Rough Ride (14 page)

'Fuck. I'm going to crash.' I swung out the bars and tried to avoid him, but there was nowhere for me to go. I hit him and flipped just off the edge of the road. Five seconds of the world turning upside-down, of total lack of control, and I come to a halt. Oh, it's always a great feeling to open your eyes after a crash. My knee is stinging a bit but I'm OK. I try to get up, but I'm trapped under my bike and I burn my hand on the hot front rim. The tyre has rolled off and I will need a change. Behind, there was chaos as, one by one, riders started piling into the back of us. The Belgian Henrick De Vos didn't have time to brake: he went straight off the cliff edge, landing sixty feet below us. Team cars screeched to a halt behind, the panicking race doctors slid down the side to rescue poor De Vos – who I felt sure was dead. Thevenet and Coval both came to my rescue. Thevenet reached me first and he screamed at the mechanic, who had run further down the road, to come back and change the wheel. But the front rim was so hot that he burned his hand as he tried to get it out.

I jumped back on the bike dazed but only slightly grazed. There were bodies everywhere on the descent, absolute carnage, and I joined Kim Andersen and Miguel Indurain. We were descending a long straight bit of road at about sixty kilometres an hour when one of the team cars overtook and came so close that he clipped Indurain's handlebars with the side of the car. God knows how the Spaniard managed to stay upright. This latest incident had a strange effect on me. I sat up and decided to take no more chances on the descent. 'These people are all insane. It's only a fucking bike race. To hell with them.'

I finished the stage with one of the larger groups and am feeling
fine tonight. Twelve riders abandoned, including Vermotte from our team. De
Vos was lifted from the side of the mountain in a helicopter. He has a fractured
skull, but his life is not in danger so he is lucky. Colotti had a really
bad day today and barely scraped through. I feel a bit guilty at not having
waited with him. He is the only one from the team getting any publicity, as
he is still sprint leader, so I will stay with him tomorrow.

Tuesday, 14 July
Stage 14: Pau to Luz Ardiden (166 kilometres)
Stage winner: Dag-Otto Lauritzen (Norway)
Race leader: Charly Mottet

The team doctors came to the hotel last night. This morning before the stage they came into the room. They started preparing a syringe with a small ampoule of something or other. I asked what it was and was told 'synacthen'. I hadn't got a clue what that was, but I didn't like the sound of it so I said I didn't want any. It was a bit embarrassing, but the doctor bowed to my wish and didn't insist – he gave it to my room-mate instead.

(Synacthen is common, even a 'lightweight', among many of the hormonal products used in the peloton. It is a medicament that simulates 24 of the 39 amino acids which constitute a molecule of l'ACTH, which stimulate the production of cortisone in the body. It therefore commands the body to produce its own cortisone. The other way of increasing cortisone in the body is to take it directly. Kenacort is a synthetic cortisone, and a product widely used in the peloton. It is banned but detection is a problem – the body produces cortisone naturally, and some people produce more than others, so finding a norm is difficult.)

I have been sorely tempted to experiment with stuff during the race, but fear the secondary effects of cortisone abuse, so I have decided not to enter that little game. And yet I am tempted. I know I would improve, for I've seen the improvements in others, but it's doping and I'm afraid of where it will lead me. The old argument that a doped ass won't win the Derby is a true, but a dangerous one. I know that by taking stuff I'll never win the Tour. But physically I would improve. And by improving I would gain in confidence and maybe start winning races. That would earn me more money – which is all that counts at the end of the day. Maybe it's my upbringing, the terrible attacks of conscience whenever I do anything wrong. Maybe it's an innate survival instinct: the knowledge that at the end of the day I will have to stop and find a job, and that good health is really the only wealth that we have. I suppose it's a mixture of both. Either way, it's a road I don't want to go down.

