by Paul Kimmage
I jumped back on the bike dazed but only slightly grazed. There were bodies everywhere on the descent, absolute carnage, and I joined Kim Andersen and Miguel Indurain. We were descending a long straight bit of road at about sixty kilometres an hour when one of the team cars overtook and came so close that he clipped Indurain's handlebars with the side of the car. God knows how the Spaniard managed to stay upright. This latest incident had a strange effect on me. I sat up and decided to take no more chances on the descent. 'These people are all insane. It's only a fucking bike race. To hell with them.'
I finished the stage with one of the larger groups and am feeling fine tonight. Twelve riders abandoned, including Vermotte from our team. De Vos was lifted from the side of the mountain in a helicopter. He has a fractured skull, but his life is not in danger so he is lucky. Colotti had a really bad day today and barely scraped through. I feel a bit guilty at not having waited with him. He is the only one from the team getting any publicity, as he is still sprint leader, so I will stay with him tomorrow.
Tuesday, 14 July
Stage 14: Pau to Luz Ardiden (166 kilometres)
Stage winner: Dag-Otto Lauritzen (Norway)
Race leader: Charly Mottet
The team doctors came to the hotel last night. This morning before the stage they came into the room. They started preparing a syringe with a small ampoule of something or other. I asked what it was and was told 'synacthen'. I hadn't got a clue what that was, but I didn't like the sound of it so I said I didn't want any. It was a bit embarrassing, but the doctor bowed to my wish and didn't insist – he gave it to my room-mate instead.
(Synacthen is common, even a 'lightweight', among many of the hormonal products used in the peloton. It is a medicament that simulates 24 of the 39 amino acids which constitute a molecule of l'ACTH, which stimulate the production of cortisone in the body. It therefore commands the body to produce its own cortisone. The other way of increasing cortisone in the body is to take it directly. Kenacort is a synthetic cortisone, and a product widely used in the peloton. It is banned but detection is a problem – the body produces cortisone naturally, and some people produce more than others, so finding a norm is difficult.)
I have been sorely tempted to experiment with stuff during the race, but fear the secondary effects of cortisone abuse, so I have decided not to enter that little game. And yet I am tempted. I know I would improve, for I've seen the improvements in others, but it's doping and I'm afraid of where it will lead me. The old argument that a doped ass won't win the Derby is a true, but a dangerous one. I know that by taking stuff I'll never win the Tour. But physically I would improve. And by improving I would gain in confidence and maybe start winning races. That would earn me more money – which is all that counts at the end of the day. Maybe it's my upbringing, the terrible attacks of conscience whenever I do anything wrong. Maybe it's an innate survival instinct: the knowledge that at the end of the day I will have to stop and find a job, and that good health is really the only wealth that we have. I suppose it's a mixture of both. Either way, it's a road I don't want to go down.
Colotti was on his hands and knees today. He was the first to be dropped on the climb of the Col de Marie Blanque just after the start. I waited with him. I felt so strong, riding at his side. Stronger than I've ever felt in any mountain stage of the Tour. But maybe I was fooling myself. Maybe it was because he was so weak that I felt so good. I don't know. Dede waited with us as well. I felt sure he was done and just wanted friendly company for the day. We dragged Colotti over the mountain and then set off in pursuit of the descent. There was thick fog on the descent, and I overshot one of the first hairpins but didn't fall off. I felt he was going to abandon the second mountain, Aubisque, but he held on. In the valley before Luz Ardiden I rode along as hard as I could at the front of the group. We caught Jean-Louis Gauthier, Adri Van der Poel and Van Poppel and I paced them to the bottom of the climb to the ski station. We made the time limit with ten minutes to spare and Colotti went on French TV and said he would never have made it without Kimmage and Chappuis.
We are staying in a real kip tonight. I think it's an old school-house.
