His riding too, however impressive, is old school. Even if you choose to ignore the spiralling vortex of white noise in the power-output debate, Merckx’s tactics were, at their most understated, instinctive, high risk and gung-ho. No sports director would sanction such an attack in the modern Tour.
Lastly, in the aftermath of the Festina scandal of 1998, in which Virenque was the central character, two rest days were introduced as standard in Grand Tours. A 29-stage Grand Tour with no rest days would not be possible in modern cycling.
With 13.6 kilometres to the summit, Merckx, riding the Ventoux in the Tour for the first time, and with the bullish but suffering Agostinho on his wheel, is easing clear of Pantani by a few seconds. The footage may be poor quality, but it does not disguise the irresistible force of Merckx’s pedalling. ‘Merckx was a cut above everyone,’ Gárate says.
‘He’s untouchable,’ states Virenque. What would he do to them these days, same bike, same kit, you ponder, as Merckx crushes the road beneath him.
Agostinho’s team car draws alongside the Portuguese and a mechanic squirts cold water from a bidon down his team leader’s back. Another rider empties the remnants of a bucket of water over his head. As he watches, Bernard’s features crease into a ‘them were the days’ wry smile.
The virtual climb wears on, Merckx and Pantani yo-yoing at the front, but Gárate already two minutes behind the Belgian, as he races in front of far bigger crowds, an estimated half a million, in 2009. ‘There wouldn’t be as many spectators there if the Tour was in September,’ observes Bernard, a little obviously, as he edges ahead of Pantani and Merkcx.
But, as Bernard points out, he is time-trialling, not reacting to the ebb and flow of those around him, or seeking to save his strength for the explosive attacks still to come. Bernard is racing the mountain, make or break as he put it, not the riders alongside him.
Virenque, meanwhile, is getting slower: with 12 kilometres to go in the virtual showdown, he’s almost three minutes behind Merckx. By the time the leaders – Bernard, Pantani and Merckx – get to the Maison Forestière Jamet, just short of the Virage du Bois, with 10.3 kilometres to the summit, Gárate and Virenque are out of contention. Virenque, watching his demise, squirms a little in his seat. ‘Lots of fans wrote my name on the road,’ he points out, clutching at straws. As he grudgingly admits, he’s a lost cause, even before Chalet Reynard. Meanwhile, Bernard’s lead increases.
But why is Virenque’s 2002 time so slow, even against Merckx’s from 1970? Yes, his was the longest stage of the five – 221 kilometres, the second longest in that year’s Tour, against Bernard’s 36.5 kilometres, the second shortest in 1987 – and he had been in a long break through the stage, but, as Gárate points out, the timing of the Ventoux stage during the Tour’s three weeks is also significant. ‘It makes a difference if it’s in the first ten days or the final week,’ the Spaniard says. ‘That’s more important than the length of the stage.’
With nine kilometres to go, the Cannibal is alone on the Giant, crushing the cranks, pummelling the pedals, as his final companion, Agostinho, definitively cracks. It’s a reality check for the Portuguese who, after matching the Belgian until midway up the mountain, struggles so badly that he fails even to finish in the top ten.
As he falls out of the virtual running, Virenque talks through his confession to doping, which came in 1999, a year after the Festina Affair. ‘I didn’t want to become some kind of ambassador or whistleblower,’ he claims. ‘So I saved my confession until later.
‘It was commonplace in every team,’ he says, by way of explanation. ‘I did the same as any other rider.’
Back from his ban in 2002, Virenque sought revenge on the Ventoux. Of his winning attack, a little over eight kilometres from the summit, Virenque said: ‘My brother was at the roadside and screamed encouragement at me. It gave me a new lease of life.’
Virenque, the highest-profile name in what was then the biggest drugs scandal ever to hit cycling, was vilified for his part in the Festina Affair. Judging by his relative rehabilitation as a TV pundit and the number of autographs he signs each day, he has, in some corners at least, been forgiven. ‘Richard had a bad time after Festina,’ Bernard says. ‘We thought that affair would be a big wake-up call. But things actually got worse in the following years.’ Even Boifava, Pantani’s manager, admitted that cycling had yet to heal itself. ‘It’s become increasingly difficult to make cycling credible,’ the Italian says.
‘There’s a lot of hypocrisy,’ Virenque maintains. ‘The managers in cycling, the federations, the journalists – everyone knew what was going on.’