Colotti was on his hands and knees today. He was the first to be dropped on the climb of the Col de Marie Blanque just after the start. I waited with him. I felt so strong, riding at his side. Stronger than I've ever felt in any mountain stage of the Tour. But maybe I was fooling myself. Maybe it was because he was so weak that I felt so good. I don't know. Dede waited with us as well. I felt sure he was done and just wanted friendly company for the day. We dragged Colotti over the mountain and then set off in pursuit of the descent. There was thick fog on the descent, and I overshot one of the first hairpins but didn't fall off. I felt he was going to abandon the second mountain, Aubisque, but he held on. In the valley before Luz Ardiden I rode along as hard as I could at the front of the group. We caught Jean-Louis Gauthier, Adri Van der Poel and Van Poppel and I paced them to the bottom of the climb to the ski station. We made the time limit with ten minutes to spare and Colotti went on French TV and said he would never have made it without Kimmage and Chappuis.

We are staying in a real kip tonight. I think it's an old school-house.

Wednesday, 15 July
Stage 15: Tarbes to Blagnac (164 kilometres)
Stage winner: Rolf Golz (Germany)
Race leader: Charly Mottet

What a terrible day! Had trouble with my stomach, cramps. There was a cloudburst
with forty kilometres to go, and I have never seen so much water on the roads.
At one stage you would have drowned on toppling over. The bunch split to pieces
under an attack from Mottet and Fignon. We had to ride really hard to avoid
being eliminated. Bob Roll, the American who rides for Seven Eleven has a
phrase that sums the race up. 'It sucks.'

Thursday, 16 July
Stage 16: Blagnac to Millau (216.5 kilometres)
Stage winner: Regis Clere (France)
Race leader: Charly Mottet

Colotti abandoned. It was early in the stage and he complained of problems with his left knee. Dede and I waited with him on two occasions when he was dropped at the start, but on the third time he decided to call it a day. He was devastated and in tears as he climbed off, and I felt sorry for him. He had tried so hard – too hard – in the first ten days and he was still wearing the sprint leader's jersey. But his lead was being eaten away and he had not won a sprint for three days. He was physically drained, but it's a pity he could not hang on, for in two days we have the rest day.

Clavet was also in trouble. He has picked up bronchitis from
yesterday's bad weather, and he was dropped with forty kilometres to go. Dede
waited with him.

Friday, 17 July
Stage 17: Millau to Avignon (239 kilometres)
Stage winner: Jean-Paul Van Poppel
Race leader: Charly Mottet

The stomach pains continue and are getting worse, if anything. Today was a
nightmare: 240 kilometres, with a big climb just after the start. We started
like rockets, and I was in big trouble on the climb and only held on by the
skin of my teeth. Vallet started shouting near the end for us to attack, but
the guy's dreaming. He was as quiet as a mouse for the first ten days, when
he was hanging on, but now that he is going better we are supposed to attack.
I didn't feel much like attacking, and got dropped near the finish in the
crosswinds. Ann was at the finish. She came down with Clavet's wife Myriam.
She is staying the weekend, for tomorrow is the rest day, and on Sunday there
is the time trial up Mont Ventoux. Thevenet tells us that he shouldn't really
be allowing the wives and girlfriends to stay in the hotel with us. At mealtimes
we are forbidden to eat together. The riders eat at one table. The wives eat
at another. Tradition has it so. Tradition sucks.

Saturday, 18 July
Rest day: Avignon

Thank God it's a rest day, for there is no way I would be capable of riding
a stage. I spent the morning in bed: the cramps are subsiding but I feel terribly
weak. Ann washed my gear and in the afternoon I went out with Paul Sherwen
to turn the legs a bit. We did about forty kilometres around the vineyards
of Châteauneuf du Pape. I have started to appreciate wine now, and can
look around me with a new interest. Most of the lads rode up the Ventoux but
I was too weak to contemplate it. The doctors are treating me, and I feel
a little better tonight.

Sunday, 19 July
Stage 18: Carpentras to Mont Ventoux (36.5 kilometres TT)
Stage winner: Jean-François Bernard (France)
Race leader: Jean-François Bernard

The Giant of Provence. A mountain made famous by the death of a famous English
cyclist, Tom Simpson. In between the effort of trying to ride up the mountain
I tried hard to pick out the memorial statue to him as I neared the top, but
it was hidden behind the thousands of spectators who had come to cheer the
modern-day heroes. I felt quite OK, after a shaky start, and finished 118th
of the 164 still in the race. I seem to have recovered from my stomach bug
and that gives me new optimism for finishing the race.

