Rough Ride (15 page)

'Ah Polo. You gave it all you could. We can ask no more of you.'

The kind words have the effect of an aquarium just shattered by the blows of a hammer. Three hours of caged-in disappointment, anguish and shame come flowing out as I break down and weep as I have not done for a long, long time. There is a short drive to the hotel. Thankfully I am rooming with Dede. He tries his hardest to sympathise, but it really isn't easy and I realise exactly how Gauthier felt at Pau a year earlier. Dede goes off for massage and I am happy to be left alone. Alone with my thoughts. I have failed.

I left La Plagne the very next morning about half an hour before the start of the stage. The team equipment truck was to leave me at the station at Albertville, where I could catch a train to Grenoble. There were cars everywhere and we got stuck in a traffic jam just outside La Plagne. Some teams had stayed in the valley below and had to drive back up the mountain. The Carrera car stopped opposite us and Stephen was in the front seat. I tried to hide, hoping he would not see me but he did and immediately rolled down the window. I smiled a false smile. He grinned that typical Roche grin and shouted playfully.

'Oh, Kimmage, what are you doing there?'

This hurt. It hurt badly, but I tried not to show it. He recognised the hurt.

'Take it easy for a few days, Paul, but get back on your bike as quickly as possible.'

The words were sincere and greatly appreciated. The cars in front started to move, and our conversation was interrupted.

'Good luck to you Stephen.'

Although it was only seventy kilometres away, it was two train rides and a bus journey back to Vizille. Ann was waiting at the flat. I hadn't phoned and this had hurt her. I was narky and tired. She felt hurt and upset. We had a huge row as soon as I entered the flat. She was quite right to be angry, but my disappointment had been so complete that I could not bring myself to pick up a phone to talk about it.

Back in Ireland the whole country was following Stephen's bid to win cycling's biggest prize. I couldn't bear to watch any of it during those final three days. On the day of the race-deciding time trial at Dijon I was out shopping with Ann. I remember walking by a furniture shop with a television set in the window. It was the live broadcast of the time trial that drew my attention. I had left the house to avoid watching it, but as I passed the shop the temptation was too much. I stood in front of the window and watched as the screen split showing Delgado and Roche and the time gap that separated them. Stephen was winning the Tour. The next day, Sunday, we took the train to Paris. I had promised Thevenet I would come up for the end-of-Tour team night out. But as I arrived at the Sofitel I was sorry I had come. It wasn't the same. I couldn't rid myself of the feeling of guilt. The feeling that I had sinned.

Just before we went out to dinner Stephen, the triumphant Tour winner, arrived back at the hotel. He was surrounded by a million people, which suited me because I wanted to avoid him. I felt compelled to approach him and congratulate him, but the revulsion I felt about having quit was stronger. But there was another factor. I was happy he had won, but I was also jealous. Jealous that he had made it to the top of the world, while I had just fallen off it. He was a star now, and I could find no likeness to the Roche I had adored as a youngster. So I decided to stay clear of him. But the most incredible thing happened. He was being jostled from all sides and was pushed and shoved across the marble floor until he was right under my nose. He had a warm greeting for me, and I felt instantly ashamed. I put my arms around him and congratulated him as best I could. And then he was whisked away on a tidal wave of handshakes.

Five days later when we had returned to Vizille, I got a call from Jacques Chevegneon, a criterium manager. He said he had a place for me at a criterium at Château Chinon on Monday and would pay me £250 if I turned up. I agreed and put the phone down. I was sorry I had agreed. I had been off the bike for nine days. I would surely get the hell knocked out of me at a criterium where 90 per cent of the guys would be charged up. I dreaded facing another hammering – another humiliating slap on the face in front of thousands of spectators. But I had given my word. Early on Monday morning I loaded the car and headed for Château Chinon.