Wednesday, 15 July
Stage 15: Tarbes to Blagnac (164 kilometres)
Stage winner: Rolf Golz (Germany)
Race leader: Charly Mottet
What a terrible day! Had trouble with my stomach, cramps. There was a cloudburst with forty kilometres to go, and I have never seen so much water on the roads. At one stage you would have drowned on toppling over. The bunch split to pieces under an attack from Mottet and Fignon. We had to ride really hard to avoid being eliminated. Bob Roll, the American who rides for Seven Eleven has a phrase that sums the race up. 'It sucks.'
Thursday, 16 July
Stage 16: Blagnac to Millau (216.5 kilometres)
Stage winner: Regis Clere (France)
Race leader: Charly Mottet
Colotti abandoned. It was early in the stage and he complained of problems with his left knee. Dede and I waited with him on two occasions when he was dropped at the start, but on the third time he decided to call it a day. He was devastated and in tears as he climbed off, and I felt sorry for him. He had tried so hard – too hard – in the first ten days and he was still wearing the sprint leader's jersey. But his lead was being eaten away and he had not won a sprint for three days. He was physically drained, but it's a pity he could not hang on, for in two days we have the rest day.
Clavet was also in trouble. He has picked up bronchitis from yesterday's bad weather, and he was dropped with forty kilometres to go. Dede waited with him.
Friday, 17 July
Stage 17: Millau to Avignon (239 kilometres)
Stage winner: Jean-Paul Van Poppel
Race leader: Charly Mottet
The stomach pains continue and are getting worse, if anything. Today was a nightmare: 240 kilometres, with a big climb just after the start. We started like rockets, and I was in big trouble on the climb and only held on by the skin of my teeth. Vallet started shouting near the end for us to attack, but the guy's dreaming. He was as quiet as a mouse for the first ten days, when he was hanging on, but now that he is going better we are supposed to attack. I didn't feel much like attacking, and got dropped near the finish in the crosswinds. Ann was at the finish. She came down with Clavet's wife Myriam. She is staying the weekend, for tomorrow is the rest day, and on Sunday there is the time trial up Mont Ventoux. Thevenet tells us that he shouldn't really be allowing the wives and girlfriends to stay in the hotel with us. At mealtimes we are forbidden to eat together. The riders eat at one table. The wives eat at another. Tradition has it so. Tradition sucks.
Saturday, 18 July
Rest day: Avignon
Thank God it's a rest day, for there is no way I would be capable of riding a stage. I spent the morning in bed: the cramps are subsiding but I feel terribly weak. Ann washed my gear and in the afternoon I went out with Paul Sherwen to turn the legs a bit. We did about forty kilometres around the vineyards of Châteauneuf du Pape. I have started to appreciate wine now, and can look around me with a new interest. Most of the lads rode up the Ventoux but I was too weak to contemplate it. The doctors are treating me, and I feel a little better tonight.
Sunday, 19 July
Stage 18: Carpentras to Mont Ventoux (36.5 kilometres TT)
Stage winner: Jean-François Bernard (France)
Race leader: Jean-François Bernard
The Giant of Provence. A mountain made famous by the death of a famous English cyclist, Tom Simpson. In between the effort of trying to ride up the mountain I tried hard to pick out the memorial statue to him as I neared the top, but it was hidden behind the thousands of spectators who had come to cheer the modern-day heroes. I felt quite OK, after a shaky start, and finished 118th of the 164 still in the race. I seem to have recovered from my stomach bug and that gives me new optimism for finishing the race.
Monday, 20 July
Stage 19: Valreas to V
illard-de-Lans (185 kilometres)
Stage winner: Pedro Delgado (Spain)
Race leader: Stephen Roche (Eire)
Clavet and Esnault both packed it in today. The team is down to just five men and morale is low. Poor Clavet, I feel sorry for him. Tomorrow we ride through his home town, my adopted town, Vizille. The mayor of the town sent leaflets to all the inhabitants asking them to come out to cheer the two 'local' men, Claveyrolat and Kimmage. But Clavet won't be around now for the 'party'. He has locked himself in his room, and there is no talking him out of it. The television showed his tearful abandoning this evening. I suppose it must make great television, but it's still a bit much.