Monday, 20 July
Stage 19: Valreas to Villard-de-Lans (185 kilometres)
Stage winner: Pedro Delgado (Spain)
Race leader: Stephen Roche (Eire)

Clavet and Esnault both packed it in today. The team is down to just five men and morale is low. Poor Clavet, I feel sorry for him. Tomorrow we ride through his home town, my adopted town, Vizille. The mayor of the town sent leaflets to all the inhabitants asking them to come out to cheer the two 'local' men, Claveyrolat and Kimmage. But Clavet won't be around now for the 'party'. He has locked himself in his room, and there is no talking him out of it. The television showed his tearful abandoning this evening. I suppose it must make great television, but it's still a bit much.

I had one of my better days. I felt good from the start and
was never under any serious pressure. It's a great day for the Irish for Stephen
is the new
maillot jaune.
He becomes only the third Irishman ever to
have worn the famous tunic. I'm very happy for him, although I would like
to get to talk to him more. He is too busy trying to win the race.

Tuesday, 21 July
Stage 20: Villard-de-Lans to L'AIpe D'Heuz (201 kilometres)
Stage winner: Frederico Echave (Spain)
Race leader: Pedro Delgado (Spain)

If, in later years, I am asked what the greatest thrill in my life has been, I will hesitate between two replies. It would either be arriving on the Champs Elysées after a hard Tour, or riding through the thousands of screaming voices to the ski station of L'Alpe d'Huez. I was too knackered to appreciate it last year – so tired that all I ever saw of the thirteen-kilometre rise was the five feet of rising tarmac before me. But today was different, and I was going quite well. Martin and I both rode out of Villard de Lans at Stephen's side. Proud to be Irish sounds so corny but, damn it, I was proud to be Irish. It was one of the hardest stages of the race, with seven climbs. I got clear with a group on the day's first climb, the Placette, and as far as I remember it was my first time in twenty stages to get into a breakaway. It didn't last long, for the Carreras reeled us in on the descent. I stayed with the top men over the second-category Cucheron and the first-category Coq. I must admit to being highly motivated, for I wanted to be in a good position going through Vizille. I led through the village and crucified myself to stay at the front for two kilometres of the seven-kilometre Cote de Laffrey on the outskirts of the town. I got lots of cheers, and my name was sprayed all over the climb. I know the road to the Alpe like the back of my hand, and that's always a big help. I enjoyed the twenty-one hairpins of the mountain. I was able to settle into a rhythm and ride up at my own pace, and it was almost a pleasure to suffer in this way. At the top Stephen had lost the jersey to Pedro Delgado. 'Perico' is in the same hotel as us tonight. I like him: he is natural and has an honest smile. I didn't see Ann today, although she told me on the phone tonight that she was on the Laffrey. Frank arrived from Dublin and is a bit disappointed about Kelly.

It is 7.45 a.m. at the Hotel Christina. I have been lying awake for fifteen minutes now. It's nice to lie here and rest. Soon it will be time to get up. Another stage, another day. I didn't sleep well last night. I woke at least four times but each time managed to doze off again within five to ten minutes. I put it down to sleeping at altitude. I never noticed the problem until I heard Mas and Vallet complaining that they never slept well at altitude. This set me worrying that I wouldn't sleep well at altitude and, consequently, I don't. Frank Cronseilles, one of the team
soigneurs
enters the room and I close my eyes, pretending to sleep. He taps my shoulder and whispers softly, 'Allez Polo, c'est l'heure.' I drag myself out of bed and walk out on to the veranda. The view of the Alpe on this fresh sunny morning is breath-taking. Below, the
soigneurs
are busy loading suitcases, while the hiss of an air compressor inflating a hundred tyres announces that the mechanics too are at work. Which reminds me that it's time for me to start. After washing and shaving, I go down for breakfast. Coffee, fresh croissants and jam. It's the favourite part of my breakfast. Normally we are not allowed croissants. The myth is that they are too fattening. Typical of the French: it's OK to eat half a ton of cheese in the evenings but not OK to eat croissants in the morning. I have lost three kilos on this race, so I decide to ignore the frowning brows and reach for a second. The food here is really good. The steak is tender and the spaghetti
al dente,
so for once eating is eating and not fuelling up as is often the case. A yogurt, a fruit salad, and a stroll outside to see what's happening.

