by Paul Kimmage
The Nissan finished on the Sunday in Dublin. I tried to put up a bit of show in front of my home crowd as we dashed up and down O'Connell Street, but I ultimately failed to make any real impression. Galway was forgotten, and I could at least hold my head high again. This time the season was over and I wasn't sorry. I needed a break.
12
QUALIFIED PRO
The winter months were spent in Dublin. This was the fun part of being a pro, the three months spent at home at the end of every season. I enjoyed a high profile in my native land. My notoriety had started when I was an amateur. Now, as a professional, I was part of an elite band. There were just four professional cyclists in the country. Sean Kelly was the world's number one, with Stephen Roche not far behind him. Martin Earley had won a stage in the Tour of Italy and Paul Kimmage had finished, well, 131st in the Tour de France. Cycling was becoming more and more popular with the media and as a result more familiar to the ordinary man in the street. I enjoyed cashing in on my new fame. I was invited by cycling clubs throughout the country to give coaching talks and lectures on the life of a pro. There was often a five-minute television slot here or a radio slot there and gradually I was building up a name for myself. There was no money to be made out of it, but it made me feel important, as if I was something. So at the end of my break I always found it hard to return to France, where I was nothing.
I left Ireland on 9 January after a phone call from Thevenet. He had organised a pre-season training camp at Gruissan on the French Riviera. I caught the ferry to England and drove to Stoke, where I stayed the night with Martin. The next stage saw me on a stopover at Paris with my good friends Jean and Ginette Beaufils. And from there I drove to Gruissan. There were eight new faces on the team. Gauthier, Le Bigaut, Barteau, Russemberger, Mogore and Castaing were replaced by six Frenchmen, an Italian and an American. Jean-Claude Colotti, Jean-François Rault, Dante Rezze, Patrice Esnault, Vincent Lavenu and Michel Bibollet were the French newcomers. Pierangelo Bincolleto was the Italian and the 1984 Olympic champion Alexi Grewal the American.
Alexi was to be one of the leaders for the year. He had ridden one or two races with us on a trial basis in 1986, although it is important to point out that it was Alexi who was giving RMO the trial. He seemed to like it, so he signed up full-time for 1987. Thevenet thought very highly of him, but I knew there was no way it would work. Physically he had the capabilities to be an asset to any pro team on the Continent. But mentally Alexi was never going to fit into ours or any other European team.
I shared a room with him at the training camp. He had this fear that his body would run down if he didn't eat enough. Half an hour before dinner he used to light up a small portable gas stove that he had brought with him from the States. He boiled water and cooked and ate about half a ton of spaghetti. When he had finished he would come to the dining room and eat a normal dinner with the rest of us. He was a great man for stretching and yoga. Sometimes I would walk into the room to find him standing on his head or lying on the floor on a special piece of wood that massaged his back. On the team training rides, he would often ride a hundred metres behind the group on his own because he felt he was training better. And because he was Alexi Grewal he got away with it. He was paid 35,000 dollars a month, which kind of dwarfed the £700 a month that I was earning.
I found him to be the most eccentric, obnoxious person I have ever met, and yet I liked him. I despised many of the traditional European cycling values but my survival depended on toeing the line. I could never open my mouth. That's what I admired most about Alexi: nothing and nobody intimidated him.
I knew he wouldn't stick it. Alexi was too American, too inflexible. But his biggest problem was his fragile health. He was incredibly vulnerable to picking up colds, which would soon develop into bronchitis and put him out of action for weeks. Good health is one of the primary assets of being a pro. If Alexi had had the same health as Sean Kelly he would have gone a long way. But in the six months he spent with the team he was constantly sick, and I don't remember him ever riding well. By June he had had enough and returned to the States.
Of the other new guys, Colotti was the one I liked best. He was a year older than me but had only started to race four years earlier. I had been racing since I was eleven years old and the difference showed in our attitude to training and racing. He had a huge appetite for training and an infectious enthusiasm for the sport. It was all new and exciting to him but I had seen it all before. I was more laid back. Too laid back. In the opening months of the season, while I struggled desperately to find any sort of decent form, Colotti blossomed – earning regular top ten placings and winning the French classic, the Tour de Vendee. His success frustrated me. I didn't begrudge it him, I just couldn't understand why it never happened to me.
The start of the new season was soured by two deaths in the peloton. The Spaniard Vincente Mata lapsed into a coma and died shortly after crashing in the Trophy Luis Puig in Spain. A week later I was a witness to the second death. It was in the Tour de Haut Var. There was a short hill not long after the start, and the descent was narrow and twisting but not too dangerous. We were strung out in a long line. I was fifth from the front, on the wheel of Thierry Marie, when suddenly the Hitachi rider in front of him, Michel Goffin, fell off. We both managed to avoid running into him, and it didn't look a heavy fall. But when I looked back he was lying motionless in the middle of the road. The Belgian lapsed into a coma and died two weeks later. I was fully aware that cycling was a dangerous sport, but deaths were uncommon. The two deaths in February made us all feel uncomfortable about the risks involved. There was no way I wanted to die on the bike. I wore my crash hat for a few races after that. But the dangers were soon forgotten, and although my crash hat was always a part of my baggage it was rarely taken out of my suitcase.
