Rough Ride (8 page)

I asked about the contents and Dede went through the various boxes and pills, explaining what each was for. There were pills for avoiding cramp, for cleaning out the liver, vitamins, caffeine tablets, salts, minerals and small glass tubes of a white liquid he laughed and joked about. He said it was 'du peau' ('skin') a slang word for pervitine. 'Ton ton' and 'tan tan' were slang words for tonedron. I hadn't a clue what he was talking about and my ignorance seemed to make him laugh even harder. 'Amphetamines.' This I did understand. 'But what about the controls?' I asked. 'There are never any controls at Mauleon,' he replied. This point was validated later that evening at the team meeting by Vallaeys, who was looking after us in Thevenet's absence. There were grins all around the room and we left. Vallaeys did not directly encourage us to charge up for the next day, but in reminding us that we were professionals he was giving us the green light. This was worrying.

The peloton was unusually jolly at the start next morning. In the opening kilometres where the atmosphere was relaxed and jovial I noticed a new game being played. Riders were going around and putting their hands in the back pockets of other riders' jerseys. To me it didn't seem all that funny, but they seemed to be finding it hilarious. Someone explained that a rider who was prepared to inject himself with amphetamines had to do so two to two and a half hours from the finish. A normal bike race lasted six to seven hours so it was necessary to carry the amphetamine for three to four hours before using it. It could be taken in tablet form or through injection. Tablet was handy, as it could be carried and taken discreetly; but because it had to pass through the stomach, the effects were slower and not as good. Injection straight into the muscle gave an almost instant reaction and was much stronger, but was awkward because it meant transporting a syringe for most of the race. For transport, the syringe first had to be doctored. It was cut just above the piston that pushed out the liquid and a plastic cap was placed over the needle. Then the syringe was placed in a metal tube, usually a vitamin tube, and a piece of cotton wool pressed in on top to protect it from vibration. The tube was then placed among the fruit cake and other race food in the rider's jersey pocket until the time to use it arrived.

As we rode out of Mauleon the game was to see who had the tube and who hadn't. From the guffaws and laughter it became clear to me that quite a few tubes had been found. This was very disheartening. What chance had I against guys riding on amphetamines? At the time I looked on them as cheats, and as I had always despised cheating I couldn't understand how they could be happy winning, knowing they had taken a stimulant to do so. Try as I might, I couldn't catch anyone actually taking the stuff. I was still convinced I couldn't do anything, so I was content to finish in the bunch.

Because I lived in Wasquehal, fifteen kilometres from the border, Thevenet assumed that I liked racing in Belgium. I was, therefore, a natural choice to dispute the one-day classics that were now imminent. The Tour of Flanders was the first. I raced the first 150 kilometres trying my hardest to get out of the bunch before we reached the series of cobbled climbs near the end, where the race would be blown apart. I tried, but to no avail, and I was forced to remain in the bunch until the approach to the first climb. Twenty kilometres before it the pace started hotting up. Thevenet had told us that unless we were at the front going into the first cobbles then we could forget about it. The problem was that every other rider in the bunch had been told the same thing by their respective
directeurs sportifs,
and the result was absolute mayhem. There was pushing, shoving and shoulder rubbing at forty miles an hour on narrow roads full of holes and other hidden traps such as raised shore covers and ridges. I suddenly realised that all it took was for one rider to fall in this speeding packed bunch to bring 50 per cent of the others with him. I chickened out of trying to stay in the front, and slipped down to the back, where it was much more sociable. I knew that our team car had had a bad draw, so Thevenet was seventeen cars behind and could not possibly see the tail of the field and he therefore was unaware of my presence there. I was soon dropped and I abandoned after just 150 kilometres.

Ghent-Wevelgem was next. The difficulties of this are the crosswinds which blow in from the sea when the race hugs the coastline between Zeebrugge and De Panne. On a cold Wednesday morning the winds were gale force, blowing sand all over the road as the bunch split into ten large groups on the seafront. I was in about the seventh group but then slipped back to the eighth, the ninth and the tenth. Questioning the point of this madness, I lost contact and was passed by the different team cars. Thevenet drove alongside but it was Vallaeys who rolled down the window. 'What's the problem?' he asked. Now, with the bunch in ten groups and bodies literally everywhere, it seemed perfectly obvious to me what the problem was; but just as I was about to answer another gust of wind blew sand across the road and into his face, blinding him. He quickly rolled up the window without waiting any longer for a reply and I laughed to myself: 'I think he got the message.'

