Rough Ride

by Paul Kimmage

  My justification for writing this book was that it would describe the unglamorous life of the 'back-room' boy. The account of the life of an unknown among many unknowns who pass most of their lives in the professional peloton without ever making a name for themselves. But, on reflection, I realise that I was not a domestique like the others. I had one great advantage. I shared a friendship and a comradeship with two of cycling's greatest-ever riders. It is a privilege that only now becomes apparent to me as I look back on August 1987.

  Martin and I both profited enormously from the euphoria of Stephen's triumph when we returned to Ireland for three city-centre races at the end of that month. I will remember for the rest of my life the night of the first race in Dublin.

  It wasn't easy. I hate city-centre races – one-hour dashes on tight circuits – and we were totally unused to this type of racing on the Continent. I just hadn't the speed to perform well in them. None of us had – except Sean. But because it was Dublin, and Stephen had just won the Tour, I expected that the opposition, all British apart from the Aussie Allan Peiper, would have no objections to fixing it for Stephen to win. I was wrong. We had a meeting among riders before the race. Sean spoke on our behalf and suggested we come to an arrangement for Stephen to win. He was backed up by Peiper and by Paul Sherwen. Paul had been a pro for seven years on the Continent, but was riding his last season with Raleigh in England. He tried to convince his compatriots that everyone would benefit from a Roche win. The spectators would applaud it and the future of the event would be assured. But the appeals fell on deaf ears. The 'English pros' argued that city-centre races were their bread and butter. They wanted financial compensation in return for a Roche victory.

  Their attitude disgusted me. I walked out of the room before a solution had been reached. I had never liked the English pros, big-headed sods who thought having a pro licence made them professional. I despised them for their pettiness. They were not fit to polish Roche's shoes, and yet here they were laying down the law, in Dublin. Pathetic. I waited for the three lads to come out of the meeting. The English pros had agreed to let Stephen win in return for £1,000. The race was incredibly fast and I remember gritting my teeth so hard that I chipped one, sprinting out of the last corner and going into the finishing straight. Stephen won and most people went away happy, but not all of them went away.

  After the finish we showered in one of the Georgian houses directly behind the finishing line on St Stephen's Green. There was a post-race reception at Jury's Hotel, but the view from our room told us that getting there would be a problem. Hundreds of people were banked at the entrance to the house waiting for us to come down. When we did, it was chaos. They all wanted autographs and they were shouting, screaming, touching. I felt like one of the 'fab four' coming out of a concert in the 1960s. We needed protection from the Gardai to get from the house to our manager Frank Quinn's car, and flashing blue lights and screaming sirens cleared the road for our drive to the hotel.

  The second race was held in Wexford the following evening. We left Dublin in the morning and rode some of the way for training. The world championships were just twelve days away. Again, as in Dublin, there was a riders' meeting before the race. We weren't invited, and the English lads met among themselves to divide up the spoils. No one approached us about it, which we felt was most unreasonable. Stephen had paid to win in Dublin, and we felt it only right that we be recompensed in a similar way for an English triumph in Wexford. Being ignored irritated the two lads and we decided to pull out all the stops for an Irish win. At the end of another fast race Stephen led Sean out along the Wexford seafront, and Kelly swept by for the victory. It is questionable whether Kelly got as much pleasure out of winning two Paris-Roubaix races as he did in sprinting to victory that night on the seafront, for he was truly delighted and we all shared his pleasure. After showering at the hotel, we decided that a celebration was in order. A few pints in some quiet bar would have suited us fine, but it was impossible to leave the hotel. There was no such thing as a quiet bar for Kelly and Roche. They were instantly recognised anywhere they went, so we stayed at the hotel. We ordered fresh fruit salad, sandwiches, tea and coffee and a few drinks to be brought up to the rooms. I roomed with Martin and Sean with Stephen, but our entourage included Frank Quinn, his assistant Margaret Walsh, Kelly's brother-in-law Gerard Grant and Stephen's brother-in-law Peter. The bedrooms were too small to hold a party, so we laid out the trays of food and drink in the corridor outside and sat together on the carpeted floor. It was a great night. We talked and joked and made plans for Cork.