I had one of my better days. I felt good from the start and was never under any serious pressure. It's a great day for the Irish for Stephen is the new maillot jaune. He becomes only the third Irishman ever to have worn the famous tunic. I'm very happy for him, although I would like to get to talk to him more. He is too busy trying to win the race.
Tuesday, 21 July
Stage 20: Villard-de-Lans to L'AIpe D'Heuz (201 kilometres)
Stage winner: Frederico Echave (Spain)
Race leader: Pedro Delgado (Spain)
If, in later years, I am asked what the greatest thrill in my life has been, I will hesitate between two replies. It would either be arriving on the Champs Elysées after a hard Tour, or riding through the thousands of screaming voices to the ski station of L'Alpe d'Huez. I was too knackered to appreciate it last year – so tired that all I ever saw of the thirteen-kilometre rise was the five feet of rising tarmac before me. But today was different, and I was going quite well. Martin and I both rode out of Villard de Lans at Stephen's side. Proud to be Irish sounds so corny but, damn it, I was proud to be Irish. It was one of the hardest stages of the race, with seven climbs. I got clear with a group on the day's first climb, the Placette, and as far as I remember it was my first time in twenty stages to get into a breakaway. It didn't last long, for the Carreras reeled us in on the descent. I stayed with the top men over the second-category Cucheron and the first-category Coq. I must admit to being highly motivated, for I wanted to be in a good position going through Vizille. I led through the village and crucified myself to stay at the front for two kilometres of the seven-kilometre Cote de Laffrey on the outskirts of the town. I got lots of cheers, and my name was sprayed all over the climb. I know the road to the Alpe like the back of my hand, and that's always a big help. I enjoyed the twenty-one hairpins of the mountain. I was able to settle into a rhythm and ride up at my own pace, and it was almost a pleasure to suffer in this way. At the top Stephen had lost the jersey to Pedro Delgado. 'Perico' is in the same hotel as us tonight. I like him: he is natural and has an honest smile. I didn't see Ann today, although she told me on the phone tonight that she was on the Laffrey. Frank arrived from Dublin and is a bit disappointed about Kelly.
14
22 JULY
It is 7.45 a.m. at the Hotel Christina. I have been lying awake for fifteen minutes now. It's nice to lie here and rest. Soon it will be time to get up. Another stage, another day. I didn't sleep well last night. I woke at least four times but each time managed to doze off again within five to ten minutes. I put it down to sleeping at altitude. I never noticed the problem until I heard Mas and Vallet complaining that they never slept well at altitude. This set me worrying that I wouldn't sleep well at altitude and, consequently, I don't. Frank Cronseilles, one of the team soigneurs enters the room and I close my eyes, pretending to sleep. He taps my shoulder and whispers softly, 'Allez Polo, c'est l'heure.' I drag myself out of bed and walk out on to the veranda. The view of the Alpe on this fresh sunny morning is breath-taking. Below, the soigneurs are busy loading suitcases, while the hiss of an air compressor inflating a hundred tyres announces that the mechanics too are at work. Which reminds me that it's time for me to start. After washing and shaving, I go down for breakfast. Coffee, fresh croissants and jam. It's the favourite part of my breakfast. Normally we are not allowed croissants. The myth is that they are too fattening. Typical of the French: it's OK to eat half a ton of cheese in the evenings but not OK to eat croissants in the morning. I have lost three kilos on this race, so I decide to ignore the frowning brows and reach for a second. The food here is really good. The steak is tender and the spaghetti al dente, so for once eating is eating and not fuelling up as is often the case. A yogurt, a fruit salad, and a stroll outside to see what's happening.
