Rough Ride (26 page)

Johnson's positive test once again throws the spotlight back on the problem of drugs in sport. No doubt there will be endless discussion and suggestions on what action should be taken. What I find most frustrating is how every athlete is smeared by the drugs story. There will be widespread pontificating on the immorality of modern sport, yet I and thousands of other Olympic athletes would hardly know the difference between an anabolic steroid and a packet of Smarties. I find it most irritating that the drugs story, which for me is the least interesting and relevant aspect of these Games, will dominate the Olympics.

The problem is that for years too many people have considered the drugs issue the least interesting and relevant aspect of the Games and of other major events. When these people awaken to the realities of modern sport, namely that it stinks and needs help, then perhaps some progress can be made.

Who is to blame for the madness? Where is the antidote for this cancer incessantly devouring what was once straightforward competition? Well, in order to combat the cancer we must admit that it exists. The professional cycling body won't admit their sport is dying of cancer. They will admit to a sore toe but not a cancer. Their defence of the system never changes: 'No other sport controls their members with the regularity with which cyclists are controlled.'

So what? If this book is saying anything, it is saying that these controls are inadequate. Passing the buck is not a solution. Sooner or later the can of worms must be opened and the full magnitude of the abuse exposed. The governing body must be prepared to wash its dirty laundry in public if the sport is to hang on to some decency. When every professional race has comprehensive dope controls; when random controls are carried out anywhere and at any time; when penalties for offenders are stiffened to provide a reasonable deterrent: then, and only then, can we relax.

But at the moment we are a million years from change. The men in power want a solution all right, but a painless one. One that won't damage the sport in the eyes of the public and the television companies. There are few morals in business, and cycling has become a business. The television companies have stepped in, cheque book in hand, followed closely by the marketing men and their lucrative sponsorship deals. It's all about money now. Make it on the small screen and you make it big, and the sport of cycling now holds a coveted place. There are no morals left in professional sport and amateur sport ceased to exist a long time ago. Money, money, money: television sport is big business. There are a lot of race organisers lining their pockets and the last thing they want is a dope scandal. It's bad publicity, it tarnishes the glitter – and with bad publicity the sponsors start running.

The grapevine is a dreadfully frustrating source of knowledge. Facts are often distorted, but there is no smoke without fire. I've heard stories of corruption that would make you ill: of race organisers giving the green light to champions to take anything they want; of urine samples that never reach laboratories. The temptation for those on the make is to cover up rather than own up. But by not owning up we will continue to suck in the innocents and spit out the victims.

Thank God we don't see any of this on television. Thank God we don't hear about the nastiness, the dealing, the dirt. The champions deserve our applause. They merit our encouragement. They are not to blame. They need our help. Should I remain silent? No, I can't because it's what
they
want, the people who profit from the rule of silence. They would prefer that we sit back in awe, admiring but not questioning. Well, I'm questioning. It's such a beautiful sport . . .

Would I encourage my child in the pursuit of sporting excellence? No. I don't think I would.

Rumilly, Sunday, 29 October 1989. A crisp October afternoon. At three, the sharp sunlight has only just lifted the last whiteness of the morning's heavy frost. Soon, light will fade and the whiteness return. The apartment block is difficult to find. I had been here once before, late at night. We had taken his car to go to a cyclo-cross, but I hadn't paid much attention to where he lived. Today, I don't recognise anything. Thought it was posher than this, though. It's a bit rougher looking in the daylight. You sense hostility in the kids' stares. Perhaps they sense it in mine. These are not apartments, more like flats. Andre's was definitely an apartment. After a long search we find one that fits that description. It has four floors, seven dwellings to a floor. Twenty-seven of the doors have plaques with the occupant's name, then just one door with no plaque. We ring. It opens. André Chappuis is standing at the other side. He smiles his lovely, innocent smile and we shake hands.

He is thirty-four and going a bit light on the crown. We used to slag him about it. There was a cheese ad on television, with monks gathered at a dinner table singing in praise of the cheese, their bald patches glowing. We used to sing it for Andre, but he never liked it.