  I don't know if the English riders saw it as we did, but for us the three-race series had developed into Ireland versus England – especially now that we were winning two nil. We were outnumbered ten to one, but this sweetened the challenge for two aces were always going to beat forty jokers. We did indeed look on them as jokers, with the exception of Sherwen and John Herety, who had both served hard apprenticeships on the Continent and so knew what real pro racing was about. They had 'played in the first division'. But it was never easy beating the jokers in these city-centre races. I wasn't capable of it, neither was Martin. Stephen could win only by breaking clear alone and there was no way they would let him away in Cork. Kelly was our only hope, and all our efforts would go to help him.

  We rode some of the way down next morning and talked about the next challenge. Martin and I were to control the race for as long as possible by keeping the pace high and closing down any breakaway attempts. Stephen was to save himself for a lone assault in the last few laps and, that failing, would act as lead-out man for Kelly in the final sprint. The tactics worked well, right up to the last lap. Stephen hit the front, riding as hard as he could, with Kelly on his wheel. Sean came through going into the last corner and Roche followed him round. Kelly started sprinting, Roche made no effort to follow him, and, realising the danger Englishman Mark Walsham tried to go past; but in his haste he rode into the Tour de France winner. There was a huge crash, bodies everywhere. I cornered seconds after the impact and couldn't believe it. I picked out the yellow jersey of Stephen in the middle of the tangled bodies and gingerly picked my way around the groaning heap. Walsham and some of the other crash victims threatened violence towards Stephen, claiming he had closed the door and had deliberately caused the crash. Walsham and Co. were forgetting that they were in Ireland and that Stephen Roche was sacred here. If they had put a finger on him they'd have been lynched. In the turmoil of the crash, Kelly's victory almost went unnoticed. Unnoticed to all except Roche, that is. He made a fake effort at cooling tempers on both sides.

  'After all, lads, the score is Ireland three England nil, and the match is over.'

  Talk about adding fuel to the flames!

  Martin returned to Dublin after the race, and from there took a flight back to Manchester to get to his home near Stoke. Stephen, Sean and I flew back to the Continent early next morning. We had spent five days together and those five days will remain in my memory as my happiest five days in professional cycling. We teamed up again twelve days later in Villach, Austria for the world championships.

  Villach was more serious. Sean wanted badly to save a disastrous season by winning the rainbow jersey. It was the one single-day race which had always eluded him and he trained particularly hard for it. Stephen was much more relaxed about it all. When you have just won the Giro and the Tour de France, nobody expects another performance in the world championships. His life had turned into a perpetual series of product promotion, press interviews, autograph signing and hand shaking. He had come to Villach to get back into serious racing and to give Kelly a bit of a dig-out. The difference in attitudes showed at the hotel on the day before the race. In the morning we trained on the circuit. World championships are very special. There is a great atmosphere generated among the thousands of bike lovers who have congregated from all over Europe to cheer on their favourites in the annual feast of cycling. The circuit was hard, and the long drag after the finish w
as more difficult than first announced. I liked it and knew I could ride well here. I felt very proud riding with the three lads. Sean and Stephen rode at the front, flanked by Martin and me. I could not help noticing the ease with which Stephen pedalled. Kelly noticed it too, but neither of us thought he had the form to be world champion. Lunch was followed by a long discussion on the choice of gear to be used. We spent most of the afternoon in bed snoozing and reading – except for Stephen, that is. Some journalists had come looking for interviews and he spent his afternoon talking to them in the garden of the hotel. At meal times he would leave his food to answer telephone calls and other requests, and he wasn't a bit serious about the race. I started to feel the pressure in the evening. None of the Irish supporters came to the hotel. It was the night before battle and they knew better.