The
soigneurs
are starting to panic. They urge me to return to the room to pack my suitcase. The suitcase is a mess. I'm not a very organised person. For 'organised' you can substitute 'tidy'. I throw a day's kit on to the bed, pile everything else into the case and close it with great difficulty. It is then left outside the door to be picked up by the
soigneur
on his next passage. There is just time to study the race bible and the battleground for today's stage. Five mountains: Lauteret, Galibier, Telegraph, Madeleine and the summit finish of La Plagne. Hmmm . . . the Galibier. Visions of last year's tour and my struggling body on its steep slopes disturb my mind. But I am riding much better this year, so there shouldn't be any problem.

The stage start is in the village of Bourg d'Oisans, twenty-one hairpins below us. A few years ago it used to start here at the Alpe and be neutralised to the bottom. But the riders were forced to brake constantly behind the race director's car and the wheel rims overheated, causing dozens of punctures and blowouts. Now everyone descends in cars. As usual I am the last to leave the hotel. Thevenet blows the car horn for me to hurry. His is the only team car left and it's full. He drives with Vallet beside him in the front seat. I am squashed in the back between the mechanic Coval and Yves Hezard, an ex-pro and a good friend of Thevenet's. With the exception of Coval, each of us has raced up the Alpe in the Tour and it is the topic of conversation as we descend.

'What used to impress me most,' says Hezard, 'was arriving at the bottom and looking up to see the lines and lines of spectators almost directly above you.'

'I don't remember ever having the strength to look up,' Thevenet replies jokingly and we all laugh.

As we descend, we notice hordes of cycling tourists of every shape and size sweating and panting their way up the mountain.

'They are all timing themselves,' says Thevenet. 'They know exactly how long it took Roche and Delgado to climb yesterday and tonight they will compare times and work out exactly how many pros they'd have beaten on the stage.'

Like all Tour de France stage 'departs', Bourg d'Oisans is crammed with spectators and it is with great difficulty that we find a parking spot. The routine never changes. Get out of the car, collect the race food from the
soigneur?
car and the bike from the mechanics. Check that the brake blocks are not too close to the wheels and that both wheels are well tightened. This is purely a personal thing. I hate having the brake blocks too close to the rims in case they rub and I'm always afraid of an untightened front wheel popping out of the forks at sixty on a mountain descent. I ride to the signing-on podium and spend the thirty minutes before the start chatting and drinking coffee with Martin at one of the hospitality tables. We meet at the same table each morning. Sean Yates, Adrian Timmis and Allan Peiper are with Martin at 'our' table as I arrive. Conversation is as it always is. Of the day before, of how knackered we all are and of how we are all looking forward to finishing in Paris. Our chief concern today is that the hostilities don't start too early on the road to La Plagne. But then again that's our chief concern every day. Pedro Delgado, the race leader, arrives at an adjoining table: the table where all the Spanish riders sit. He is pestered by autograph hunters and requests from journalists and has no time to drink coffee. Being famous can be such a pain. The high pitch of the race starter's whistle beckons us to line up. The excited spectators shout the names of their favourites. 'Tiens, il y a Roche! Allez Roche!' 'Le voilà Delgado! Bravo Pedro!' No one ever shouts my name but this morning a spectator taps me on the shoulder.

'Bonjour, I'm a friend of Dante Rezze,' he said, shaking my hand.

'Ah, OK,' I reply.