‘Doping is about making money. In July, it’s Dallas,’ says Bernard, perhaps meaning Vegas. ‘Whether or not the riders are taking drugs, people want to watch the Tour and they want action.’
A kilometre and a half from Chalet Reynard, Bernard leads Pantani by 30 seconds and Merckx is still just 40 seconds slower. Merckx, his shoulders and head bobbing, remains seated, legs churning. In stark contrast, Pantani’s speed ebbs and flows as he stands on the pedals, hands on the drops, his short accelerations keeping pace with the rear of the Armstrong-led group just ahead.
Bernard watches on, and recalls seeing Merckx on the Ventoux as a kid at home. ‘I remember the black-and-white TV and I remember watching these pictures,’ he says. ‘I don’t see who can compare to Merckx.’
A handful of mute fans watch the Cannibal’s lone escapade as, to a chorus of buzzing cicadas, Merckx continues his relentless progress, followed by a flotilla of official vehicles and TV motorbikes. By Chalet Reynard, the Belgian has bridged the decades, overtaking Pantani and riding only five seconds slower than Bernard. With five kilometres to go, Merckx is now riding through the arid upper slopes, a little slower than Bernard, but almost half a minute faster than Pantani.
But the hierarchy begins to shift in the virtual race when Pantani rejoins the Armstrong group. And then the Italian attacks. ‘He was so full of surprises,’ Boifava says, a little indulgently. Pantani’s acceleration takes him into the lead, edging clear of Bernard and distancing Merckx.
‘I knew he was using certain substances,’ Virenque says of the Italian, who was kicked off the 1999 Giro d’Italia on the threshold of victory for failing a hematocrit test. ‘But there comes a moment when you overdo it and you get reined in.’ Virenque, after all, should know.
Boifava, meanwhile, remains loyal, describing Pantani as a ‘born champion’. ‘He didn’t need doping. When he raced as a junior, he was already a great champion.’
Veteran cycling writer Gianni Mura, the bear-like correspondent to Italian newspaper la Repubblica, famed for reading his copy down the line, even after the advent of email, once asked Pantani why he accelerated so hard on the climbs. ‘To cut my agony short,’ Pantani replied.
Of Pantani’s death in 2004, attributed after a series of investigations to a mix of cocaine and antidepressants, Boifava says only ‘everyone blamed cycling’. ‘It’s difficult to know what really happened. In the end, we all failed – because none of us managed to save him. I felt guilty because we couldn’t save him.’
Three kilometres from the summit, Merckx has fallen a minute behind the Italian, but as Pantani’s accelerations fluctuate, in a bluffing lead group whittled down to Armstrong, Jan Ullrich, Joseba Beloki, Roberto Heras and Santiago Botero, Bernard is once again virtual race leader. That’s until Pantani attacks again, this time with Armstrong hot on his heels. It’s a moment of footage, so tainted, so brimming with bitter memories, that everyone else – even confessed doper Virenque – watches with disdain.
‘I remember Armstrong in 2002,’ Virenque says, ‘and he was – I think – “carried” by the authorities, and by the Tour organisers.
‘I – a French cyclist – finished first at the top of Ventoux,’ the Frenchman rants. ‘I spoke to the media, I did the anti-doping tests, but there, for Monsieur Lance Armstrong, the Tour organisers had put a helicopter at his disposal, to take him from Mont Ve
ntoux to his hotel.
Ignoring that a helicopter evacuation from summit finishes has now become standard practice for the race leader, Virenque continues. ‘And me, the little French cyclist, was left there, in the road, no escort and with all the traffic jams. It took me three hours to get back to the hotel that day. You can’t help but feel bitter about things like that, about that sort of set-up.’
‘I think he was protected,’ Bernard says of Armstrong’s years of cheating. ‘I don’t see how it’s possible otherwise.’
On screen, Armstrong speeds to Pantani’s back wheel and, with absurd ease, takes the lead. It’s his best performance on the climb, the doped alpha at the peak of his powers, a blur as he passes the Simpson memorial, Pantani sprinting in his wake to hang on.
‘. . . All the symbolism of those toxic years is present here, in this image,’ says the voiceover, although some may argue that there is just as much symbolism in the showreels of Virenque, Landis, Rasmussen, Hamilton and all the others, raising their arms, fists pumping, pointing to the sky, during those ‘toxic years’.
