That led Merckx to San Remo, and that four-man sprint. Of the quartet, Merckx was not the most likely winner on paper. Van Springel was equally inexperienced, but he was almost two years older. Durante was a prolific winner of the big one-day races that made up the bulk of the Italian calendar, already a stage winner in both the Giro d’Italia and Tour de France, and had shown Merckx a clean pair of heels twice in the previous week’s Paris–Nice. At twenty-three, Dancelli was coming off the back of a stupendous 1965: twelve major wins and the Italian title, decided on points over the season. That made him the overwhelming favourite for the final sprint. Merckx, on the other hand, had been racing as a professional for less than twelve months and he was not yet twenty-one.
Untested in the Classics, Merckx himself was worried about the length of the race: three hundred kilometres is a massive leap in the dark for a twenty-year-old. But he had the strength to follow a move by Raymond Poulidor on the Capo Berta, one of the series of small climbs that test the legs in the final phase of La Primavera. He had managed to split the field himself on the Poggio, the final ascent, with only the descent to that sprint finish remaining. Only eleven men remained with him at the top of the little hill; clearly Merckx was still fresh in spite of seven hours in the saddle. The group included Van Springel, Durante and Dancelli. The latter had responded rapidly when Merckx made his move, but he had not counter-attacked, a sign that he might be feeling the distance. Plaud had advised Merckx to leave his sprint as late as he could, so he opted to raise the pace eight hundred metres from the line: it was the last 150 metres before he truly went flat out. The finish epitomised the way Merckx would tackle sprints against men who were faster and more experienced on paper: time and again he would use his sustained power to temper their pure speed, opting for a long sprint rather than a sudden, late jump out of the blocks.
But the winner could have been any of the four. Van Springel, another debutant in the race, recalled that he was just behind Merckx as the sprint opened up three hundred metres from the line, and they both sprang out of the saddle at the same instant. As they did so, Merckx shifted his trajectory very slightly, not deliberately, and not so much that he actually impeded the other Belgian, but enough to make Van Springel check slightly and move to his left. In such split seconds, races are made and lost.
Merckx would go through his career a worried man and, for the previous eighteen months, he had been well aware that he needed to prove he was not just another talented amateur who had made it into the professional ranks and then stalled. He had won the world amateur road race championship in August 1964, but knew that there were plenty of world amateur champions who disappeared once they moved up to the highest level. He had looked at the results of others who triumphed as amateurs and noticed that they frequently went nowhere. At Solo-Superia he had competed almost seventy times but won only nine races. The move to Peugeot had been a courageous gamble; staying at Solo would have been the safe option. So the final metres that day on Via Roma vindicated his decision to quit Van Looy, and strike out on his own, and it meant his world title was not a mere flash in the pan.
With hindsight, something else would become clear. In 1946, Fausto Coppi of Italy had marked the rebirth of professional cycling after the war with a huge, decisive win in the ‘Classic of Classics’. Coppi’s win was the dawn of a new era in cycling. Merckx’s victory twenty years later would be another turning point, after which the sport would be taken in a completely new direction by the greatest champion it has ever seen.
WORLD DOMINATION IN FIVE PHASES
THE ICONIC STATUS of Eddy Merckx is partly down to meteorology, for various reasons. Many of the most striking images of the great man were taken in rain and snow. The stories his rivals tell make Merckx seem superhuman in the face of brutal cold and wet. To take one example, Gianni Motta told of Merckx taking off his racing cape when it rained, so that he could go faster while everyone else shivered. Merckx raced hard in races susceptible to rain and snow – the Classics, spring stage races, the Giro d’Italia – whereas today’s stars focus all their attention on one race held in July. And there is something else: because he won so much more than every cyclist before or since, the law of probability dictated that more of his wins would be in the worst weather the sky could throw at him and the peloton.