What being a friend of Dante Rezze has to do with shaking my hand is beyond me, but these things often happen on the Tour. The starter's flag drops, and I ride out through the valley talking to Martin. He is changing teams at the end of the year and is getting a bit of hassle from Fagor, his current employers, so his morale is low. My own worries are of a different nature. The amazing thing about being a bike rider is that you always know from the first turn of the pedals what sort of a day you are going to have. Or is it the same in every sport? Can Serge Blanco tell by pulling on his rugger boots if he is going to score five tries or play a stinker? It's something I must find out. This morning, I was in no doubt. My legs were tired and very heavy. It would be a bad day.

'Have you ridden up the Lauteret from this side before?'

Martin shakes his head for 'no'.

'It's a long bastard.'

Soon we turn left and the climb begins. There are climbs you like and climbs you hate. I like the Alpe d'Huez. I hate the Lauteret. It is thirty-three kilometres long, is badly surfaced and I never ride well on it. After just one kilometre I am sweating. My arms and face are dripping and I feel most uncomfortable.

'Shit, I should have brought a caffeine tablet.'

The pace is fast but bearable when we enter the first of five tunnels on the climb. It is unlit. The riders in the front accelerate, safe from all obstruction. Behind, it is chaos. It is almost impossible to see the wheel in front and we are forced to ride through at a snail's pace. Coming out of the tunnel we are forty-five seconds behind the
tête
of the peloton. I chase hard for two kilometres with Peiper to rejoin. The chase confirms my earlier impressions. I am having a really bad day. Others are suffering too.

'Did you see the guy that crashed in the tunnel?'

I look across. It's Dede.

'No, didn't see a thing.'

'He was covered in blood.'

A race official's motorbike moves up alongside and we learn that the Dutch rider Nijboer has abandoned and is being taken to hospital. We enter another tunnel and another Dutchman, Solleveld, falls off just in front of me – but this time without serious injury. Fignon stops for a pee. Martin decides it's a good idea and stops with him. Jean-François Bernard stops, and with him his watchdog Dominique Garde. And for two kilometres we ramble along and I am thankful for the common sense being shown. Then it happens. The attack. Shouts and whistles go round the bunch and I look up to see who it is. Yes it's him. Chozas. He does this every year, the Spanish bastard. Takes off at the start of a hard mountain stage when everyone is content to take it easy. The million dollar question is: will they chase him? If they do, it will blow the race apart. If they don't, we shall ramble along for a good bit longer until someone decides it's a reasonable time to start racing. I look up, waiting for a reaction. I can hear it. The imaginary fuse burning on the end of the imaginary dynamite. More cries. Two more riders dash off the front. The chase is on. Badooom!

The peloton stretches out in one long line, and all I can do is try to hang on. Those with tired legs are soon in difficulty. The points leader, Van Poppel, is dropped along with eight others including Peiper and the Swiss Zimmerman. The chase intensifies. I am directly behind Dede. He lets the gap open.

'Allez Dede!'

'I am sick of this bloody race.'

I ride past. I look around and he is twenty or thirty metres behind. I'm suffering but am surprised and encouraged at my ability to close the gaps opening all over the place. There are just five kilometres to the top of the Lauteret, then we swing left immediately to start the eight-kilometre ascent of the Galibier. Martin is in trouble. He lets the gap open and I ride up behind him.

'Hang on, it's too early to lose contact.'

We take turns at trying to reduce the deficit. We close to thirty metres, twenty, then I pass him and grit my teeth in one last effort to make the junction. But suddenly I run out of gas. I can't make it and can no longer stay with Martin. My legs are turning, but without power. The tiredness mounts from my legs to my arms, and soon it has paralysed my whole body. I look up just as Martin makes contact. And then the group pulls away.

The Van Poppel group catches me. I grit my teeth and take my place in the slipstream of the last rider. We pass the cafe at the top of the Lauteret and turn left to start the Galibier. I am finding it harder and harder to stay with the group. My body feels empty and my morale is tumbling. One length, two, and I lose contact with the group. Panic, desperation and the realisation that I am in big trouble. Rault catches me and shouts for me to stay with him.

'Go on, the Tour is finished for me.'

Why did I say that? Thevenet passes me in the team car.