Jean-Claude Vallaeys was not liked among the riders, which made his job of assistant
directeur sportif
very difficult. His problem was that he had never raced and so did not command the same respect from us as Thevenet, who had won the Tour de France twice. Vallaeys had been secretary of the La Redoute team and at paperwork and organisation he was very efficient, but we didn't think he had a clue about pro cycling. How were we supposed to take orders from a man who chain-smoked, and ate like there was no tomorrow? I didn't like him; I found him false and insincere. He often made fun of my efforts to speak French, which I would have accepted if he spoke English – but he hadn't a word. It was a mystery to me how a guy like Vallaeys could be at the head of a professional cycling team.

Two days after Ghent I abandoned the Grand Prix Pino Cerami in Belgium. It was a vicious circle. I needed a stage race to build up strength for the classics. But as I had not ridden Paris-Nice I was unprepared for these savage one-day events and was unable to ride much further than half-way in most of them. In between races we stayed at a hotel in Moeskron, where they served the most gigantic juicy steaks, and we ate like kings; but we raced like juniors, and the result was that my condition deteriorated instead of improved. There was also the mental side of it. Not finishing races was a bad habit that was becoming addictive. When it snowed or rained or was freezing cold, as it often was for the classics, it was all too easy to abandon the bike for the warmth of the
soigneurs'
car. Once in the car the remorse would start. The self-analysis that led to deep depression. Finishing races instilled confidence and self-respect. Abandoning destroyed both.

Two days after Cerami we drove to Compiègne for Paris-Roubaix. The weather was atrocious, and I wondered if the race would be cancelled as it was snowing heavily as we went to bed. The La Vie Claire team were staying in the same hotel and during the night one of their new professionals, the American Thurlow Rogers, left his room and the hotel without saying a word. The next day the story was that he had cracked and was returning to the States. The hardened Europeans found this very amusing, but I understood how he felt and often considered doing the same. On this cold, wet morning it was easy to make such decisions. It was snowing in Compiègne when we rode out of the cobbled square and I knew there was no way I was going to make it to Roubaix. The tactic was simple: try to get the hell out of the bunch before crossing the first
pave.
I attacked several times in the first hundred kilometres without success and as we approached the first
pave,
the pace shot up as the big guns moved to the front, while the small fry like myself slipped to the back. I bumped into Kelly. He was on the way up and I was on the way down. For him the race was now starting; for me it was over. The enormous gap in our abilities became apparent to me.

There was a huge crash just before the first section, and I fell off without hurting myself. I met Dede at the bottom of the tangled mess. He had lumps out of him, so I waited and then we chased together. At the exit of the first
pave
we were seven minutes behind the leaders and we abandoned almost immediately. We climbed into the broom wagon and were brought to the showers, where I washed and changed in time to see 'King Kelly' win his second Paris-Roubaix.

It was obvious to me that I needed to take drastic action to climb out of the pit into which I had fallen. Thevenet was not pleased with my performances and after a long discussion I told him I wanted to leave Wasquehal and move to Grenoble. The head office of RMO was based in the Alpine town, and five of the team's cyclists lived in the region. The only problem would be a place to stay. RMO sponsored the Grenoble football team and also a training centre for its apprentices. Thevenet rang the centre and they agreed to lodge me until I could find an apartment. The thought of getting out of Wasquehal worked wonders on me. A week after Paris-Roubaix we rode Liège-Bastogne-Liège. In freezing cold rain Bruno Huger and I were the only two riders to finish from our team. Only sixty riders finished and Thevenet praised me for my courage – it was the first good word he had had for me in a month. Not that I blamed him, for I had abandoned seven races on the trot, but I felt sure the run was at an end. For finishing forty-eighth I managed to get my name in
L'Equipe.
This may seem trivial, but it was quite important. Monsieur Braillon would buy the sports daily every morning and scrutinise the results to find where his men had finished. By having my name in print, I proved to him that I was earning my keep, which would make it easier for him to sign my pay cheque at the end of each month.