Château Chinon is a four-hour drive from the flat in Vizille. I arrived at 11.30, three and a half hours before the race, but I like giving myself plenty of time. The town is smothered in a thick, wet fog and it's hard to avoid the Monday morning blues. I expected it to be much bigger, but it's really quite small. Too small to accommodate the hundreds of spectators' cars already choking the streets. Still, the locals don't mind, especially
les commerçants:
it's the only traffic jam of the year, and the bars and cafes are full. I park in the main street and wait. I don't really know what to do, but Vallet and Claveyrolat will arrive soon and I plan to follow them. After spending half an hour in the car I recognise their two cars driving through the town. They have come from Bordeaux, where they raced a criterium the day before. Vallet has not been home for nearly six weeks now. The day after the Tour finished he set off from Paris and has ridden a criterium a day for eight days. Nine days and thousands of kilometres of driving from one small village to another. I'm not sure how much he gets per race but I know he will go home with about six grand in his pocket – which is not far off what I earn in a year. His wife and two daughters are travelling with him and they look almost as tired as he does. Claveyrolat is travelling with Colotti. Jean-Claude is completely shagged and has also had a hard week.

The greeting is as it always is, a handshake and a smile. I follow them to a small hotel at the end of the main street. It's a typical criterium hotel. Run-down and cheap, but clean. Two rooms have been reserved and we will also eat lunch here before the race. Most of the riders are eating and changing here. But first the bikes must be prepared. I take mine from the car boot and put the wheels in and inflate the tyres. The bike is spotless. I washed it yesterday, to make sure it was shining for my first criterium race. Appearances are everything. If I make a good impression today then the criterium manager might offer me one or two others. The other lads' bikes are not so clean, still caked in the grime of the Bordeaux criterium. But a wipe with a cloth makes them presentable. It feels strange, being responsible once again for the cleanliness and good working order of your own bike.

Lunch is simple and light and digestion is helped by the constant good humour to be found whenever cyclists eat together. Outside the fog is lifting and the roads are starting to dry. The Château Chinon criterium, Le Critérium de France, is one of the most prestigious in the country. It is one of the few modern-day criteriums where spectators have to pay an entry fee on to the circuit to watch, thirty-five francs. They are still coming into the town in droves and as I look down on them from the hotel bedroom I feel pressure. Today I am not just a professional cyclist: I'm a performer. These people are paying to see me perform. In a normal race you don't give a damn about what the guy at the side of the road thinks. Some are very abusive. It's not uncommon to be insulted as a lazy bastard or an over-paid lout by a spectator peeved by the fact that we are taking it easy. People are not happy unless they see us riding by at sixty kilometres an hour with our eyes in the backs of our heads. Or grovelling up some mountain on our hands and knees. If they insult us, then we feel justified in insulting them in return. I mean, nobody forced them to stand at the side of the road. Today is different: today they are paying to see a spectacle, and therefore we are obliged to perform. What if I can't? What if I'm unable to follow the others? The lads say that Chateau Chinon is one of the hardest criteriums with a climb each time on the short two-kilometre lap. The Tour left me feeling terribly bitter. Didn't ride my bike for nine days after it. Couldn't face it. But I will surely pay the price today. I'll probably be dropped. Will the manager still pay me my contract? Will I have the neck to approach him for it? I shouldn't have come here – but hell, I need the money. Ann is living with me now. There's more expense, more responsibility. I have never had that responsibility before. We won nothing in the Tour this year, a pittance. I need the money. It's the only reason I'm here.

We change into our strip. There are five of us in the room. I apply grease to the chamois leather of my racing shorts and pull them on to my bare bum, the cold grease sending a shiver up through my body. A bit like putting on wet swimming gear. I pull on a short-sleeved woollen vest, a pair of white ankle socks, two short-fingered leather mitts, cycling shoes and finally the white RMO jersey of my sponsor. I sit on the bed watching the others get ready, waiting for the moment. I know it has to happen. I'm waiting for it to happen. Fuck it, I want it to happen. The pressure – I can't take this pressure. It happens: the smiles . . . a bag is produced. In it small white ampoules of amphetamines and a handful of short syringes. A glance is thrown in my direction. My 'chastity' is well known within the team but it is only polite to offer. I scratch my head and breathe in deeply. If I walk out through the door with only the hotel lunch in my system I will crack mentally. As a result I will probably be dropped and ridiculed after two laps. I can't face any more humiliation. The pressure. I need the money. I nod in acceptance.

