Rough Ride
Page 11
Today was desperately hard again. I felt dead at the bottom of the first col, the Tourmalet, and was instantly left behind. But after three kilometres of struggling I suddenly felt the strength to pedal faster and I upped the pace. I caught a group, left them behind and caught another. I couldn't believe it when I saw Stephen in a group of stragglers. He was suffering really badly and I felt desperately sorry for him. Damn it, I was getting used to being left behind on the big climbs but this was a new experience for him. I threw my arm around him and tried to console him. I should have waited with him, but I felt a new thrust of power and I wanted to see just how far it could carry me. I went across to the next group and rode really strongly up the rest of the Tourmalet. I got a bit of a fright on the descent. I was going too fast as I entered a long, sweeping bend in a sort of half tunnel. I bounced off the wall but incredibly managed to stay up. I rode hard in the valley that brought us to the bottom of the second col, the Aspin. I climbed this with the same vigour as I had climbed Tourmalet but it was on the third climb, Peyresourde, that I started running out of steam. The final two kilometres were never-ending and I crawled over the top. Stephen's group caught me as we were about to start the last climb, the thirteen-kilometre rise to the ski station, Super-bagnères, with the stage finishing at the top. This time Stephen was encouraging me and I realised I had made a big mistake. It would have been much wiser to have stayed with Stephen's group on the Tourmalet, but instead I had set off like an idiot on the glory trail and burnt off the small reserves my body still possessed. Superbagnères was Calvary, but I made it. Tonight we are staying in an old school dormitory. It's an awful kip, but I'm so tired I don't mind where I sleep.
Thursday, 17 July
Stage 14: Luchon to Blagnac (154 kilometres)
Stage winner: Niki Ruttiman (Switzerland)
Race leader: Bernard Hinault
Today I realised just how tired I am. Some idiot attacked just before the feeding station and there was chaos. I grabbed my feeding bag and threw it over my back. The attack split the bunch into one long line and I was the last man and too occupied to transfer the food from the bag to my jersey pockets. Thevenet drove up beside me and told me to move quickly to the front. I pulled out and started making my way up the line. I passed five guys when all of a sudden I realised I hadn't got the strength to go any further and I started slipping back, only to end up back where I had started from. The five guys I passed started laughing when they saw me going backwards, and I couldn't blame them. The chase lasted over twenty-five kilometres, and it was half an hour before I could empty my musette and we all settled down. I'm looking forward to the rest day, but it's another four hard stages away.
Friday, 18 July
Stage 15: Carcassonne to Nîmes (225.5 kilometres)
Stage winner. Frank Hoste (Belgium)
Race leader: Bernard Hinault
It's dreadfully hot tonight. My body is sweating all the time and I know I won't sleep too well. After dinner I went out for an ice-cream with Clavet, Castaing and Dede. We had to sneak out of the hotel, as Thevenet doesn't take too kindly to us eating ice-cream. It was good fun, but irritating to watch the holiday-makers enjoying themselves in the bars and cafes of this bright, ancient Roman town. How many times have we cycled by lake-shores, crammed with people enjoying themselves? Or been applauded by sunbathers in scanty bathing costumes? Is it worth it?
Saturday, 19 July
Stage 16: Nîmes to Gap (246.5 kilometres)
Stage winner: Jean-François Bernard (France)
Race leader: Bernard Hinault
Today we arrived in the Alps and tomorrow is the first Alpine stage. The air is cooler and cleaner here than the hot and sticky stuff in Nîmes. Castaing's face is all bloated. I am not sure what it is, but perhaps he has been dabbling with cortisone and got his doses wrong? The other lads are giving him a hard time about it. Phoned my parents in Dublin. Da was out, so I talked to my mother. She says my father has bought a plane ticket for Paris and is coming over to the finish. This made me angry. He should know better than to presume I will finish this race. At the moment I am not sure of anything. I take it day by day. I've been surviving ever since the time trial at Nantes. Getting to Paris is all Thevenet expects of me, but I'm not sure if I can.