The list of races won by Merckx where he fought the elements as well as the usual opponents is a long one: the heavy rain in the Tour of Flanders of 1969 and 1975 and Paris–Roubaix 1970 and 1973, the snow, rain and cold of Liège–Bastogne–Liège in 1971. There are the legendary images of Merckx during the Tour of Belgium in 1970 and 1971, with half-melted snow blotching his shoulders and thick woolly gloves the only concession he is making to the conditions (he has no race cape, nothing on his head other than a thin cotton casquette, in the Namur–Helst stage of 1970 he has legwarmers, in 1971 not, and his nerves must be deadened with the cold). There is another from Paris–Nice in the early 1970s, when he has punctured and has snow all over him, again not even a covering on his shoes; the Tour of Flanders 1975 when the sleet can be seen slashing across his rainbow jersey. On the Stelvio in the 1972 Giro he chased the little Spanish climber José Manuel Fuente through a blinding mix of snow, sleet, rain, fog and high wind, so thick that he could hardly tell where the finish was.
One day in particular stands out. June snow in the Dolomites is not uncommon, but the snowstorm that hit the eastern end of the range on 1 June 1968 had ramifications that went far beyond the mountains. Things were never the same again after that blizzard, for Eddy Merckx in particular, but also for a whole generation of bike racers who tried to compete with him over the next nine years.
Of all the hostile forces that racing cyclists fear, wet snow in the mountains is dreaded the most. It melts on the road and the result is a constant spray of water, just above freezing temperature. It takes no time for a cyclist to be soaked through from below while from above the snow falls on bare arms and legs, the skin burning with the cold. As well as the usual challenges of racing up and down mountain passes – redoubtable enough in temperate weather – the descents are a freezing hell with numbed fingers pulling on unwilling brake levers, road spray and snowflakes lashing the eyes as they strain to see the next hairpin. Body and mind are tested to the limit as hypothermia sets in. This was what the cyclists of the Giro d’Italia faced as they raced towards Lavaredo on the twelth stage of the three-week race on that June afternoon. The rain had begun that morning at the start in Gorizia, and drenched them all day: as the final climb approached, it turned to snow.
High above the town of Misurina, the Cima Piccola, Cima Grande and Cima Ovest di Lavaredo – the Tre Cime – rise up like three fingers, all close to three thousand metres high, up above the military road that climbs to the Auronzo refuge. From 1914 to 1917, the peaks marked the front line between Italian and Austrian forces; the climb to the refuge, 2333 metres above sea level, has been one of the classic Giro d’Italia ascents since 1967. That year, the riders, struggling on gears that were unsuitable, in a snowstorm, were pushed to the top by the tifosi, and the stage was ruled null and void; in 1968, to prevent any repetition of that, the organisers arranged for police to line the road. Like San Remo, Lavaredo was a key location in the progress of young Eddy Merckx into the record books. Here, in the most dramatic handicap race cycling had seen to that date, and in the teeth of that snowstorm, Merckx closed a ten-minute gap on a breakaway group to win the stage and seal the first Belgian victory in the Giro d’Italia.
By the time he arrived at the foot of the Tre Cime that day, ready to climb his way to world domination, Merckx had already found out a good deal about professional cycling. For a well-brought up Catholic boy from a small, relatively closed suburb where conformity was all and rules were rigidly enforced, the professional world must have been an eye-opener. Merckx had not actually raced that much internationally as an amateur. He didn’t know about the pushing that was rife in Italian races. He tended not to get involved in comb
ines, and didn’t buy and sell races – although having won so many so early on he could have earned plenty of money doing so. There must have been occasions when he was offered cash to ‘lose’ a race, but no records that he ever did so.
The move to Peugeot had worked, to the extent that he had been given some liberty and had taken advantage of it. The French team was a different set-up from Solo, but was still not an easy environment for a young, talented rider. There were many different leaders all fighting for their place – Tom Simpson, the reigning world champion, Roger Pingeon, Raymond Delisle, Charles Grosskost. While there were openings, the lack of structure meant that anyone with aspirations, no matter how senior they were, had to fight for dominance, like a mafia boss showing his strength to the other gangsters. Simpson appears to have been particularly jealous of his status.
Milan–San Remo was the young Belgian’s only major win in 1966, although he took twenty victories in total, including his first professional stage race victory in the Tour of Morbihan. There was a stage win in the Midi Libre, a prestigious warm-up race before the Tour de France, and victories in one-day events that still have a certain ring to them: the Grand Prix Pino Cerami at Wasmuel, the Championship of Flanders, the Baracchi Trophy in Italy, the Montjuich hill-climb in Spain. All this was more than promising for a rider in his twenty-first year, but Merckx’s first complete professional season is often unfairly judged by the standards of what he achieved later.