Grenoble was sunny, bright and beautiful. From the first glimpse of the city I knew I had made the right decision. Things would now get better and I felt a page had turned.

I like to think that I am a survivor. I've always had good survival instincts. Moving from Lille to Grenoble was not just a matter of a change of scenery: it was essential. The two months spent at Wasquehal had given me time to analyse my situation. Because I lived so close to Belgium, they thought I liked racing there. I hated it. By living so close to Vallaeys, I was under his thumb, one of his boys. I didn't like him; and, worse, he knew I disliked him, so it seemed to me he was never going to do me any favours. I had to get out. 'Go south, young man.'

Grenoble was the hub of the team. The firm's headquarters, the team's headquarters, the decision-making, all were here. France is a huge country. The flight time from Lille to Grenoble is the same as between Paris and Dublin. So to Thevenet it was all the same if I lived in Dublin or Lille; either way, I was a foreigner. Now, if I were a foreigner like Stephen Roche or Sean Kelly and could pedal my bike faster than anyone else in the world, then my sponsor and
directeur
would bend over backwards to please me, no matter where I lived. But being Paul Kimmage was different. I knew that once my two-year contract was terminated they would look at me and say, 'Well, Kimmage is Irish but he's not Roche or Kelly; he's an ordinary solid pro but why bother hiring a foreigner when we can hire a hundred Frenchmen with the same ability?' I knew this would happen, so I had to get close to them. Living in Grenoble would enable me to keep my finger on the pulse of all that was happening in the team. I had to integrate as much as possible, make them forget that I was Irish. I told them I loved France and especially Grenoble and that I was going to remain here long after my career was finished.

This wasn't a complete lie. I did like the region, and as I knew that there would be very few job opportunities in Ireland for a not too famous ex-professional cyclist, there was a good chance that I would stay on. But still, I must admit to playing the role of Uriah Heep quite well. I should have been given an Oscar.

It worked. I had only spent two days in the city when a man from the company invited me to dinner at his house. Marc Mingat worked in the firm's public relations department and was ideally placed to fill me in on Marc Braillon's moods and humours. Mingat would give me the feedback on Braillon's meetings with Thevenet, so that I always knew the temperature of the water before taking a bath. I was invited to assist at the openings of any new company offices in the area. Braillon would be present at these, and I always made sure I was well dressed without being flashy. Braillon didn't like anyone toot flashy. It was rumoured that one day Braillon was looking out the window of his office and saw one of his employees arrive in a huge, flashy car. He fired him. Braillon himself drove a Mercedes 300 but it was a drab mustard colour; it was classy but not extravagant, and he expected his employees to follow suit. There was one golden rule never to be broken: in our interviews with the press we were to talk not so much of the company but of the company chief. We were to talk not of RMO but of Marc Braillon.

I shared a room at the football club with the Brazilian Mauro Ribeiro. Like me, he was a new professional. He spoke excellent French but with a very heavy Latin American accent. By moving to Grenoble at the start of the year he got to know the other French riders in the area much better than me. But this was a double-edged sword, for they also got to know him. He wasn't liked. I learnt this from Thierry Claveyrolat and Patrick Clerc. Thierry was a former team-mate of Stephen Roche's at La Redoute. He lived in the village of Vizille, twelve kilometres outside Grenoble. Patrick had raced with Sean Kelly at Sem; he lived at Brignoud, north of the city. Both had trained regularly and had travelled to races with Ribeiro since the start of the season and complained that he was always the last to put his hand in his pocket when it came to paying for coffee on the way to a race. When I told them I was sharing a room with him they gave me an awful slagging and, wanting desperately to be accepted, I abandoned any notion of defending him and decided to play along. I didn't like him anyway. When I saw him taking a vitamin injection after the Haut-Var race in February, I instantly branded him a junkie even though this was unfair. He was, however, tight with his money. It's funny but because he never spent much, I assumed he didn't have much. And because I was a better rider, I assumed I was better paid; so I was always prepared to pick up the tab when it came to buying papers, cakes and coffee. But I was wrong; he was just tight.

