by Paul Howard
She asked me, before she left, if it was all right that she went. She explained that she had to go and that I could go with her if I wanted. I told her to go, and to leave me there. We knew that Jacques needed me, and he wouldn’t have been able to cope with losing both of us.
Nevertheless, even with Sophie deciding to stay with her father, Annie’s departure signalled the beginning of the end of the original Anquetil clan:
Annie leaving hurt him a lot. He couldn’t stop telling me how much. He loved Annie. He would do anything for her to come back or else . . . On occasion, he seemed to lose his mind. I think he was genuinely unwell. His love for her made him unwell, as did the fact she was no longer his.
At chateau Anquetil, possession was more than nine-tenths of the law. It was the law.
According to Sophie, it was Jeanine who attempted to heal the breach by instigating the return of Alain and Dominique to the chateau. This only led to further complications, however, the most notable being her father’s decision, several months after Annie’s flight and while still obsessed with getting her back, to seduce Dominique as a means to this end. ‘Tell your mother I’ve got my eyes on Dominique. She won’t tolerate that. That’ll make her come back,’ he told Sophie. Even the failure of this approach didn’t deter him: ‘She’s not come back because she knows nothing’s going on between me and Dominique. If she realises she’s my mistress . . .’
The day chosen to consecrate the plan was Sophie’s First Communion – Annie’s absence confirming Anquetil’s worst fears, as Sophie recalls: ‘At the height of his rage, he said to Nanou and me, “Right, as it’s like that, I’m going to take Dominique!” What an extraordinary thing to say. How did he know she would succumb to his charms? Had she already done so in secret? What I do know is that her first official visit to his bed was that very night.’
The consequences were immediate and stark. Sophie joined her mother, although she would later return to a boarding school in the region and spend weekends with her father, in spite of an uncomfortable relationship with his new companion. Alain left for a woman he had already fallen in love with and, according to Sophie, is still with today. Jeanine moved to a flat in Paris before eventually divorcing Anquetil less than two months before he died. The reasons for this delay are unclear. ‘We’d been separated, but as it was my children who would inherit everything and I would end up with nothing we divorced so I would be provided with a pension,’ Jeanine told me. Dominique maintained the divorce wasn’t confirmed until four years after Jeanine’s departure because Jeanine wouldn’t consent, making the process much more long-winded than it would have been otherwise.
Not surprisingly, Dominique’s recollection of events leading up to her installation at the chateau also differs from Sophie’s: ‘At the end of the day, I had problems in my relationship, and he had his. He was often out in the woods with my husband to find a bit of peace and quiet, and I called him to say, “Jacques, you’re very kind, but I’d prefer it if my husband didn’t keep coming back at 4 a.m.” He said, “Well, do you want to meet up so we can talk about it?” We still used “vous” at the time, but I said it was a good idea. When we met, we spoke about everything except the family. I think we’d both had an overdose of the family. So we found ourselves together, and we found we understood each other because of our own problems. Then we started living together, and after that we never left each other.’
Was she not concerned about hooking up with someone with such a questionable track record? ‘No, I knew Jacques when he was married to Jeanine, and I knew his private life. But I also knew that wasn’t him – not the real him. He had been sad. He had drawn a line under everything that had happened previously. It still existed, of course – it was part of his life – but we lived something else. We lived our own life.’
This life is recorded in her own book – Anquetil, Jacques par Dominique – published only two years after his death. It contains nothing about his previous relationships, an omission that was quite intentional. ‘My book is what I lived,’ she told me. ‘Later, there was Sophie’s book, what she felt through her mum, and how that happened. It’s a bit like two different stories.’
Her reaction to Sophie’s story is revealing: ‘It was difficult. When I was asked to appear on television with Jeanine, Sophie and Annie, I said, “Sorry, no, that’s nothing to do with my life. It wasn’t my life.” I was after that. And with Jacques we lived as a couple. We didn’t live with the others, then we had a child together.’