My syringe is prepared. As it's my first time it is decided that 7cc will be enough. Ten to fifteen is the average dose, but the real hard men often use double or treble this. Amphetamines work strongly for about two to three hours, after which the effects diminish. The criterium will last just two hours, which means we can take them in the privacy of the hotel room before going out to the start. I roll back the sleeve of my jersey. No turning back now. The needle is slipped under the skin of my left shoulder. I'm charged. One of my ambitions had always been to leave the sport without ever having taken anything. I got a certain satisfaction in casting myself as the pure white hero fighting to hold on to my virginity in an evil black world. But that was over now. To hell with the past.

They tell me to remain perfectly still. They say I will soon feel the urge to talk and jump around the place, but that I must refrain from talking and gesturing excessively. People have eyes. If they see the normally calm and withdrawn Paul Kimmage arrive on the street shaking hands and patting everyone on the back they will put two and two together. I don't want that. My mind is clear and lucid, but after five minutes I start to feel the first effects. A little buzz. It gets stronger and stronger and is soon a big buzz. It turns my head a bit at first, but then it manifests itself in a new way: aggression. I feel a terrible urge to get on the bike and make it bend under me. I feel invincible, that nothing can defeat me. The lads start joking about the effects the charge will have on me.

'You will drive back to Vizille like Fangio and tonight you won't be able to sleep a wink. Your girlfriend will have a great time.'

I laugh with them. Someone says he will give me a sleeping tablet for later. But sleeping is the last thing on my mind. I'm ready for action.

'Come on lads, let's get to the start.'

More laughter. We pick up the machines from the hotel garage and cycle the two kilometres to the start. My head is clear. I can't let anyone notice anything different. I must remain calm. I must remain calm. I must remain calm. Then I hear it. The voice. The voice calling out my name. An Irish voice. Jesus, an Irish voice calling for me, and here I am charged up to the gills. Stay calm. Stay calm. I turn around to see who it is. He is young, and, yes, I recognise him from somewhere but can't quite place him. We start talking. Paul, don't look him in the eye. If he sees the dilated pupils he will cop it straight away. I try not to look him in the eye. The name comes to me: Gareth Donahue, a young Irish amateur cyclist racing with a local French team. I said I had to rush and would talk to him again after the race. Of all the luck. The one time in my life I charge up, I run into someone who knows me. The finish line is crowded. We must sign on at the podium and collect our numbers. There is a metal crowd-control barrier blocking the entrance to the podium. I am in full buzz and, feeling full of energy, I decide to jump it. I clear it by at least ten feet but land on my backside. I look up to see if anyone has noticed. Thierry Clavet is fighting hard to hold back his laughter. 'For God's sake, take it easy, Polo.'

I sign on at the podium, making a special effort at calmness. Most of the lads are sitting on the chairs pinning their numbers on, so I join them. My fingers are rattling a bit as I try to pin mine on, but eventually I manage to do it. We are called to the line. The peloton is made up of twenty-five pros and six of the best local amateurs. Charly Mottet and Jean-François Bernard are the two stars – the men the crowd have come to see. I presume one of them is to win, but no one has said anything to me. I ask Clavet what the story is, but even he's confused. There seems to be a bit of a problem between Mottet and Bernard – both want to win. Because he rode in the Tour, Jean-François Bernard would normally have been designated to win. But 'Jeff' lives in the region and there's an unwritten rule that the local man never wins in front of his home crowd. This is to avoid any crowd suspicion of race-rigging. The Peugeot rider Gilbert Duclos is boss. He acts as mediator between the different leaders and then informs the smaller riders how the race is to be won. He controls things during the race. If a small rider steps out of line by attacking when he isn't supposed to attack, Duclos will kick his arse. Punishment for a big offence is a word in the ear of the criterium manager. The offender will then have to wait for a while before he is offered another criterium contract. First, second and third are always designated, but anyone can race for the other placings. Sometimes the leaders don't agree and a free-for-all is announced, resulting in the victory of a smaller rider. Fathers don't always appreciate explaining to their sons how Joe Bloggs managed to beat Charly Mottet when Charly Mottet is supposed to be the best. So it is in the interests of all the riders to toe the line by having a good, 'organised' race, so everyone goes away happy. But although the race is organised this doesn't necessarily make it easier. It's not that easy to fool the crowd. Unless they see the stars whizzing by at sixty kilometres an hour they won't be happy. There is nothing false about the average lap speed, which rarely falls below fifty kilometres an hour. There is nothing false about the grimacing faces. It is just the result that is, well, 'doctored'. Duclos rides up to me on the first lap.