'Paul you must try to get up to Van Poppel's group.'

I look across to him and shake my head and he drives past. The pedals turn but with no conviction. Self-pity is now the abiding sentiment, and once that starts there is no hope. I am doomed. I see a banner,
'ROCHE EARLEY KIMMAGE',
and my friend Seamus Downey standing under it. I look to him and shake my head, and then feel angry with myself for giving up. Dede catches me.

'Allez Paul!'

'No Dede, go on leave me.'

But he insists on staying with me, so I scream abuse at him to leave me alone. He does. Michaud is behind now, in the second team car. Tears fill my eyes. I decide to try again. I begin to ride faster, deciding not to give up. But the effort lasts just one kilometre. My legs are just empty. A rider passes me on the right at twice my speed. I look across to see who it is. It's a bearded tourist, riding up the mountain with pannier bags on his bike. A bloody Fred. Michaud drives up alongside and tells the tourist to get off his bike. But the damage is done, and I am now completely demoralised. Spectators are now pushing me, and Michaud realises that I'm cooked and drives past saying that he will shortly return. I look behind. The broom wagon is just 500 metres back, with just two riders in front of it. It is drawing me in like a giant magnet.

I am resigned now to abandon, as I know there is no way I will make the time limit in my present state. I pass the statue of the Tour founder Henri Desgrange. It's as good a place as any to get off, but there are too many spectators. Allochio, an Italian and Gorospe, a Spaniard pass me just before the summit and leave me. The broom wagon is now directly behind. The descent of the Galibier is twisting and dangerous but I take no risks. There is an icy wind blowing up from the valley below and it freezes me as I drop. Down through the village of Valloire and then the short five kilometre climb of the Telegraph. Oh God, that feeling of jadedness when I am asked once again for effort. There is nothing in my legs. I look for a place to end it. A place void of people so that I can retire with dignity. I stop on the right-hand side of the road after a kilometre of climbing. I have cracked. It is over. The broom wagon and ambulance stop behind me. I stand, head bent down over my bike, as a nurse descends from the ambulance and offers her sympathies. A commissar gets out of the broom wagon and unpins the two race numbers from my back. 'C'est dure,' he sighs, as he completes this unpleasant duty. People further up the mountain come running down to witness the excitement. There are ohs and ahs as I climb into the bus, and then cheers as I am driven away. I feel numb and dazed and cold. I wrap myself in a blanket and ask the commissar how many abandonments there have been. Four.

We catch Gorospe and Allochio at the feeding station at St Jean de Maurienne. Gorospe abandons. The commissar gets out to remove his numbers. He gets into one of his team cars. Michaud is waiting for me. He tells me I must stay in the broom wagon until the end of the stage. I nod, accepting my punishment. He gives me a bag of food and drives off. We catch Allochio at the bottom of the Madeleine. My eyelids are so heavy and I must fight to stay awake, but there is no fight left in me and exhausted I fall asleep. I wake half an hour later near the summit of the mountain. It's like waking from a bad dream and encountering a nightmare. I can't come to terms with the fact that I am in the bus. What am I doing here? How the fuck could I have abandoned the Tour de France? Oh God, what have I done?

My body has warmed up now, so I discard the blanket. Some spectators recognise my jersey in the back of the broom wagon. 'Look, an RMO has abandoned.' I pull the blanket around myself again, this time to hide my identity. I am in disgrace.

The final climb to La Plagne seems unending. The nearer we get to the finish the worse I feel. We drive past a huge Irish tricolour flag with the names of the four Irishmen on it. Ashamed, I look away. We pass the little red triangle that signifies the last kilometre and arrive at the finish line. As usual it's chaotic. The race announcer Daniel Mangeas announces the list of the day's abandonments. His voice is soft and sad. The tones are those you would expect from a man announcing a list of soldiers killed in a war. I leave the bus and walk, head down, to the team car. Coval is at the wheel. 'Thevenet is gone looking for you.' I sit in the front seat and Thevenet returns five minutes later. He knows exactly how I am feeling and his words are chosen carefully.