Christopher was born on 2 April 1986. ‘To start with, I wasn’t interested in having another child, making my life even more complicated, and at my age [he was by then 52],’ Anquetil told L’Équipe. ‘But when he arrived, I was smitten. It’s truly wonderful. And what’s more, everything revolves around me. His only word is “Papa”. He says “Papa” when he wants to say “Maman” – he’s as contrary as his dad.’
Contrary, perhaps, but Anquetil doted on his son. ‘He was an adorable father,’ says Dominique. ‘No, he didn’t change nappies. He said it made him feel sick. But he was quite happy, once the baby was ready – that’s to say, clean and dressed – to take him everywhere with him, even in the forest in a papoose. He’d take his hand, walk with him, feed him – he was quite happy doing all those things. He was very practical. But you had to make the baby clean and ready to go.’
Sophie also suggests that he was a natural father: ‘I remember him with babies. Often men are a bit gauche with them, but he wasn’t. He was happy to pick them up and play with them, even with nurse’s baby when she brought him in. He was quite happy to play with him.’
Anquetil himself, in another interview shortly before he died, makes it clear that becoming a father again had helped him move on from all the recent upheavals: ‘Christopher is the best present Dominique could have given me. She’s 37, I’m 53, but I feel ageless, above all, since I met her.’ The picture of domestic normality is underlined when Dominique describes their sleeping habits – the lack of a routine and his increasing insomnia had long been a source of concern for family members and directeurs sportifs alike: ‘Yes, he slept well and for long enough. We had a normal bed time. We went to bed between 10 p.m. and 11 p.m., but he did leave the television on all night. If I switched it off, he woke up. He liked having the background noise. We didn’t get up until 10 a.m. He’d found a way to lead a normal life again.’
TWENTY-ONE
Cycling’s James Bond
IT’S QUITE POSSIBLE THAT life with Dominique did indeed mean that Anquetil had finally found the normality required for him to overcome the traumas of the past 12 years. Unfortunately, while this adoption of a routine recognisable to most may have provided him with psychological and emotional solace, his physical well-being was already beyond repair. On 25 May 1987, Anquetil was diagnosed as suffering from the advanced stages of stomach cancer.
The news was broken to him the day after the christening of his son, Christopher. Anquetil’s school friend Maurice Dieulois was there at the time: ‘I was sitting next to him at the table when he told me he’d been to have some tests during the week and was waiting for the results. He said, “If it’s cancer, I’ve been ill for so long it won’t be long before it gets me.” In fact, the doctor had the results but didn’t want to tell him on the day of the christening, so he came the next day after having rung and said, “I need to see you. I’ll come at midday.” At that point, Jacques knew it must be something serious. And I remember, we were sitting at the table for lunch when the doctor arrived, and Jacques got up and went off into the study on his own with him. When he came back after the doctor had told him he did indeed have stomach cancer, I’ll always remember it, he said “Yes, it’s cancer. But the cancer’s in for a tough ride, as where it is it’s still got its work cut out.” Just like that. Just after he’d learned he had cancer.’ Even now, Dieulois can’t stop himself from chuckling at the memory.
Anquetil’s resilience in the face of such devastating news was also apprecia
ted by another friend, his former teammate André Darrigade, who says Anquetil told him he’d had to make life easier for the doctor: ‘I was watching the doctor’s face when he came with the results of my tests, and he either didn’t want to tell me or he was finding it difficult to start, so I decided to help him. I said, “Don’t worry. You can tell me. I’m not a little boy.”’
Bernard Hinault, who as godfather to Christopher was also there at the time Anquetil learned of his diagnosis, shares this amazement at his friend’s reaction, even if his recollection of how he responded is different: ‘He said to me, “What should I do? I’ve got cancer.” Just like that. “What should I do? Shoot myself in the head or fight?” I said that it could be treated, so he should go and get himself treated. But then he waited. If he’d been treated earlier . . . In June, he had to go and commentate on the Dauphiné, then there was the Tour. Even in August, he was going to criteriums to get a bit of money. Eventually, he went into hospital, but it was too late.’