Sunday, 20 July
Stage 17: Gap to Col du Granon (190 kilometres)
Stage winner: Eduardo Chozas (Spain)
Race leader: Greg LeMond
This was to have been my stage. The one I trained specially for. What a joke. What a cruel joke. At least I know now that I'm not a climber and never will be. A strange thing happened at the finish. I crossed the line and Thevenet was waiting for me. He put his arm around me and told me I had made it, I was inside the time limit. And for a few seconds I was disappointed. I was so exhausted, so knackered that I would gladly have accepted being eliminated. Elimination would end the nightmare of getting up each day to face another six hours of this bloody, endless torture. Today was easily the hardest day of my life. I was in trouble from the start, on an insignificant little third-category climb which was nothing compared to the three giants, Vars, Izoard and Granon, which awaited us.
I tried to get myself together for Vars. I talked to Stephen just before it and he told me to start the climb at the front of the bunch. I followed him and attacked the first hairpins in the best possible position. Then the pressure went on, not a big attack, just an increase in pressure. I felt for the gear lever, pushing it downwards, trying to make things easier. But I was going backwards. I tried to hold on, but it was no use. I looked for the top of the mountain and the lines of spectators showed me exactly how far I had to go. 'Christ, I'm not sure I can make it.' I kept slipping backwards and all the time one minor detail was troubling my brain. Of the three giants Vars was the easiest.
But curiously I felt much better on Izoard. I was in a big group of twenty-five riders and I could have left them behind on the fifteen-kilometre monster. But I remembered the Tourmalet and decided to stay with them until the bottom of the Granon. We descended into Briançon and then rode out to the bottom of the last mountain. The Granon was desperately steep. Out training I had sailed up it but now I was dying. The training reconnaissance was now a big disadvantage, for I knew exactly how hard it was. I said to myself, 'I can't make this.' The good sensations I had had on the Izoard had now disappeared, and I slipped to last in the group. Our second team car was behind me. At the bottom of the climb they had stopped to pick up a fellow called Robert, who works with RMO in Grenoble. He was standing on the front seat shouting at me through the sun roof. Three of the twelve kilometres had passed, I was dying. Spectators started to push me. Robert, who knew nothing about cycling shouted at the people not to push me. It is illegal to take a push and Robert thought he was doing the right thing. I turned around to face him in a rage. I said, 'Robert, for fuck's sake, let them push me.' He was stunned, then realised his error and started shouting at the people to push me. I was pushed all the way up the climb but the last kilometre was still hell. My two hands on the tops of the handlebars, my head had dropped between my arms and I could hardly lift it to seek out the line. When I crossed the line, Thevenet was waiting. 'You made it Paul, a couple of minutes inside the limit.' 'Fuck.' I was sorry I had made it. Tomorrow I must start all over again.
Monday, 21 July
Stage 18: Briançon to L'AIpe D'Huez (162.5 kilometres)
Stage winner: Bernard Hinault
Race leader: Greg LeMond
Emile gave it to me before the start. A caffeine tablet. He told me to take it immediately the stage started at the bottom of the highest climb of the race, the Col de Galibier. Normally I would have thrown it away, but this time I put it in my pocket. Some bastard attacked as soon as we left the town, and I had absolutely nothing in my legs and was instantly dropped. I panicked and reached for the tablet in my pocket hoping for some miracle; but nothing happened. I wanted to stop. I wanted to get off the bike and kiss the road and sit do
wn and weep my tears of defeat, but I remembered Stephen's words, spoken to me before the start: 'Whatever happens, finish. If you are eliminated there is no shame – but don't abandon.' So I pedalled on.
I started feeling better after the Galibier. Was it the caffeine? I don't know. I just know I was going better. I caught the French rider Bruno Cornillet in the valley before the day's second climb, 'Croix de Fer'. At the start of the race Cornillet had worn the white jersey of the best Tour debutant. Now, like me, he was on his last legs. Although I had never spoken a word to him in my life, it turned out he knew my name. It was 'Paul this, and Paul that'. All because he wanted me to ride with him, he didn't want to be left on his own. I knew how lousy it was to be left alone and so I decided to stay with him. There was a small third-category climb just before Croix de Fer. I was going much better than him and began to pull away. He was desperate and started begging me to stay, saying that there was a long valley up ahead and that it would be better if we stayed together. I knew there was no such valley and that he was lying, but I understood why, so I waited. On Croix de Fer he was crawling, totally wasted. Every time I turned the pedals I pulled away from him. A spectator at the side of the road shouted that we were twenty-five minutes behind the leaders, Hinault and LeMond. I realised it would be touch and go for the time limit.