He needs new shoes. He is wearing a pair of those given to us by RMO two years ago. The jeans are almost as worn, but the leather jacket is nice – his sister gave it to him. I haven't seen him since we were both given our marching orders from Vallet, twelve months earlier. I had panicked, worried about my future, but was saved by the offer from Stephen. I rode the Tour de France, stopped, and am now a journalist. God, it seems more than a year. Andre didn't panic, he knew it was coming: 'Que sera, sera.' He was an unemployed cyclist. He still is.

He spent the winter in Africa. He was one of six unemployed pros invited to tour the African continent for a series of criteriums against amateurs. Rumilly wasn't offering much. Why not? He laughs about it now. The amateurs, mostly inexperienced blacks, were not much opposition. Ghana, Togo, Senegal, Benin, Nigeria, there was no end to the countries he visited. The travelling was tiring, but the wily old pros would reach for their medicine bags and a tiny syringe. The secrets of the old job were an instant cure. There was no money to be made, but all expenses were taken care of. When the series ended, five of the wild geese returned to France, but Andre stayed on. He got friendly with the organiser, himself an ex-pro, and was asked to help organise the next series. He returned to France in the summer to recruit new men for the next campaign, but never appeared at a pro race. There was no point: only the desperate go to Africa, those just laid off and disillusioned. He had their phone numbers.

The flat is almost empty. He has decided there is not much point in paying rent for it when he is never there and is moving out. The phone has been disconnected, the furniture sold and all that's left is a couch and a cabinet containing relics of old glory, cups and medals. He has moved his personal belongings to his parents' derelict house just up the road. He sold his bikes and racing equipment and only kept an old frame and a few bits and pieces for Africa.

He doesn't have to go back. The headquarters of Tefal, the non-stick kitchen appliance company are in Rumilly. If he wants, he can start work and earn £500 a month on the conveyor belt. But he doesn't want to. He's not ready for the factory floor yet. He's not ready for anything at the moment. He stopped being a professional cyclist a year ago, but he hasn't come to terms with it. It's hard for him in Rumilly. Everyone knows him. Along with the rugby team he was once the town's most famous asset. That was in the early 1980s, when he was winning stages in races like Criterium International. Now, after seven years of professionalism, of the Tour de France, of life at the top, he's an ex, a has-been. He has no house, owns no land and isn't married. He doesn't even own a car. He loves cars, loves driving and has gone through nineteen cars since he left school, all good cars, powerful: Porsche, Alfa Romeo and his favourite BMW. The last BMW he had was a 528. He bought it in Marseille and we think it was 'hot' because one day, when he went to have a job done on the engine, the garage told him it wasn't a 528 engine but a 535. Anyone else would have been disgusted, but Andre was thrilled – more power.

It was when he wrote off the BMW that I started to realise he was cracking. It was the night before the Grand Prix of Wallonie in 1988, our last year together. He started drinking whiskies at the dinner table, just kept knocking them back. The lads were making fun of him, but I tried to make him stop. I knew that inside something was eating him. After dinner, they decided to drive into town to stare at the prostitutes in the shop windows. Andre took the BMW, with Esnault in the front seat, Rault and Pineau in the back. There was a dual carriageway in front of the hotel, with a traffic light on the junction. The light was red. Andre didn't stop. He put his foot to the floor and the car screeched across the four lanes, but luckily nothing was coming. The other lads couldn't believe he would do something so irresponsible and screamed at him to stop. He did, but the decision wasn't his. The gates of a level crossing were down a kilometre up the road. The two lads in the back didn't hesitate to jump out, but Esnault, content to play the hard man, stayed. The gates were raised and Andre put his foot down, but instead of going into town he decided to head out into the countryside. The car was moving much too fast on the small tracks and he ran off the road on a tight right-hander. The BMW mounted a pile of stacked tree trunks and stopped. Esnault was thrown forward and hit his head on the windscreen, but wasn't seriously hurt. Andre looked at the undercarriage and realised the car was gone. Rault and Pineau arrived on the scene in a different car, and persuaded him to go back to the hotel. Next morning, the Belgian police arrived and started to ask questions. Andre owned up to having had an accident. The car was towed to a garage, good for only spare parts. Everyone had a great laugh. Andre laughed too; but inside, I knew, he was screaming.