I learnt this in a conversation with Marc Mingat. Marc informed me that Ribeiro was paid £500 a month more than I was and had two return flights to Brazil paid for by Braillon each year. Braillon had an office in Rio de Janeiro and it was good PR to have a Brazilian on the team, so when Ribeiro came on the market he was snapped up. This revelation turned me completely against Ribeiro, and I told the others the news – which turned them against him also. This was a mistake and very petty of me, but survival was the name of the game and the revelation would gain me some extra points.

A week after moving to Grenoble we flew to Holland for the Amstel Gold Race. It was a bit like Liège-Bastogne–Liège and I rode really well, finishing as the top rider on the team, in twenty-first place. Two important stage races were approaching, the Quatre Jours de Dunkirk and the Tour de Romandie. I knew I was starting to find good form and I desperately wanted to ride in the Romandie. Dunkirk would be cobbles and crosswinds and I knew I would be much more suited to the hard climbs and more sheltered roads of Switzerland. In stage races teams were limited in the number of riders they could enter. At Dunkirk it was eight and at Romandie six. There were eighteen riders on the team, but places for only fourteen, which meant four would remain at home without racing. Not racing meant having to train each day alone. There was no way of simulating racing so inevitably the rider's condition would drop, making it hard for him to impress when he raced again. I didn't want to ride in Dunkirk but it was better than being at home. Thevenet explained he was sending all his pure climbers to Switzerland and that I should be grateful to ride in Dunkirk, as four riders would ride in neither race. I wanted to argue that I was a pure climber, for I felt I was, but decided to say nothing. Dunkirk was better than nothing.

I rode poorly all week except for the last day, when we had a hilly circuit race around the town of Cassel. Here, I was given instructions to go up the climb as hard as possible. My teammate Regis Simon was lying second overall to the Belgian Dirk de Wolf and we thought the heavily built Fleming might crack on the steep but short slopes of Cassel. I gave it everything I had and split the bunch to bits, but we could not get rid of De Wolf, and Regis finished second.

A week later we were in Bordeaux for the marathon Bordeaux-Paris where the format had been changed since my debut the year before. The old tradition of the twenty-minute break at Poitiers where we had stopped to link up with our motorbike pacers had been abandoned and it was to be run along the same lines as the other one-day classics. On the morning of the race we went out for a light spin in the vineyards. Wine didn't mean much to me at the time, and the team leader Bernard Vallet couldn't believe my lack of enthusiasm as we rode through Margaux past some of the best and most expensive wine chateaux in the world. His excitement about wine amused me. Back in Ireland wine was what the priest poured into the chalice every Sunday. Guinness, now, that was a real drink. I couldn't understand this Frenchman nearly bursting into tears about us riding around a few fancy houses and fields of grapes. But his passion was obviously real, and in an effort to impress on me the value of the vineyards he said, 'Polo,' (this was my nickname) 'if you owned forty feet of that land you would never have to throw your leg over a bike again.' At lunchtime he ordered a good bottle of red which I found no more than OK, but after that I started to take an interest. Now I am a wine fanatic. Margaux, Rothschild and Yquem are châteaux I cherish, although their outrageous prices mean they aren't often enjoyed in our house.

Bernard Vallet had prepared especially for Bordeaux-Paris and at the team meeting two hours before the race Thevenet insisted that all our efforts were to be directed towards helping him. We raced out of Bordeaux in the black of night, each rider with a set of front and back lamps. Visibility was a problem and our eyes were strained to distance ourselves properly from the wheel in front. The crack was good though, some of the lads would turn off their lamps and try to sneak off without being seen. It is a bastard of a race. I started to fall asleep on the bike at around seven next morning when we had ridden 300 kilometres. It seems an exaggeration, but it's not. My eyelids were so desperately heavy that my head would keep falling forward, until I realised what was happening and woke up. Caffeine tablets would have been the answer but as I was 'pure' and regarded this as doping, they were out of the question. An important break developed near the end of the race with just Patrick Clerc from our team present. Thevenet ordered Dede and me to the front to chase it down. We had to ride our eyeballs out to bring it back, but we did; and then a fresh attack developed but this time Vallet was there. Dede and I were dropped thirty kilometres from Paris and we immediately got into the team cars. As an amateur the objective had been to finish. As a professional it was to win, or help someone else to win. Our work was done and there was nothing to be gained in struggling on to Paris. To say I was tired was an understatement. I had been in the team car two minutes when I fell asleep. I showered and we got a taxi to the airport, where I slept again. I slept on the flight to Grenoble, in the taxi to the football club, and as soon as I arrived I went straight to bed. My fascination with Bordeaux-Paris was now over and it was definitely a case of never again.