I looked at Bruno, he had raced a good race for sixteen days but was now reduced to this – a crawling, begging shadow. I was surprised he didn't abandon and let me get on with it. My look said I had to go, and he understood. 'Allez Paul,' he said and I left him. I rode as hard as I could till the finish at Alpe D'Huez. I had a fierce urge to piss on the descent of the Croix, but I knew that every second was now precious if I was to beat the time limit so I pissed off the bike at sixty kilometres an hour. I arrived at the Alpe just three minutes inside the time limit. Cornillet arrived fourteen minutes behind me. He was eliminated.
Tuesday, 22 July
Rest day: L'AIpe D'Huez
I feel so pleased I have made it this far. It feels wonderful still to be part of the race. Rode for an hour this morning to stop the legs getting stiff. The afternoon was spent hand-washing my gear for I have no more clean shorts or jerseys. Had a good chat with Martin. He told me he was knackered at the bottom of the Alpe yesterday when this large German fraulein came to his rescue. She grabbed him and started pushing him up the mountain. She had huge breasts, which swung freely as she ran. But she was crouched over Martin and her left breast kept hitting him in the face. 'Schnell, schnell!' she cried, and Martin kept encouraging her. He didn't know whether to laugh or cry.
Only five more stages to go. I must hang on.
Wednesday, 23 July
Stage 19: Villard de Lans to St Etienne (179.5 kilometres)
Stage winner: Julian Gorospe (Spain)
Race leader: Greg LeMond
Thank God, Hinault controlled things today. He went to the front of the bunch and no one dared attack. The rest day hasn't done me much good. I felt desperately tired. Was left behind when the pressure went on with thirty kilometres to go, but finished in a big group.
Thursday, 24 July
Stage 20: St Etienne to St Etienne (58 kilometres TT)
Stage winner: Bernard Hinault
Race leader: Greg LeMond
I paced myself well over the thirty-five kilometres, hurting but not flogging myself. Today was almost a second rest day. Only three more stages. If I get over tomorrow's mountain stage to the Puy de Dome I should make it to Paris.
Friday, 25 July
Stage 21: St Etienne to Le Puy de Dome (190 kilometres)
Stage winner: Eric Maechler (Switzerland)
Race leader: Greg LeMond
Hinault controlled things again today and the race started with just fifty kilometres to go, which suited me fine. The Puy is a savagely steep five-kilometre ramp but I rode up it OK. I think I can make it now.
Saturday, 26 July
Stage 22: Clermont-Ferrand to Nevers (194 kilometres)
Stage winner: Guido Bontempi
Race leader: Greg LeMond
A nightmare. I was the only rider in the whole peloton to be left behind when the pressure went on, twenty kilometres from the finish. The shame of it, I am totally knackered. But the real problem is tomorrow. The lads have been telling me that the speed on the Champs Elysées is something incredible. What if I'm left behind in front of millions of television spectators – and, worse, in front of my father, who will be in the crowd? God, the shame of it! 'No one gets dropped on the Champs Elysées,' they said. But damn it, I was the only one to be dropped today. After dinner there was a small meeting in one of the rooms. One or two of the lads were preparing syringes. Cutting them down to size, preparing them for the white amphetamines they would use the next day. I was astonished. 'What about the controls?' They smiled. Safe smiles. 'Tomorrow is the last stage of the race. Only the stage winners and leaders will be controlled. There is no random testing. That's why no one gets dropped on the Champs Elysées.' I was tempted, desperately tempted. They offered me a charge, explaining that I could take it in tablet form if I preferred. I refused and said I needed time to think. I didn't despise them. They were my friends. I understood. Hadn't we suffered enough? They wanted to help me. I wanted to accept their help, but that bloody conscience of mine was stopping me. I had never smoked behind my father's back. Had always been dependable and good. I had an acute sense of right and wrong. Taking drugs was wrong. The only merit I had now was finishing this race. If I did it with the help of amphetamines I could never forgive myself. But it was so tempting. I badly wanted to be one of the boys.
