Rough Ride

by Paul Kimmage

  Your wedding day is supposed to be a great day in a couple's life. I enjoyed mine, but only after the church ceremony; for I was so nervous that I bungled the 'for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health' bit – still, it got a good laugh. We were married in Ann's parish church in Balscadden in North County Dublin on 23 October. Most bike riders get married in October. It's the month that the season ends, the time for drink and fun and relaxation and, well, marriages. I had been going out with Ann for five years and I was twenty-five years old and she was twenty-two so we both reckoned we were 'ripe'. I invited the other 'Beatles' to the wedding. Sean was tied up and couldn't come, but Martin and Stephen were both present. From RMO I asked the four who had ridden with me on the Nissan, but Dede was the only one to come. Stephen's presence was a big surprise. He was besieged with requests for functions and promotions all over the country, and I honestly didn't expect him to turn up. While we were being married word got round that Stephen Roche was in Balscadden church, and village kids and housewives from the area converged on us when the ceremony was over, looking for his autograph. Stephen felt a bit worried that his popularity might detract from what was essentially 'our day', but on the contrary his presence created a carnival atmosphere that made it all more enjoyable.

  We honeymooned in Connemara and Clare and I returned to France two weeks later to spend the winter in our flat in Vizille. 1987 had been very satisfying. I was sure I would continue to improve. I was wrong: it was the summit of my career.

  17

  COFFEE AT ELEVEN

  The village of Vizille lies twelve kilometres outside Grenoble on the road to Gap. It's a typically rural French village but can claim a certain notoriety because it was here that the French Revolution started two hundred years before. A magnificent château, a former residence of French presidents, dominates the village square, and life and traffic circulation in the village revolve around it. The Cafe de la Gare is ideally placed, being fifty metres opposite the château and its magnificent park. It's a typically French cafe. From seven to eight in the morning it serves mostly coffee, nearly always black, and croissants. Just before twelve there will be a rush on pastis, the aniseed drink which is the French labourer's aperitif. From one to two it's coffee time again; but the afternoons are calm until just before seven, when there will be another rush on pastis.

  I got to study the patterns quite well during 1988. There was a great view from the terrace and I studied Vizille, its inhabitants and its château in falling snow and falling rain, in grey skies and in blue. I watched green leaves turn to falling leaves – always from the terrace. From my chair and an empty row of coffee cups I studied them. The old men playing boules in the shade of the sixteen sycamore trees. The old woman hastily loading a basket of groceries on to her bicycle as the rain started to fall. The village idlers doing the rounds from one cafe to another, scrounging drink. The buzz of traffic clogging up the square. At every hour of the day, on every day of the year, you could be sure there was something happening in the village square. Which is precisely why I went there so often. It was an escape. I found immense tranquillity in buying a cup of coffee and sitting on the terrace with it. Watching, analysing, thinking and inevitably searching for a way out. A job. I spent more time on the terrace of the Cafe de la Gare that year than I did racing my bike. It was a bad year.

  Everything had been rosy at the end of 1987 – too rosy. It was in the months of November and December that I let it slip. Because I had had a hard season I felt I needed a good break. I did, but I got carried away. When I should have been sweating it out in the weights room, I was off touring the wine cellars of the vineyard round Avignon. Wine was a passion: smelling it, tasting it, buying it and especially drinking it. I had the reputation in the team of being a 'gourmet' – a connoisseur of good food and wine. A hard man for the drink and the crack. I impressed with my knowledge of grands crus, and I found a new pleasure in being impressive. I got too cocky. I became great friends with Colotti. He advised me to watch my weight and to train hard. I advised him on the wines he should stock his cellar with. I rode the odd cyclo-cross, did a little jogging; but it wasn't enough.

  The year started with a training camp and a 'let's get to know each other' week just before Christmas. It was Bernard Vallet's opening act as the new directeur sportif of the team. Thevenet had been disposed of ever so tidily and ruthlessly. He was first offered the job of team manager. The manager is in charge of team administration. He co-ordinates travel to races, deals with race organisers for expenses and acts as public relations officer. It's a cosy number, and although he would have preferred to stay on as directeur sportif the post of manager held a certain attraction for Thevenet. He accepted and Vallet's promotion to directeur sportif was announced to the French press. The dust was allowed to settle for six weeks, then Monsieur Braillon informed Thevenet that he had reconsidered and that his services were no longer required. Thevenet claimed unfair dismissal and won his case before the courts. Monsieur Braillon was forced to pay him a year's salary, about £30,000.

  The training camp at Autrans, a cross-country ski resort in the Vercors mountains, was fun even though there was no snow. The core of the team remained the same and there were just five changes. Bincoletto, Lavenu, Grewal, Peillon and Huger were replaced by Frank Pineau, Eric Salomon, Hartmut Bolts, Alex Pedersen and Patrick Vallet (no relation to Bernard). We played indoor football, swam at the local pool, jogged and did some mountain biking. In between sports outings we were photographed, measured for our new clothes and examined by doctors. At night we had team talks from the new chief. Vallet gave some great team talks.