The Dauphine Libérée stage race was fast approaching. Nine days long and with stages climbing some of the biggest mountains in the Alps it is the second biggest stage race in the country after the Tour. But because it took place in RMO's back garden, i.e. in the Grenoble region, it was equally important to our beloved sponsor. This was the reason Thevenet gave for leaving me out of the team. He wanted the best nine possible and I was no higher than twelfth on the team ladder. I accepted the decision, and prepared myself to ride the Tour de l'Oise, a short, three-day event which took place at the same time. A week before the Dauphine, Thevenet organised a training run over one of the Alpine stages and invited me along. It was my first opportunity to attempt the really big climbs, and I was excited to find out about what until then had only been photographs on a bedroom wall. Thierry Claveyrolat was the team's best climber, but I managed to stay with him almost to the top on three of the mountains and he was surprised I was climbing so well. Two days later one of the selections, the veteran Jean-Louis Gauthier, pulled out of the team, leaving a place vacant. Thevenet had heard that I had climbed well in the training run against Claveyrolat and offered me the berth.

The race started with a prologue time trial on the shores of the beautiful lake at Annecy, then moved across to Lyon, St Etienne and then back across to Chambéry, Albertville and Grenoble. On the third stage to St Etienne, Thierry Claveyrolat outsprinted Laurent Fignon for a prestigious stage victory. By winning a stage, Thierry had saved the team's honour on its home ground. The pressure was now off, and we could enjoy things just a little bit more. A plan was drawn up for the following stage to Charavines, where we reckoned our sprinter Francis Castaing had a good chance. Castaing was perfectly led out by Regis Simon, Vincent Barteau and Pierre Le Bigaut and looked set for the win, but then the La Vie Claire sprinter Jean-François Rault moved up on his shoulder. Sensing Rault's presence, Castaing moved across, pushing the Breton into the barriers, but Rault quite rightly refused to be intimidated and stuck his elbow into Castaing to protect himself. Castaing insisted and they both crashed at forty miles an hour. Le Bigaut, Simon and Barteau could not avoid the two bodies sprawled across the road and they fell also. That night Castaing was heavily criticised for his unprofessional behaviour. Le Bigaut and Barteau were knocked out and missed the remainder of the race. By endangering the lives of his team-mates Castaing had committed a professional fault.

I was riding very well and was lying seventeenth after the first mountain stage to Chambéry, but I cracked badly on the third climb the following day and slipped to thirty-fourth. I cracked completely on the last mountain stage from Grenoble to Puy St Vincent, but no one noticed too much for Thierry won the stage, and Thevenet waited patiently for the forty minutes it took me to finish. He patted me on the back, and then brought me to the medical caravan: I had been picked for a dope control. The seven-hour stage in the hot sun had left me dehydrated, and I found it difficult to piss. But beer and water were available and after a fifteen-minute delay I felt the urge. I was given a clear glass flask and told to strip. The prying eyes of the commissar surveyed me as I tried to piss and at first this irritated me. Then I tried not to think of him and imagined waterfalls and flushing toilets, and at last the clear yellow urine started flowing. I watched as he split my sample into two small bottles then gave each a code, which I chose, and the bottles were sealed with candle-wax, one for analysis, the other to be opened for a second analysis if the first was positive. I never heard any more about it so I presumed I was negative. Effervescent vitamin tablets and glass tubes of minerals and iron were all I had given myself, but even so I felt afraid – afraid that there would be some mix-up in the samples and I would be found positive. I could see myself outraged and proclaiming my innocence with no one listening. For no one ever listened to a 'positive' protesting his innocence. The shame of it! I imagined the headlines in the papers back in Dublin.
KIMMAGE TAKES DRUGS.
Oh, the shame of it! I was thankful that I was pure and sure I was negative.