The opening month of the season was a disaster. I rode pretty badly in almost every race I entered, so it was logical that I wasn't selected for Paris-Nice in March. On returning to Grenoble I immediately started looking for an apartment, as there was no way I was going to stick another year at the football centre. Clavet told me about a two-roomed flat that was vacant in his town, Vizille, which was just twelve kilometres outside Grenoble. I paid it a visit and decided to take it. The hassle of moving didn't do my physical condition any good and I missed a lot of training. As a result I was in poor condition when I returned to competition for two races in Belgium. I abandoned both of them and this started a run of seven abandonments, one after another. I managed to stop the rot at the Grand Prix of Rennes where I finished seventeenth and succeeded in getting my name in L'Equipe. This was important. Thevenet was starting to lose patience with me and the result at least showed that I existed. Things improved from then on. I finished fifty-first in my favourite Classic, Liège-Bastogne-Liège, and returned to Ireland shortly after for the wedding of my brother Raphael.
It was not a triumphant homecoming. Kelly, Roche and Earley had all had fantastic starts to their seasons. Mine had been a disaster. I started to worry about the future. My two-year contract with the team was up at the end of the year, and unless I improved dramatically, I'd be lucky if they offered me another one. What would I do? Jobs were almost impossible to find in Dublin. There was not much demand for ex-professional cyclists, especially unsuccessful ones. On the day before I returned to France I had lunch with my friend David Walsh. David was a journalist with the Sunday Tribune and also worked for Magill, an Irish current affairs magazine. When I finished the Tour in 1986 he asked me to write an account of the race, or more particularly my struggles in the race, for Magill. The story seemed to go down quite well with everyone who read it. I had written other stories for an Irish cycling magazine in my amateur days and I liked expressing myself with a pen. I often wished I had entered university and taken a degree in journalism instead of dashing off to France for a professional cyclist's contract. David suggested that there were plenty of opportunities to write freelance cycling stories on the Continent. He
encouraged me to continue on the bike and made me feel much more optimistic for the future.
I made my comeback at the Frankfurt Grand Prix, where I rode quite well. Two important stage races were coming up, Quatre Jours de Dunkirk and the Tour de Romandie. The Dauphine was just a month away and I knew that my selection for it depended on a good performance in one of the two stage races. I preferred the Romandie to the Quatre Jours and managed to convince Thevenet to send me there. Stephen was riding it and this was my first opportunity to talk to him, as up until then we had rarely raced together. He was having a dream of a season and was clearly back on top after his troubles of last year. I made a special effort to impress him during the race, as my secret ambition was to ride by his side in the same team – but only if I was good enough. I was proud of my independence at RMO. I had won my contract there on my own steam without the help of either Kelly or Roche. My plan was eventually to team up with one of my famous compatriots, but on my terms. I wouldn't accept charity. If I wasn't good enough to be offered another contract by RMO then I wasn't good enough to join Kelly or Roche. Stephen's good form continued in Romandie, where he won easily.
On the night before the last stage I shared a room with Bernard Vallet. It was the first time I had ever shared a room with him. It was almost an honour. I admired him because he was suave and classy and had always been nice to me. He told me he was pleased with my performance and that he would make sure that I had my place on the team to ride the Dauphine. Having the confidence of Vallet was a great advantage, for I knew he pulled a lot of weight with the sponsor Braillon and with Thevenet. He then asked me about my impressions of Thevenet as a directeur sportif. I knew they were friends but because I liked Thevenet I found no reason to lie and told him exactly what I thought.
'Bernard has one or two organisational problems but he has great human qualities which compensate largely for his faults. I like him. He is a good directeur.'
I was a little puzzled about his reasons for asking my impression of Thevenet. Jacques Michaud was directing the team in Switzerland, while Thevenet was looking after the Dunkirk squad. Was Vallet conducting an opinion poll behind Thevenet's back, or with his approval? I was quite unprepared for what followed.
'Braillon has asked me to take over as directeur sportif of the team next year.'
Silence. Ah . . . all is revealed. He looked at me, trying to gauge my reaction. I was shocked, but tried not to show it. I had expected Vallet to join Thevenet next year as his assistant – but not as his replacement.
'I want to accept, but I am in a bit of bother because Thevenet and I are good friends.'
Why was he confiding in me about this? I could see he was getting high just talking about it. He must have been dying to tell someone and I just happened to be around when the dam burst. He asked me to keep our conversation secret, saying that he needed time to make his decision. But he wasn't fooling me. His decision was already made. He would take the job.