After San Remo, he had a series of setbacks that can be explained away by an understandable lack of physical and tactical maturity. A crash in the Tour of Flanders, a puncture in Paris–Roubaix, an alliance of stars who wanted Gimondi to win Paris–Brussels, where only he and Van Looy were interested in chasing the Italian. Merckx was in the mix in the world championships on the tough German motor-racing circuit at Nürburgring, but suffered cramp in the finale. Moreover, the big names in the peloton appeared to have worked together to ensure the win for one of their number, Rudi Altig. Afterwards the youth went through a moral crisis. He was in tears in his hotel room for two hours and later had to be virtually forced by Van Buggenhout to race again.
There was another near miss in the Giro di Lombardia, where he escaped with Vittorio Adorni – his future teammate – and Gimondi, but in the final sprint on the velodrome in Como he tried to sneak past between Adorni and the hoardings at the top of the track. Adorni impeded him momentarily by sticking out an elbow, and his loss of impetus allowed Gimondi to win. It was the classic case of the older pros giving the talented, strong newcomer a hard time, but Merckx blamed himself. He had had the opportunity to look at the track in Como a few days earlier, but had not taken it. He had paid the price, as there was a bump at the entrance to the velodrome, he had not taken it smoothly, and had ended up in a poor position when the sprint began. It was the kind of detail he would attend to in future.
The youth hit the 1967 season running, winning two stages of the Tour of Sardinia, but the first major stage race of the year, Paris–Nice, was another learning experience. He went straight into the ‘Race to the Sun’ from Sardinia, won stage two – a dominant solo victory, with all the big names chasing behind him – and pulled on the leader’s jersey. It should have been a simple matter of Peugeot defending the lead, but it didn’t work out that way. Two days later, Tom Simpson attacked repeatedly, then made an early move with sixteen other riders on the climb up from the stage start at Saint-Etienne over the Col de la République, Merckx was left behind, and Anquetil in particular showed no interest in chasing. Simpson seized his chance, and it was probably no coincidence that Van Looy was in the move as well, combining with Merckx’s teammate to put one over the young upstart. The grands coureurs were asserting themselves.
With a strong northwesterly on their backs, Van Looy, Simpson and company gained twenty minutes on the field, with The Emperor taking the stage and Simpson taking the lead. The fact that Simpson had attacked when Peugeot had the race leader in their team caused huge controversy. Simpson claimed that he had alerted Merckx to the danger of a split as they went up the climb, but Merckx didn’t get in the move, so he decided there should be at least one Peugeot in there. J. B. Wadley visited the race for Sporting Cyclist: his description of Simpson’s win makes no bones of the fact that Merckx was bitterly angry with Simpson and it is clear that Simpson – for all his embarrassment at annoying his teammate – felt he had no choice but to look after his own interests. The Briton was every bit as competitive as Merckx, and desperate for success after a catastrophic 1966.
Two days later, Merckx attacked in his turn, on the climb of the Col d’Ange, seventy kilometres into the stage from Marignane to Hyères – he was over eight minutes behind Simpson so had the right to make a move, but Simpson then attacked out of the bunch behind him. Under orders from Peugeot manager Gaston Plaud, Merckx played the devoted teammate, waiting for the Briton so that the pair could share the work all the way to the finish. Merckx crossed the line first, with Simpson respecting protocol by not contesting the sprint as he was guaranteed the overall title. The Briton thanked Merckx publicly, but Merckx said nothing: he had simply done the correct thing. ‘I’m paid for this kind of thing as well,’ he said. The young Belgian was certainly not bitter. A week later he agreed to race an Italian criterium on condition that the organiser invited Simpson (and his Peugeot teammate Ferdinand Bracke) as well. In late July that year, he was the only continental rider to go to Simpson’s funeral after the Briton died on the Mont Ventoux climb in the Tour de France; he remains unhappy to this day that Simpson’s name is so closely associated with doping
Few gave the young Merckx much chance of a repeat win in Milan–San Remo – odds of 120-1 were being given against him – but Simpson clearly felt he had no option but to get away from his young teammate early on. So he made sure he was in the early move just eight kilometres from the start, well before the Turchino Pass. It was a five-man escape that gained five minutes; it included Bob Lelangue, and Simpson’s close friend Vin Denson. The race came back together sixty kilometres from the finish, largely because there wasn’t a strong enough presence in the move from the Italian teams, something Simpson should have worked out.