  The rooming arrangements were the same as in Ireland. Sean shared with Stephen and Martin with me. I liked rooming with Martin. As amateurs we had roomed many times together on Irish teams, but then we were rivals and it was often difficult to be honest. Now it was different. We were both professionals and no longer rivals. I had the edge on him as an amateur, but he was now the better professional. I was unbelievably nervous before going to bed. Two of my brothers, Raphael and Kevin, had come over from Ireland. They would be on the circuit tomorrow and I did not want to let them down by riding badly. But I was also very excited. My last appearance at a world championship was two years after my sixth place in the amateur race in Italy. I had lost any illusions about ever winning the Tour de France, but I secretly dreamed about one day being world champion. I polished my shoes before getting into bed, and had them shining. Normally I am not one for polishing shoes, but this was the world championships, and in my excitement I brushed them till they were sparkling. My enthusiasm irritated Martin, who was trying not to let the build-up start until the morning of the race. He offered me a sleeping tablet. I accepted. We slept like logs.

  I love the sound of rain splattering off the windows when I'm cosy in bed. For a while I enjoyed the sound. My senses were still numbed with sleep and I could have been anywhere. In my childhood bed back in Dublin. In bed with Ann back in Grenoble. All I knew was that I was in bed and that it was raining outside and that I liked being in bed when it was raining outside. But slowly the messages from my ear found a receptive brain cell and the splattering sounds were analysed more carefully. I wasn't just anywhere: I was in the Hotel Piber in Villach. The rain that was battering the window would soon be making its way into every pore of my skin, chilling me, making me uncomfortable. 'Oh, my God, it's the morning of the world championships . . . FUCK, IT'S RAINING . . . I HATE RAIN.'

  How unlucky can you get? In the run-up we had three days of beautiful sunny weather, but now it was not simply raining but bucketing down. All my enthusiasm went out of the wet window. I hate rain. I never ride well in it. I'm not sure I talked over breakfast.

  I was in serious difficulty for the first half of the race. I had been given new wheels and the rims were smooth, making it hard for my brake pads to get any sort of grip. Slowing on the descent was a problem, and for a while I felt very insecure. The other three sat near the front of the bunch, watching, controlling, waiting. Stephen came back to me to encourage me to come to the front. My only wish was to abandon, but I couldn't let my brothers down. They had spent their hard-earned money on coming over to see me, so I tried to follow him. The ease with which he cut his way through the bunch was heart-breaking. His incredibly efficient style. So graceful, so beautiful to watch – like a long-legged woman walking down the street. It was as if the bicycle was an extension of his hips. The rain stopped after about three hours, and slowly my stiffened leg muscles started to heat up again and I at last felt the urge to race. After eighteen laps the hill after the finish line started to feel like a small col. Cracks started appearing in the diminishing bunch, and amazingly I found myself closing gaps instead of opening them. With sixty kilometres to go a four-man group which included two favourites, the Dutchman Teun Van Vliet and reigning champion Moreno Argentin, went clear. The French took up the chase, aided by a quarter of the Irish team, Martin Earley, and the gap started to narrow. I sat near the front, waiting for a sign of weakness from Martin. The four were retrieved and the attacks followed. Martin, exhausted from his chase, retired – he had done his work. I moved up on Kelly's shoulder and told him I was available for short-range chasing. He nodded, and I set about closing down any serious break without a green jersey. As the bell rang, announcing the last lap, the decisive move went clear. It was on the climb, and I was shattered and really suffering. I looked up to the glorious sight of two green jerseys bridging the gap. Behind, the race was over, and we all knew it. I tuned my ear to the p.a. system and tried to work out what was happening up front. I said a prayer that Kelly might win. With both of them up front they had a great chance. The logical tactic was for Stephen to hold it together for Sean in the sprint. I strained my ears as we turned into the finishing straight. The p.a. announced the winner.