  He told us he was confident that we were going to have a great year. He intended to run the team like the captain of a ship. We were all in the same boat, and we must all row together for the team's success. If he'd known the words of 'The Soldier's Song' I'm sure he'd have sung them.

  And it worked. We believed him. We left Autrans convinced we had a good directeur sportif and that everything was fine. A day later our opinion had changed.

  Looking back on it I am reminded of those gory 'Friday the Thirteenth' movies. You know, the 'just when you thought it was safe to go back in the water' stuff. In our case Freddie, or Carrie, or Gory attacked us in the shape of a newspaper article.

  L'Equipe, the French sports daily, had sent a journalist to Autrans to cover the training week. The journalist, Guy Roger, did a half-page interview with Vallet, which was published a day after we returned home. To say it shocked me is an understatement. It was a question-and-answer piece, no room for misinterpretation. Vallet was questioned about the faiblesse, or 'weakness', of his new team. He replied.

  I will be frank. Of the eighteen riders in the team, half were signed before I took control [i.e. by Thevenet]. I personally wouldn't have done it. I believe also that none of the eight would have found jobs in any other French team either.

  I remember reading the interview over breakfast. I interrupted my bowl of porridge and did a quick calculation. I was one of those who had signed under Thevenet. Was he referring to me? Surely not.

  He didn't criticise everyone. He had glowing praise for two of his signings, two of the new pros.

  I am pleased to have signed Hartmut Bolts and Alex Pedersen, who finished second and third respectively, in the last amateur world championships. These two have the right approach. I haven't seen them pedal yet but their mentality and behaviour are those of real pros. They will help the others to get the finger out.

  I had expected criticism from Vallet at some stage in the year but not before we had even turned a pedal. I picked up the phone and rang headquarters for an explanation. Vallet was not around but Jacques Michaud the assistant directeur sportif was. Yes, he had seen L'Equipe. No, there was no need to worry about it, all lies. He said that a letter of explanation from Vallet was already in the post and to make no further comments to anyone until reading the letter.

  Sure enough, the letter arrived next day. Vallet tol
d us to pay no attention to the lies written by Guy Roger, whose only interest was to upset the normal running of the team.

  I didn't believe him. Any advantage Guy Roger could gain from rocking the RMO boat was beyond my comprehension. No, I was quite sure that Vallet had said it all right. Not intentionally, of course, and perhaps he just got carried away. Being in L'Equipe is all that ever matters to a lot of French pros. Vallet could now give them half-page interviews and in my view he loved it. He loved the power, being the centre of attention. It seemed to me that in his first interview as a directeur sportif he wanted to make an 'I'm a tough guy' impression. He made an impression all right.

  Two days before writing this chapter I met up with Guy Roger at the Grenoble Six, a track event. I had always wondered about the famous interview and asked him if he had altered any of Vallet's words. Roger assured me over the heads of his two children that he had written the piece word for word. When Bolts and Pedersen came to the end of their two-year contracts, signed with Vallet, he fired them both.

  I accept that the job of directeur sportif is difficult and that harsh decisions are often necessary for the good of the team. I don't blame Bernard Vallet for my failure at RMO in 1988. He was the epitome of what a good directeur sportif should be. A superb organiser, he has a total understanding of professional racing and is a good motivator. He was certainly better at the job than Thevenet. But Thevenet had a quality that made up for his organisational faults, his sincerity. In my opinion Vallet didn't know the meaning of the word. I think he was as two-faced as they come.

  I was fully prepared for a hard start to the 1988 season. I knew I would have problems, but it didn't worry me too much. I had had problems early in 1986 and 1987, but each time I had hit form at the right moment to win a place in the team for the Tour. I felt that 1988 would be the same, that it would take me two months to hit form.

  February, March and April were disastrous months. I just couldn't get going, found it impossible even to finish races and abandoned one after another. But in May, in the Grand Prix of Wallonie in Belgium, I started putting it together. I could feel good form coming on. I had trained really hard for it, and felt good except for one thing – I had this maddening itch around my arse. I couldn't understand it, but put off getting it seen to, as it was a bit embarrassing. The day after Wallonie, we lined up for a three-stage two-day race, the Tour de L'Oise just north of Paris. It opened with a short eighty-kilometre stage but I was totally knackered, and suffered from stomach trouble. I was dropped with thirty kilometres to go and lost nine minutes. I was terribly depressed at this latest setback, and couldn't understand it as I had ridden so well in Wallonie the day before. I was rooming with Frank Pineau. I had a shit at about nine and left the most dreadful smell behind me. Frank complained that he had never experienced anything like it. He assured me there was something wrong with my insides. This got me thinking. The itch around my anal passage was driving me insane and had developed into a rash. Perhaps there was something wrong.

  I started the stage next day but I had this persistent stomach cramp and was completely drained of strength, so I abandoned. I flew to Grenoble that night and on Monday morning paid a visit to the doctor. He looked at my bum and asked me to stick out my tongue.