The soigneurs are starting to panic. They urge me to return to the room to pack my suitcase. The suitcase is a mess. I'm not a very organised person. For 'organised' you can substitute 'tidy'. I throw a day's kit on to the bed, pile everything else into the case and close it with great difficulty. It is then left outside the door to be picked up by the soigneur on his next passage. There is just time to study the race bible and the battleground for today's stage. Five mountains: Lauteret, Galibier, Telegraph, Madeleine and the summit finish of La Plagne. Hmmm . . . the Galibier. Visions of last year's tour and my struggling body on its steep slopes disturb my mind. But I am riding much better this year, so there shouldn't be any problem.
The stage start is in the village of Bourg d'Oisans, twenty-one hairpins below us. A few years ago it used to start here at the Alpe and be neutralised to the bottom. But the riders were forced to brake constantly behind the race director's car and the wheel rims overheated, causing dozens of punctures and blowouts. Now everyone descends in cars. As usual I am the last to leave the hotel. Thevenet blows the car horn for me to hurry. His is the only team car left and it's full. He drives with Vallet beside him in the front seat. I am squashed in the back between the mechanic Coval and Yves Hezard, an ex-pro and a good friend of Thevenet's. With the exception of Coval, each of us has raced up the Alpe in the Tour and it is the topic of conversation as we descend.
'What used to impress me most,' says Hezard, 'was arriving at the bottom and looking up to see the lines and lines of spectators almost directly above you.'
'I don't remember ever having the strength to look up,' Thevenet replies jokingly and we all laugh.
As we descend, we notice hordes of cycling tourists of every shape and size sweating and panting their way up the mountain.
'They are all timing themselves,' says Thevenet. 'They know exactly how long it took Roche and Delgado to climb yesterday and tonight they will compare times and work out exactly how many pros they'd have beaten on the stage.'
Like all Tour de France stage 'departs', Bourg d'Oisans is crammed with spectators and it is with great difficulty that we find a parking spot. The routine never changes. Get out of the car, collect the race food from the soigneur? car and the bike from the mechanics. Check that the brake blocks are not too close to the wheels and that both wheels are well tightened. This is purely a personal thing. I hate having the brake blocks too close to the rims in case they rub and I'm always afraid of an untightened front wheel popping out of the forks at sixty on a mountain descent. I ride to the signing-on podium and spend the thirty minutes before the start chatting and drinking coffee with Martin at one of the hospitality tables. We meet at the same table each morning. Sean Yates, Adrian Timmis and Allan Peiper are with Martin at 'our' table as I arrive. Conversation is as it always is. Of the day before, of how knackered we all are and of how we are all looking forward to finishing in Paris. Our chief concern today is that the hostilities don't start too early on the road to La Plagne. But then again that's our chief concern every day. Pedro Delgado, the race leader, arrives at an adjoining table: the table where all the Spanish riders sit. He is pestered by autograph hunters and requests from journalists and has no time to drink coffee. Being famous can be such a pain. The high pitch of the race starter's whistle beckons us to line up. The excited spectators shout the names of their favourites. 'Tiens, il y a Roche! Allez Roche!' 'Le voilà Delgado! Bravo Pedro!' No one ever shouts my name but this morning a spectator taps me on the shoulder.
'Bonjour, I'm a friend of Dante Rezze,' he sai
d, shaking my hand.
'Ah, OK,' I reply.
What being a friend of Dante Rezze has to do with shaking my hand is beyond me, but these things often happen on the Tour. The starter's flag drops, and I ride out through the valley talking to Martin. He is changing teams at the end of the year and is getting a bit of hassle from Fagor, his current employers, so his morale is low. My own worries are of a different nature. The amazing thing about being a bike rider is that you always know from the first turn of the pedals what sort of a day you are going to have. Or is it the same in every sport? Can Serge Blanco tell by pulling on his rugger boots if he is going to score five tries or play a stinker? It's something I must find out. This morning, I was in no doubt. My legs were tired and very heavy. It would be a bad day.