Cut back to Merckx, at the same spot, now pedalling like a weary cyclotourist, reaching for a non-existent lower gear on his downtube, all his earlier puissance drained, his face as haggard as the most unwashed Tour-weary hack on the final road transfer to Paris.
A little over a kilometre from the summit, wearing the now defunct and late lamented combine jersey for the best-performing rider across all classifications, Bernard, the spittle swaying from his chin, emerges through the crowds. The Frenchman leads the Pantani–Armstrong EPO train by just over 30 seconds. With 700 metres to go, he is still the quickest, but by just 20 seconds. Watching his own performance 26 years later, in a studio in Paris, Bernard’s eyes widen.
Armstrong accelerates again and Pantani loses ground, but then, oddly, at the moment when he should make the kill, the Texan relents a little.
Bernard’s flushed face is a picture of pain as he mauls his bike against the gradient and closes on that loathsome final right-hand bend. ‘I never collapsed,’ he insists as he watches his younger self impassively. ‘I climbed at my own pace. Between Chalet Reynard and the summit, I never lost time.’
As Armstrong continues to monitor Pantani, the gap to Bernard stretches to 50 seconds – and stays there. The Frenchman crosses the line, having climbed from Bédoin to the summit in a time of 58 minutes and three seconds. He is the quickest of the five, spanning a 40-year timescale.
‘Écoute . . . I’ve won the Ventoux twice!’ he says, beaming. ‘I’ve just beaten Pantani, Merckx, Virenque.’
‘Bernard’s performance over the last kilometre is incredible,’ says Gárate. Perhaps, too, that shortest stage distance is a decisive factor, but set against that is his 1987 equipment, second oldest after Merckx in 1970.
Further down the mountain, and now beyond the Simpson monument, Merckx pedals on. The Belgian finishes in third place, taking 61 minutes and 42 seconds for the ascent. Gárate, riding 39 years later, is eight seconds slower. Beyond the finish line, Merckx pulls on a rain cape and appears close to passing out. For all the fireworks from Armstrong and Pantani, it is Merckx’s performance, in that 29-stage Tour with no rest days and on equipment little changed since the 1950s, that is the most resonant.
Virenque, at the climax of the longest stage of the five, a stage some 200 kilometres further than Bernard’s time trial, finishes almost six minutes behind Bernard, in 63 and 50 seconds. He is the slowest of the five. Predictably, though, he is still eager to put a positive spin on that outcome. ‘That day I beat Lance Armstrong, who wanted to win at all costs. It’s my favourite climb and I pulled off a special ride . . . Et voilà . . .’
And Armstrong, who crosses the line just behind Pantani, after sacrificing victory by making a misplaced peace offering that even now, nearly two decades on, still rankles? Well, even in virtual cycling, Lance still can’t conquer the Giant . . .
Of the five, there’s little doubt that, set in context, Merckx is the ‘king’ of the Giant. Stage winner in 1970, second in the 1972 stage of the Tour to the summit, more than any other rider he consistently managed the Ventoux’s capriciousnesss. His first experience of the Ventoux came in Paris–Nice, climbing up from Sault. ‘But in 1970, I also recced the Tour route for a Belgian radio station, so that every day, before the stage, they would play my comments on the stage. The first time was hard, that’s for sure, but people had warned me about it.’
On a stifling July afternoon in 1972, he also climbed the Ventoux, but this time from Malaucène, on a 207-kilometre stage from Carnon-Plage to the mountain’s summit. ‘There’s a big difference between the two climbs,’ he says. ‘Malaucène is not easy either, but it is more like other climbs, more Alpine. The main difference is that from Bédoin, once you get to Chalet Reynard there is no protection.’
After the dramas of July 1971, Merckx’s great rivalry with Luis Ocaña of Spain was expected to be the 1972 Tour’s focal point, but the Spanish climber had failed to dent Merckx’s aura of confidence as effectively as in the past. The Belgian, riled by the suggestion that he had only won the 1971 Tour after Ocaña crashed in the Pyrenees – a suggestion which had more than a grain of truth to it given that Ocaña’s lead over Merckx had eclipsed eight minutes – was out to prove a point.