He's pretty low now but he won't admit it. I suppose that's why he takes refuge in Africa. In a way it's like the old days – he can travel and race. But more than anything else, he can hold on to the dream just that little bit longer. Africa won't last for ever, and he knows it, but the future has never concerned him. Africa is an escape. The day he walks on to the factory floor the dream will end.

It's a terrible pity he never married. Marriage might have given him a sense of responsibility, kept him on the rails. He was terribly fond of a lovely girl who lived just down the road, but he could never make the first move.

We left the sad reality of the empty apartment and drove to Annecy. There was just time for a stroll around the lake before nightfall. He told humorous stories of his travels in Africa and we laughed about the good times we had spent together at RMO. We had a couple of beers and later had dinner in a restaurant. At the end of the meal he asked the waiter for the bill. It was typical of him, always first to put his hand in his pocket, give you his last penny. But Ann and I had invited him out. He was our guest and I insisted on paying. He agreed, but said he'd pay next time.

He came to stay with us for a weekend shortly after. I was covering a rugby match, so Ann collected him from the railway station. He gave her flowers and a chocolate cake. It was a nice weekend, but I noticed his frequent uneasiness. As if his skin wasn't fitting him properly. He seemed happiest when we went to the village bar. He liked the ambience, playing the 'tierce' (betting on horses), drinking a few beers and smoking. He smokes quite a lot now, Marlboro – 'They sponsored the races in Africa.' In the mornings he'd get up early and slip out to the bar for a read of the paper and some coffee. He'd return to the house with some fresh baguettes and we'd have breakfast together. One thing was troubling me: a former team-mate of ours had told me that Andre was still dabbling with amphetamines for kicks. On the day he was due to go home I invited him out for a beer and asked him about it. He smiled and denied he was still using it. He said he had dumped his stock and was clean. I wasn't totally convinced. I told him about my plans on writing a book and of its content. I told him I was going to 'cracher dans la soupe'. He laughed and said I was right, but I knew there was no way he would ever do it himself. To him, it would be like ratting on your mates and Andre would never rat on his mates. The fact that they didn't give a shit about him made no difference. I asked him about his experiences.

'In my first two years with (Jean) de Gribaldy at Sem I never touched the stuff, perhaps once in my second year at a criterium. Then I signed a contract with Système-U. This was the old Système-U team. I met up with a lot of
chaudières
there and picked up some bad habits. Once, twice, three times, the more I charged, the harder it became to stop. Every time I used it I noted it in my diary and each year I found I was using it more and more.'

André never tested positive in his career. Not once. He rarely took a chance when there was control. The shame was in being caught. It says a thing or two about the number of controls in France each year.

He was supposed to come for another weekend before leaving for the winter in Africa, but he never did. The phone never rang. Perhaps my probes about the drugs issue had made him uncomfortable. I don't really know. I have not seen or heard from him since.

One of my biggest criticisms of
L'Equipe
and of the French cycling press in general is that they never talk to people like Andre. The absence of adequate controls in France is common knowledge, but rarely highlighted. The papers and magazines know about the problems, but choose instead to fill their column inches with portraits of the stars – of present 'greats', Fignon, LeMond, Kelly, Roche; of 'greats' from the past, Hinault, Merckx, Anquetil. Of greats. When Philippe Brunei from
L'Equipe
came to interview me during last year's tour I told him about Chappuis.

'Go and talk to him, he will give you a great piece.'

He agreed, but the interview was never done. It is as if the Andre Chappuis's of the world do not exist; and yet under the carpet there are crowds of them. They have great stories to tell but no one will ever hear them.

I don't know if I will ever meet Andre again. When I'm in France I'll go looking for him, but I'm not sure he will be there. In Ireland, my door will always be open to him, but I know he won't come knocking. In my four years in the peloton, of the hundreds of professional cyclists I've had the pleasure and often displeasure of meeting, he stands alone. He was the most likeable and most decent of them all.