Sunday, 27 July
Stage 23: Cosne-sur-Loire to Paris (252 kilometres)
Stage winner: Guido Bontempi
Race winner: Greg LeMond
It was a great stage. A fun stage. The triumphant ride into Paris. During the long 252-kilometre ride to the capital a bottle of champagne was passed around the bunch. There was the singing of the Tour song 'Oh, Champs Elysées' and spirits were high. I got more and more nervous as we approached Paris and the speed went up. I saw one of the lads taking his stuff. It was so simple. The metal tube was opened. The plastic cap, protecting the needle, was taken off and held between the teeth. The right sleeve of the jersey was rolled back and the needle was slipped into the skin of the shoulder and with a squeeze of the sawn-off piston the amphetamines were pushed in. The plastic cap was replaced on the needle, the syringe was put back in the tube and into the pocket. Beautifully done and terribly simple. One of the lads offered me a tablet, but I refused and lied that I was feeling fine.
We could see the Eiffel Tower. What a wonderful sight. We raced along the bank of the Seine past the huge mass of metal, then swung left into Place de la Concorde and on to the Champs Elysées. The roar from the crowd sent goose pimples through my legs and though we raced up and down at over sixty kilometres an hour I felt no pain. I was so overjoyed at having made it, so overcome with the magnificence of it all that I didn't feel the pedals. The finish line was crossed and we ground to a halt. Bernard Vallet stopped beside me and embraced me. He had tears in his eyes. 'Now you know what it is to ride the Tour de France.' My father was standing just a little further on. He threw his arms around me. I was so pleased he was here to share my triumph. It was the happiest day of my life. Two hundred and ten riders had started. One hundred and thirty-two had finished. I was 131st. I had survived. I was a 'Giant of the Road'.
11
THE ARMS RACE
The Tour was a great education. I learnt so much about myself and the real world of professional cycling. Every race before the Tour had been almost child's play compared to 'La Grande Boucle'. The Tour was the ultimate. The 100 per cent race. Finishing it had instilled in me a certain sense of pride. It took a hard man to finish and I now had my 'hard man's licence'. I had expected it, but it had been much harder than I had imagined. I had felt like abandoning a hundred times in the last week but I didn't give in. I couldn't,
for I felt my survival as a professional rider depended on getting to Paris. RMO was a small team, but at the end of the season the weak men would be sacked and new blood brought in. Monsieur Braillon was not pumping money into cycling to play in the second division. Big names would be signed and small names got rid of to make room for them. I had a contract for two years so I was assured of my place for 1987, but already I was thinking ahead to 1988. I may not have been the classiest bike rider in the world, but I had other qualities. Courage, guts and honesty. In a year's time Thevenet would remember not that I had finished the Tour on my hands and knees but that I'd finished.
I had made some bad mistakes. I had been desperately naïve in thinking I could ride a Tour de France on two multi-vitamin tablets each morning. The Tour de France was no ordinary race. It made superhuman demands on the human body. Riding six hours a day for twenty-three days was not possible without vitamin supplements, mineral supplements, chemicals to clean out a tired liver, medication to take the hardness out of rock-hard leg muscles. Taken in tablet form the medication passed through the stomach and liver. This was extra work for already overworked organs and the result was that much of the benefit of the product was lost. Injections avoided this and were therefore much more efficient. A syringe did not always mean doping. In a perfect world it would be possible to ride the Tour without taking any medication, so long as everyone else did the same. But this was not a perfect world. We were not doping, we were taking care of ourselves, replacing what was being sweated daily out of our bodies. The substances taken were not on the proscribed list, so how could we be doping? And yet one thing was becoming clear to me: as soon as you started playing, as soon as you accepted the taking of medication, the line between what was legal and what was illegal, between taking care of yourself and doping grew very, very thin. Most fellows cross it without ever realising they have. They just follow the advice of a team-mate or soigneur. 'So and so swears by this, any time he wants to do a ride he takes it.' And even though the rider himself may not want to take the product, perhaps doubting its legality, the thought of being disadvantaged changes his mind. It's a bit like the arms race: 'Laurents got an intercontinental missile in his arse today, I'd better get one or I'll be blitzed.' And before they know it they are in the middle of a very dangerous game. By accepting an injection on the night of the Nantes time trial, I had indeed entered the 'dope stadium'. I was, however, firm in my commitment to stay off the playing field as far as illegal substances were concerned. Could this last? I hoped so.