So Merckx had his chance in the finale. He attacked on Capo Berta to create an initial selection in the bunch, then sprang clear on the Poggio accompanied by Gianni Motta. Merckx decided not to give it everything, held back a little, and the pair were joined by Gimondi and Franco Bitossi – the irony being that with three Italians in the lead it was highly likely that they would race against each other, and Merckx might then profit. Which was exactly what happened. Motta said later that both he and Bitossi were scrapping to get on Merckx’s wheel as they knew – after the previous year’s race – that he would be the fastest for the sprint; Motta lost a couple of metres, which was just enough to make the difference, helping Merckx land his second win in the ‘Classic of Classics’ in two years.
Merckx added Ghent–Wevelgem shortly afterwards. It was an event that carried far more prestige than it does now, it was his first ‘northern Classic’, and it was taken from the elite of Belgian hard men: Willy Planckaert, Noël Foré, Ward Sels, Herman Van Springel. Those two events marked another turning point: the beginning of nine years when Merckx was a factor in every race he started. His professional apprenticeship was clearly over. Already, riders and teams were basing their races around him. At the Tour of Flanders, Luciano Pezzi, the directeur sportif of Salvarani (former teammate of Fausto Coppi, future confidant of Marco Pantani), told Gimondi and his team that they had to work together to beat Merckx: Gimondi would have to follow Merckx when he made his move, but he needed a teammate with him to have any chance of beating the Belgian. Pezzi was astute: Gimondi, indeed, got away with Merckx and he took with him his teammate Dino Zandegu, a guitar-playing, singing sprinter from Padua. The two Italians attacked Merckx turn and turn about, with the Belgian eventually letting Zandegu go, hoping that at a certain point he would be able to get clear of Gimondi
and recapture him. It didn’t happen.
Thus far, Merckx’s career had been through three phases: a difficult initiation, an initial breakthrough and a struggle to confirm it was not a fluke. World domination was preceded by a fourth phase, when the ‘heads’ of the peloton didn’t seem to care who won as long as it was not Merckx. That made perfect sense. This was a sport dominated by a small clique of established stars, who made a good living off appearance contracts for track and circuit races. It was in their interests to keep the magic circle small, so they would do everything they could either to keep the young champion out, or at least to subjugate him so they could integrate him into the system. In the Flèche Wallonne that April, Gimondi, Van Looy, Jean Stablinski, Foré and Victor Van Schil all seemed to be in league against Merckx to start with, with Peter Post particularly aggressive. There were attacks from the gun; Merckx missed an early group of favourites but bridged with Van Looy on his wheel, the older man giving no help. At one point Merckx was forced to pursue for forty-five kilometres after another group disappeared. He finally went on the attack himself seventeen kilometres from the finish, and after a quarter of an hour or so the rest gave up and left him to a victory that had a strong moral element to it. It was not to be the last time.
The double in Flèche Wallonne and its fellow ‘Ardennes Classic’, Liège–Bastogne–Liège, is one of cycling’s most prestigious achievements, but Walter Godefroot got in Merckx’s way that year. With Merckx piling on the pressure and his fellow Belgian clinging on, the pair escaped in the hilly final miles of the Classic. That year the doyenne finished on the athletics track in the middle of the velodrome in the suburb of Rocourt, because persistent rain had made the banked track too slippery and dangerous. They only had to complete half a lap: Godefroot attacked just before they arrived on the track, sprinting to the left as Merckx made the mistake of looking to the right. Like Gimondi, Godefroot would be a sparring partner for the rest of Merckx’s career; he was one of the few stars of the time whose spirit never seemed to be broken by Merckx’s domination.
Merckx: Half Man, Half Bike Page 6