'It's Mottet in front of Bernard and Colotti. D'accord (OK)?'

'D'accord.'

There is no way I'm going to rock the boat. If he tells me to dive off and fake crashing, I'll do it. If he wants me to make a spectacle by riding around with my shorts around my ankles I'll do it. I just want the money. I just want to be one of the boys.

The race is one of the easiest I have ever ridden. I am never under pressure. I have such absolute confidence that I won't get dropped, and I'm able to attack off the front and contribute to the spectacle. This is all that matters to me. To be able to perform. To merit the few quid I have come for. I am prominent in several breakaways. Each time we ride hard to build up a good lead and then ease up without making it look too obvious. Duclos controls things masterfully. Physically I feel the effort. I feel the pedals, the shortness of breath on the climb, but mentally I'm so strong that it's never a problem. My mind has been stimulated. Stimulated by amphetamines. I believe I'm invincible therefore I am.

Bernard and Mottet break clear with three laps to go. Bernard is still not happy about not being allowed to win so they fight out a straight sprint and he just edges Charly out. The gap between them is so close that I'm wondering if indeed it was a straight sprint, but anyway this is unimportant. The crowd have been given a good race and go away happy. We ride back to the hotel. After showering and changing we divide the room and lunch bill between us. I offer to pay for the 'charge'. Amphetamines are hard to come by and very expensive. An average charge costs about fifty pounds, but I'm not surprised when the offer is refused. It is rare that money passes hands between the riders. It's a case of 'See me right today, and I'll see you right tomorrow.' I have joined the club, and it feels almost satisfying to have done so.

The club contract cheques are distributed in a room at the town hall. We line up to enter one by one and receive our envelope from a member of the organising committee, under the watchful eye of the criterium manager. Sometimes the bastards make you wait until after the race reception. They know full well that you might have 300 kilometres to drive home, but expect you to shake hands and talk small talk to the locals before they hand over the hard-earned few bob. This is the fault of the criterium manager. They cream off 10 to 12 per cent of all the riders' contracts, and also demand a large chunk from the race budget of the organising committee. They are parasites and I despise them. They exploit the smaller riders, paying them small amounts, knowing only too well that the poor sod has no choice but to accept. Real scum.

A large crowd of enthusiasts gathers outside the town hall, and I sign a hundred autographs on the way back to the car. Clavet and Colotti are also going home, but Vallet is engaged at a criterium somewhere else next day. Clavet gives me some advice as I get into the car. 'You will probably feel guilty later on. It happens to us all, but you must not blame yourself. It's just part of the job.'

I thank him but forget to ask for the sleeping tablet. He catches me an hour later and we race for five minutes, but I don't feel comfortable driving at speed so I let him go. The drive back seems much shorter but not short enough to avoid the pangs of conscience stinging my brain. After the upper there is inevitably the downer. It is after twelve when I arrive home, and Ann is in bed but awake. I decide to tell her of my day's activities. All of them. She is lenient.

'You did what you thought was best. As long as it does not become a habit there is no harm done.'

This is said to comfort me, to ease the guilt. But her attitude annoys me. It's too casual. I mean, I took drugs and cheated myself of my honour. How can she be so casual about something so serious? I want to be told off, to be chastised. We have a row, and she turns her back to me and falls asleep. I lie there, my two eyes glaring out of my head like headlights. I'm a million miles from sleep. The events of the day are turning in my head, the arguments for and against crossing my head like a tennis ball in a seemingly never-ending rally. The 'againsts' are hitting beautifully.