Dieulois confirms Anquetil’s procrastination: ‘He should normally have been operated on as quickly as possible. In the end, he was operated on in August, and the surgeon said it should have been done sooner. But he was committed to commentating on the Tour on television and answering readers’ questions every day in L’Équipe as well. So, the surgeon said he could start the Tour and go as far as Bordeaux, where he’d do some tests, and then as soon as the Tour had finished he’d operate, maybe around 15 to 20 July. We were there in Bordeaux and spent a couple of hours at least with Jacques after the stage before he went for the tests. To see him, physically, you wouldn’t have known that he was ill. He hadn’t lost weight; he’d even put a bit on, maybe. But because of the tests, he said, “Sorry, Maurice, I can’t even have a drink with you, as I’ve been told to have nothing in my stomach.” So, he didn’t have a drink, whereas normally, of course, he was the first to have a drink with a friend. It was then he decided to finish the Tour.’
In fact, the operation – to remove his stomach – didn’t take place until 11 August, more than two and a half months after receiving confirmation of the diagnosis.
For once, it seems as if Anquetil was fighting shy of the challenge ahead. Eventually, it was his son who was the catalyst for action. ‘One evening, I leaned over Christopher’s cot and kissed him on the cheek, which was as warm as life itself,’ he was reported as saying in Paris Match, just one of the innumerable magazines to carry commemorative articles after his death. ‘I felt his little fingers squeezing mine, trying to keep hold of me, and I decided to have the operation.’
The consequences of this delay should not be underestimated, as his daughter Sophie points out: ‘Rudi Altig also had a stomach cancer. Before they knew anything was wrong, his wife went to see a clairvoyant, who said, “Your husband is very ill. He has a problem with his stomach.” At the time, Rudi felt in fine fettle, but his wife made him go to a doctor. The doctor asked him lots of questions about various things – if he had pain here or pain there – and Rudi said everything was fine, so the doctor said it wasn’t worth any more invasive tests. But Rudi insisted: “Take your thingamajig, knock me out and have a look.” It turns out that he had cancer, was operated on straight away and is still fine now.’
More serious than the delayed reaction to the diagnosis, however, was his delayed acceptance that anything was wrong. He’d been suffering serious stomach pains for at least four years before his cancer was confirmed – Dominique recalls him being plagued by them from the very beginning of their relationship, which started in 1983. His daughter Sophie acknowledges that he’d ignored the symptoms for longer than he should. ‘He just left it,’ she says. ‘He was very resistant to pain, and when his cancer started he resisted, resisted, resisted, and by the time the pains were really intolerable it was already too late.’
Dieulois agrees: ‘He was hardened to suffering. He tried to treat himself with clay masks on the stomach. He thought he’d be able to help himself with that, but to start with he wasn’t really being looked after in a medical sense. He was a bit slow before getting himself treated efficiently.’
It would be reasonable to assume that the impact of this delay was exaggerated by his lifestyle. His body had already begun to show signs that the excesses to which it had been subjected were taking their toll. In 1978, he had been diagnosed with cardiac arrhythmia, a complaint that according to some commentators meant he should never have become a competitive sportsman. His daughter, Sophie, is not so sure, suggesting instead that whereas he used to have a heart that could be compared to a Ferrari, it was now more akin to a 2CV.
Then there was his history of amphetamine consumption during his cycling career (and don’t forget the caffeine and strychnine injections). Regular and quite possibly excessive amphetamine consumption has been suggested as a contributory factor in the early death of several cyclists of the time, such as Louison Bobet and particularly Gastone Nencini, not to mention Anquetil himself. There appears to be little scientific evidence to support this link, however, and Anquetil certainly didn’t give it much credence. ‘I stopped riding nearly 20 years ago,’ he reminded a local newspaper in Colmar after he was admitted to hospital there. ‘If my illness was linked to what I’d done as a sportsman, you’d have to think it had been gestating for an eternity. I really don’t think that’s the cause.’
Jeanine agrees, and offers an alternative explanation. ‘I would have thought if he was going to die young that he’d have died of a heart attack or a lung problem,’ she says. ‘I never thought of cancer. It’s such a cruel illness. But there’s no link between the amphetamines and the cancer – it was the stress of his family life. Absolutely. When my daughter left, and then when my son left, Jacques found himself wanting to stick the family back together. He started to get stressed, to get worked up. It was then it started. He was a very nervous character.’
