the finish. A minute after I had crossed the line, Jim McArdle of the
Irish Times
approached me. The
Sunday Tribune
had asked him to contact me; they were waiting urgently for my copy to arrive. I couldn't understand why they hadn't got it. Before the stage I had paid a hotel receptionist £25 to fax off the six pages of typescript. Had the bastard pulled a fast one? Obviously. I was furious. The sprint that I made to the hotel would probably have won me the stage. I jumped off the bike and ran into reception. Had they a fax machine? Yes, my luck was in. I galloped up to my room and retrieved the original pages, which I had luckily stored in my suitcase. Another dash back to reception and into the fax machine. Pheeeew . . . !

My urgency to send away my piece made one thing suddenly clear
to me. Unknown to myself, I had changed from a 'cyclist journalist' to a 'journalist
cyclist'.

Sunday, 9 July
Stage 8: La Bastide d'Armagnac to Pau (157 kilometres)
Stage winner: Martin Earley (Ireland)
Race leader: Greg LeMond

Found my legs for the first time this week. I was going well when things got hot at the end and even managed an attack. To my great delight, Martin won the stage. He jumped clear of three others a kilometre from the finish and won on his own. I knew he was going to win. I said it to Kelly about an hour from the finish, I just got this gut feeling he was going to do it. As we arrived in Pau, I strained my ears to the commentary of race speaker Daniel Mangeas. When I heard him shout
M-A-R-T-I-N E-A-R-L-E-Y,
I waved a triumphant fist in the air. I am thrilled for him, but, 'Why must there always be a "but" whenever I talk of Martin?'

I suppose it's because we were such keen rivals as amateurs.
I suppose, deep down, I always felt I was better than him. Not any more. He
has done something I know I can never do. I am not jealous of him. I really
am pleased he won today, but I'm so envious. Years ago, when we were two schoolboys
cycling around Howth Head, we'd dream of one day winning stages of the Tour.
Today, he made the dream a reality. He guaranteed his place in the history
books of this great race.

Monday, 10 July
Stage 9: Pau to Cauterets (147 kilometres)
Stage winner: Miguel Indurain (Spain)
Race leader: Greg LeMond

Everything was fine. I was going OK and really looking forward to the first day in the mountains. We had ridden about twenty kilometres and were approaching the first Col, Marie Blanque, when Stephen's hand went up. I dashed to his side immediately. It's a great thrill having him in your slipstream, weaving in and out of the team cars after he has punctured. But this time it wasn't a puncture. It was his knee, the weak knee that he damaged in a six-day race in Paris in the winter of 1984. Suddenly it was giving him fierce pain, and we called the race doctor. The spray can was produced but we all knew that the solution was not to be found in an aerosol. He was cooked, it was over, the
bête noire
had struck again.

I stayed with him on Marie Blanque along with Eddy, his faithful lieutenant. Stephen was in terrible pain and riding on one leg. We were quickly distanced by the leaders, but left a lot of struggling bodies behind us – men with two good knees. I stayed at his right shoulder, Eddy on his left. I never once put my bike in front of his, riding all of the time a half-length behind – I didn't want to insult his dignity any further. Photographers and television crews surrounded us, like vultures waiting to be called to dinner. They all wanted to capture the moment when the great champion puts his foot to the ground and abandons the race. But he wasn't going to give them that pleasure. Roche's golden rule was that he never abandoned. He was riding to Cauterets.

I had always wanted to be at Stephen's side in the mountains, but not in these circumstances. I advised him not to torture himself for I could see he was in great pain. Tears welled up in his eyes as we crossed the top and I felt terribly sorry for him. If he had abandoned at the top I am sure I would have abandoned too, but he kept going. He rode better on the second Col, Aubisque, and I dropped back three-quarters of the way up the climb. Eddy remained at his side.