The Ventoux’s north face offered Ocaña a fresh opportunity to attack. As the leaders arrived at the foot of the 21-kilometre climb, Merckx’s team, riding at 50 kilometres an hour, took up the pace. But it didn’t deter the Spaniard, who accelerated four times. Yet Merckx contained every attack. Instead, it was Bernard Thévenet who profited. ‘Bernard took the opportunity because Luis and I were watching each other,’ Merckx remembered. ‘I got away from Ocaña but it was too late.’
Thévenet’s win on the Ventoux was all the more remarkable given the severity of his earlier crash on the seventh stage as he descended the Aubisque in the Pyrenees. That bang caused a temporary bout of amnesia, although he still managed to make it to the end of the stage. After a check-up in hospital, Thévenet raced on.
The opening kilometres on the Ventoux climb, ridden yet again in a mid-afternoon canicule, had left Thévenet breathless. ‘Merckx and Ocaña set a crazy pace at the bottom,’ he said. ‘It was either let go or explode following them. I sat up a little and then, further up, got back in contact.’
In the final kilometres, Raymond Poulidor also tried his hand, but it was Thévenet, dropped earlier on the climb, who took advantage of a lull to accelerate clear. He rounded the last bend of melting tarmac, overlooking the Ventoux’s steep north face, the hills of the Drôme spread out far below, to announce himself as a contender.
French journalist Antoine Blondin, writing in L’Équipe, described Thévenet as ‘the revenant’. Merckx came in 34 seconds behind him to take second on the stage, with both Ocaña and Poulidor cut adrift in the final kilometre. ‘Thévenet went, but he went too late,’ Merckx said. ‘I came back on Thévenet’s wheel – okay, I didn’t win the stage because I was riding to win the Tour – and Luis and I were watching each other too much.’
Nonetheless, it’s a performance only two summers after his lone win, on the Ventoux’s south side, that Merckx remains fiercely proud of. ‘Luis never beat me on the Ventoux,’ he says in Ghent. ‘OK, Thévenet was good, but he was not better than me on the Ventoux.’
Eddy Merckx prefers to avoid the subject of doping. His attitude is no different when the subject is broached in Ghent. Perhaps he’s keeping a pact with the dead when he blames Tom Simpson’s demise on business interests and a lack of training, rather than showing any willingness to discuss amphetamine abuse. Perhaps also it’s too close to home and this man, now in his seventies, doesn’t want to desecrate the golden memories of his youth.
Doping controls were instigated for the first time in the 1966 Tour de France. The following morning, as the race left Bordeaux, there was a rider protest, with much of the anger being directed at race doctor, Pierre Dumas, even th
ough then Tour director, Félix Lévitan, had described the inaugural tests as ‘an honour’. There were three positive tests during Merckx’s career, in 1969, 1973 and 1977. He has always maintained he was a clean rider and that anything found in his system was not there through his own volition.
His positive test for amphetamines in the 1969 Giro, when victory seemed assured, mirrored Pantani’s experience. Amid accusations and recriminations, he was kicked off the race in tears, his expulsion triggering questions in both the Belgian and Italian parliaments. With a one-month suspension mooted, it also threatened his participation in the 1969 Tour de France. But Merckx, the biggest star in the sport, was semi-exonerated after the UCI decreed that he had not knowingly doped. The positive test was upheld but the ban lifted, enabling him to start that year’s Tour.
In the aftermath, Merckx did nothing to defuse the explosive conspiracies, the allegations against rival teams, dope testers, the Giro organisers and even the public. ‘The Italians can’t be trusted,’ he said at the time. ‘I should never have come here. I’ve won too many times here.’ He maintained that he had been wronged but by 1977, when he tested positive for the third time, on home turf in Flèche Wallonne, the excuses were wearing thin.
Like Armstrong, there is defiance when the subject of doping is raised. Who are we to judge what it was like back then, with little or no anti-doping legislation or culture, no tests or sanctions? That attitude was echoed by Armstrong, when I interviewed him, almost 50 years after Simpson died. ‘What do you know? You weren’t in the war, you weren’t in the trenches. You don’t know anything about cycling . . .’
One man who was not a rider but who was in the trenches was Tour doctor, Dumas. From 1952 until he became head of drug-testing in 1969, Dumas watched the unrestricted excesses of cycling first-hand. He tended to Malléjac when he collapsed on the Ventoux in 1955 and, on the same mountain, fought to save Simpson, 12 summers later.
French Renaissance Page 11