Perhaps this description of Anquetil provides the missing link. There may be little scientific proof of a direct connection between amphetamine consumption and cancer, but there is a clear link between amphetamine consumption and a nervous disposition. Regular amphetamine users are frequently described as being hyperactive, irritable, aggressive, nervous and insomniac – all characteristics displayed by Anquetil during his retirement. (If irritable and aggressive seem at odds with the picture of him as a cool, calculating cyclist and also as the kind of ‘gentleman’ for whom Vin Denson was happy to act as valet, Richard Marillier assures me he wasn’t a man you wanted to cross: ‘He was very kind, but you shouldn’t wind him up because watch out . . . I’ve seen things I’d better not talk about, but you had to watch out.’)
In turn, these traits went a long way to fuelling a lifestyle in which excess continued to be the norm rather than the exception. Indeed, his taste for the high life during his cycling career had already earned him the nickname the James Bond of cycling. He did little to suggest this description wasn’t equally valid after his retirement.
Take Marillier’s description of his frequent visits to stay with Anquetil at Les Elfes: ‘I saw him do things, and I said, “Look, it’s none of my business, but you shouldn’t carry on like that. You can’t carry on like that. It’s not possible.” For example, we’d eat dinner at the house, and we’d have plenty to drink. Afterwards, we’d go and have a drink at a night club in Rouen called La Bohème – but for him a drink wasn’t a glass of whisky but a bottle of whisky, and not cheap whisky, either. We’d get back about 3 a.m., all a bit worse for wear, and we’d go to bed – but he didn’t. He’d have a shower – hot, then cold, then hot again – put on his overalls, and go out and start working with the tractor. We wouldn’t see him again until 1 p.m. He was a force of nature. I told him he was playing games with his health and he’d end up paying for it.’
Marillier wasn’t the only one to notice his penchant for whisky. One of the journalists Anquetil invited to visit Les Elfes shortly after he retired records being offered an aperitif before lunch: ‘What would you like? Whi
sky? Neat? On the rocks? With water? I always take my first neat . . .’ Then two minutes later: ‘Would you like another? I’ll have this one with water, as I’m thirsty . . .’
Of course, Anquetil is not unique in this consumption pattern. Anyone who’s had the good fortune to live in France will be aware of the tradition – not to say compulsion – to consume a considerable volume of aperitifs. What’s more, French peasants have for generations used alcohol throughout the day to ease the rigours of working hard on the land. Even as fewer and fewer people remain directly involved in agriculture, the tradition has been adopted by a wider society keen to keep in touch with its roots. It’s still possible to see cognac and foie gras being consumed by locals at bars at 9 a.m., locals who now only have a tenuous link to the peasantry. The point is, though, that the often abbreviated life expectancy of these locals reflects the extent of this consumption. For once, Anquetil proved no exception.
His former teammate Guy Ignolin is convinced that it was his whisky drinking that led to his cancer. ‘He used to come to events I was involved in to help with their profile, and as he was a kind of guest of honour there’d always be a reception with plenty of drink flowing,’ he told me. ‘After a couple of drinks, Jacques would have eyed somebody up and decided to out-drink him: “You see that guy there? I’m going to bury him.” And then they were off – whisky, whisky, whisky.’
Even when those close to him suggested a degree of moderation, Anquetil once again responded as if challenged to consume more. ‘We’d say to him to stop drinking so much whisky, that it would make him sick, give him cancer, whatever, but he’d drink a bottle of whisky and say, “Look, there’s nothing wrong,”’ says Marillier. ‘Then someone else would say the same about champagne, so he’d drink three or four bottles of champagne and say, “No problem.” It was always a challenge – he challenged himself. He pushed the limits, in everything, everything, everything.’ (In 1986, he still let himself be persuaded to participate in the Paris–Dakar rally, losing nearly a stone in weight before eventually being constrained to abandon due to gearbox failure.)