My good form in Switzerland had gained me selection for the Dauphine. Apart from the Tour, it was my favourite race. I lived in the region and felt compelled to perform well in my own 'back yard'. There was always a lot at stake in the Dauphine, but this year especially so. A good performance meant a place in the Tour de France team. A place in the Tour team enhanced my chances of being offered a new contract, so I was not lacking in motivation. I had super form for the eight-day event, but I used my form cleverly. Even with that kind of form I knew I was not capable of winning a stage. But I was capable of helping Claveyrolat or Vallet to win one. This was what was important about being a domestique. It was better to put all your efforts into helping a team-mate to win than trying and failing to win yourself. Second or third. Fifth or sixth. These places have no value for a pro team. Winning is everything. I knew I was capable of getting placed on stages, but decided it was in my best interests to sacrifice myself for the leaders. Vallet and Claveyrolat were on form. Vallet would more than likely be directeur sportif the following year. Clavet was my friend. For the eight stages I put myself totally at their disposition. I protected them from the wind, rode at their side in the mountains, fetched their drinks, waited with them when they stopped to piss, pushed them and willed them to success. They rewarded me with praise each night in front of Thevenet at the dinner table.
'Did you see the work Paul did for us today? He was extraordinary.'
The only regret I had was for my parents. They came over from Ireland on two weeks' holiday to see the race with my youngest brother Christopher. My only bad day of the race was on the first mountain stage to Modane. It was a scorching hot day and I cracked early on the Col du Glandon. I knew my parents were waiting for me at the top. I dreaded passing them so far down the field, and in my frustration I composed a speech that explained my role of domestique. On seeing them at the side of the road I planned to stop and say, 'Da, I'm sorry. Look at me. This is the reality. This is what I am. I'm not a star and never will be. I am a water carrier, a domestique, a nothing.' I never got to say the prepared words. He was standing two kilometres from the top, with a bottle of water. I smiled, pulled in and filled my bidon. He said I was doing fine, and pushed me off, encouraging me further. His enthusiasm lightened my heart and my speech was cancelled.
The following day we crossed three mountains. At the summit of the second, the Izoard, I was just behind the leading group. Only Claveyrolat from our team was in front of me. Thevenet ordered me to wait on Vallet, who was chasing behind with two other team-mates, Mas and Simon. I went down the descent like a madman and we rejoined the front group in the valley. Three riders had broken clear and I was ordered to the front to chase. I rode my heart out until the first hairpins of the day's last mountain, the Col de Vars, where I soon cracked and was dropped. My work was not in vain, for Thierry won the stage and moved up to fourth overall. That night Thevenet came into the room. He praised me for my team work and told me to prepare myself for the Tour de France.
'I hope you are going to stay with us next year.'
He was offering me a contract. I was surprised and delighted.
'Bah oui, j'espère (I hope so).'
'Good. Think about your salary and come back to me next week with a figure. If you wish, you can sign on for two years.'
I was thrilled. A new contract. Lots of good amateurs turn professional but half of them never last longer then the duration of their first contract. The first contract is an apprenticeship. The second one is a confirmation of qualification. I had been offered a second contract: I was a qualified pro.
The day after the finish of the Dauphine, I left for the Tour of Luxembourg. I didn't want to go. The Dauphine had been very hard and had taken a lot out of me, but the team was committed to riding both in Luxembourg and at another stage race in Brittany so I had no choice. I don't know how I ever made it through the first stage. It was a short-circuit race in the city centre and there was lashing rain which turned the oily roads into a skating rink. I was knackered and spent the entire evening at the back of the bunch, counting down the laps to the finish. On nights like that racing a bike was not sport, but just a job. An obligation to earn an honest crust. To survive, you must put the race and the suffering out of your mind. You must think of good times. It rained every single day in Luxembourg, so I was thinking of good times for almost a week. I was climbing really strongly and finished the race in good form about fifteenth and best of our team.
I had ten days off after Luxembourg. The problem of my salary was bothering me. Thevenet had asked me how much I wanted. This was awkward. I would have preferred him to make me an offer. I am not a good businessman and don't like asking for money and had no idea of how much I was worth. One thing was very clear to me. This job was far too hard to be worth only the £700 a month I was then being paid. At a meeting with Thevenet at the team headquarters in Grenoble I asked for £1,000 a month. He scratched his head, and said I was asking for too much. He offered me £900. I accepted, but decided to sign for just one year.
This was a bit of a gamble. I was sacrificing the security of a two-year contract. But if I rode really well, I would be free to negotiate a higher wage and the gamble would be worth it.
Things were going well. With my contract and Tour ticket in the bag, I returned to competition for the Midi Libre stage race. Seven riders were assured of places in the team for the Tour. Along with me there were Vallet, Claveyrolat, Colotti, Vermote, Esnault and Mas. The remaining two places were to be fought out between Dede, Simon, Rault, Pedersen and Bibolet. The Midi Libre was the final selection race for the two places. The atmosphere in the team was not good. The battle for the placings strained relationships between the five. Only a blind man could fail to notice the back-stabbing as some of the team tried to score points with Thevenet at the expense of others. I was a little disgusted at this, but then I suppose it was easy for me to talk. Perhaps if I was fighting for my place I would be the same?