  'Champignons (mushrooms).'

  'What's that?'

  'It's a fungus that develops in the digestive tract. It's gone right through you from your tongue to your bum.'

  I was told to stay off the bike until the rash had disappeared and he advised a break from competition for ten days. It was almost a relief to have been told there was something wrong with me. Until then I just couldn't understand what was going wrong. Now I had a reason, an excuse. Even if the mushrooms were not totally responsible for my lack of form I had no problem convincing myself that they were. Coffee sales were up that week at the Cafe de la Gare.

  I made a return to competition at the Tour de l'Armorique. I was still undergoing treatment but was feeling brand new if a little behind physically. There was one place left to be filled in the team to ride the Dauphine, to be filled either by me or by Eric Salomon. I wanted to ride the Dauphine. It was my ticket for the Tour. But the mushrooms had set me back in my preparation. I rode with little flair at Armorique and Vallet offered the ride to Salomon.

  My father winning the last stage of the Ras Tailteann 1963 in the Phoenix Park

  My brother Raphael winning a stage of the Ras Tailteann in Carrick on Suir in June '83. Second is Sean Kelly's brother Vincent

  Ras Tailteann '83 – my only ever ride in the race they call the 'big one'

  Racing towards the yellow jersey in the Milk Race '83 with Sean Yates on my wheel

  Milk Race '83, the race that nearly made me a star – accepting the yellow jersey

  Milk Race '83 – crossing the finish line at Harrogate having lost 13 minutes and the yellow jersey

  On the attack with Frenchman Christian Sobota in the colours of my French club C.C. Wasquehal, June '85

  Dede Chappuis – St Etienne time trial, Tour de France, 1986

  Brand new anorak. Grand Bornand '86 – my first meeting with the RMO team. LEFT TO RIGHT: Jean Louis Gauthier, myself, Bruno Huger, Christian Mogore, Michel Vermote, Bernard Thevenet, Thierry Claveyrolat, Simon Regis, Patrick Clerc, Marcel Russenberger, Pierre Le Bigaut, Frances Castaing, Vincent Barteau, Gilles Mas, Per Pedersen, Jean Claude Vallaeys, Bernard Vallet, Andre Chappuis

  Helping hand: Bernard Thevenet always stood on the finish line until all of his riders came in. He had to wait 35 minutes for me here at L'Alpe d'Huez – '86 Tour

  Tough at the top. After finishing the stage to Alpe d'Huez, '86

  Alone on the mountain: struggling on the Galibier – '86 Tour

  Nearing the end of my pain: 100 metres from the finish line of the Mount Ventoux time trial – '87 Tour

  Claveyrolat shares his supply of food – Nissan '87

  Smiles before the miles: riding out with Stephen and Martin Earley in the '87 Tour

  Shades, suntan: I'm looking pretty cool this morning with Martin and Stephen at Orleans – '87 Tour

  World Road Race Championships, Belgium 1988. The rider in dark glasses, to my left, is Jorgen Pedersen.

  And now the end is near: the Aubisque mountain, '89 Tour – Stephen's last day on the race. The Fagor riders (from left to right): Kimmage, Biondi, Roche, Lavenu and Schepers (his back)

  The heroes: without Roche and Kelly I would never have survived my four years in the professional peloton

  Tour de France '89. Montpellier, 13 July. The evening of my last race as a professional. Hours earlier I had abandoned the Tour and my career as a pro cyclist

  Hillwalking with Ann in the Alps, August '89

  I was disappointed, but had expected it. The day after the Armorique we stayed in Brittany for the Grand Prix of Plumelec. A single-day race, Plumelec is one of a series of French classics where there are never any controls. These races are know among the pros as the Grands Prix des Chaudières. Chaud means warm. The word chaudière is used for someone who heats, who warms up, who takes a charge. Mauleon-Moulin, Châteauroux-Limoges, the Grand Prix Plumelec, the Grand Prix of Plouay, the Grand Prix of Cannes – all are Grands Prix des Chaudières. At the team meetings on the night before these classics the dialogue from the directeur sportif was always the same. 'Now lads, I can't say there won't be a control tomorrow but this is Plumelec'

  And there would be spontaneous laughter.

  'We are all professionals, so it's up to each of us to conduct ourselves as such. If there is a surprise control and anyone is caught, I will do my best to protect you as far as the sponsor is concerned.'

  I could never bring myself to charge up for the Chaudières races and always went into them with an inferiority complex. As a result of not taking anything I felt disadvantaged and never bothered even to try to win. It was those high principles of mine: there was no way I could be happy winning a race, knowing I had charged for it. And yet I am forced to admit
that a lot of it was purely psychological. In my first year I was as green as grass starting the Grand Prix of Plumelec. I didn't realise it was a Chaudières. I felt I was riding on the same level as everyone else, so it didn't bother me. I finished eighth. But three years later I was a man of the world. I knew what was going on but wasn't mentally strong enough to still try and win.