  'Steven Rooks, Champion du Monde.'

  There was a huge roar from the crowd. 'Did he say Roche or Rooks?' I wasn't sure. Rooks, the Dutchman, was also in the break. 'I think he said Rooks.' I didn't bother to sprint. It was seconds after crossing the line that I discovered the truth. I bumped into Irish journalist John Brennan as he scurried across for a few words from the new world champion.

  'He's done it. The bastard's done it.'

  'Who?'

  'Roche.'

  'No. You're joking.'

  He wasn't.

  I made my way through the crowd to our pit area. Stephen had been whisked off for the medal ceremony, but our pit was still crowded. Kelly was giving his story to journalists, Martin was having the back patted off him by almost every Irish supporter on the circuit and there were scenes of great joy all around the pit. I too wacked him across the back and then threw my arms around Kelly and congratulated him on his fine performance. I really wished it could have been him on the winner's rostrum, but I suppose it's the one title he is destined never to win. We pulled on some warm clothes and cycled back to the hotel, where it took some solid scrubbing under the shower to remove the grime and dirt from seven hours of racing from my legs. Stephen arrived about an hour later. He looked resplendent in his new rainbow jersey, but the magnitude of his achievement had not yet sunk in. He had done something that only one other man in the whole world had done. In winning the Tour of Italy, the Tour de France and the world championships in the same year he had equalled Eddy Merckx.

  The celebrations went on late into the next morning. Most of the supporters came round to the hotel and it was a great night to be Irish. I felt very privileged to be part of it all, as it's something I can tell my children and my grandchildren. I can see myself in my rocking chair by the fire, forty years from now with grandson on my knee.

  'Tell me about the day you helped Stephen Roche become world champion, Granda.'

  And I will tell it, without doubt exaggerating my contribution to the victory.

  'And where did you finish, Granda?'

  'Well, son, I was so tired after all my work that I could only finish forty-fourth.'

  My good performance at the world championships gave me great confidence for the end-of-season races. I particularly wanted to do well in the Nissan Classic in Ireland in October. Thevenet was kind. He allowed me to choose the four riders to accompany me in the race as a reward for my good year. I chose the four who I was closest to: Andre Chappuis, Jean-Claude Colotti, Thierry Claveyrolat and Per Pedersen.

  I went into the race as team leader, the only time in my life that I held such a responsibility. On the second stage I asked Thierry and Jean-Claude to ride over the Vee climb as hard as possible in an effort to break up the race. I sat in their slipstream and they set a pace which blew the race apart. This was a new kind of pressure, one I had not experienced before. My normal role was to do what they were now doing for me – the donkey work. But the pace they se
t was so fierce that I began to wonder if I had the legs to continue the effort, once they finished their effort. If I cracked, then I would be the laughing stock of the bunch. Joel Pelier attacked just after the hairpin, and I bridged the gap. Eleven others joined us, and for those behind it was curtains, for we soon had a gap of over ten minutes – I had detonated the vital move in the five-day race. I so wanted the break to succeed that I did too much work and was knackered by the time I got to the stage finish at St Patrick's Hill in Cork, so I was not placed highly on the stage. The following day was a hard loop around the Ring of Kerry to Tralee and I did another good ride, moving to seventh overall. The stage was won by Sean Yates in a solo break which I rate as one of the best rides I ever saw in my time with the pros. The fourth stage was a team time trial. Dede and Clavet packed it in after getting dropped after the Vee on the second stage, and spent the rest of the week buying Aran sweaters and drinking pints of Guinness. So we were down to just three men for the trial. I slipped a place to eighth, which I held on to until the finish of the race in O'Connell Street in Dublin. I felt very satisfied with my performance, for the organisers had put together a high-class field. Sean won, Stephen was second, Martin was sixth and I was eighth – it was another week of being 'fab'.