Rough Ride (16 page)

'Where was the logic in taking a charge for a race that was fixed? Where was the benefit? You realise that now you'll never be able to ride a criterium without taking something? And more than likely they'll find you dead in some hotel room in five years' time with a syringe sticking out of your arm and your eyes bulging out of your head. And the lads will crowd around your tombstone and later raise a glass to you and praise you for being one of them. One of the boys.'

But the 'fors' return with some lovely volleys.

'No, that's rubbish. You've sat on the fence for long enough. Aren't you forgetting how vulnerable you felt before the race? If you hadn't taken it you would have been slaughtered. You didn't do it to cheat. You did it to survive. To fight the battle with the same arms as everyone else.'

Over and back. Over and back. The last thing I remember is the 'fors' being two sets up and then the lights going out.

The repression of amphetamines through dope controls has had varying consequences. The use of the drug in the major tours and championships is minimal, almost non-existent. It is number one on the controllers' list and is easily detectable. The current trend is towards a different area of doping: hormones. They are natural, the body produces them and so detection of hormone abuse is difficult. The 'sin' lies not in taking illegal products, but in getting caught. Hormones, when used intelligently, offer the security of undetectability. The abuse is frightening.

An amphetamine charge lasts roughly three hours and is then flushed out of the system. Frequent use can result in addiction and maybe one or two problems with heart rhythm – but nothing too serious. Hormones are different. They don't flush out after three hours. They screw up the body's chemistry, lingering in the system for months, even years. Abuse can result in cancer and death. I was tempted many times to try hormones. I could see their beneficial effects on other members of the team, but the consequences of abuse scared me and I never touched them. I did, however, dabble with amphetamines.

I used them twice in criteriums shortly after Château Chinon. In twenty months of professionalism I had stayed clean but, incredibly, in the space of two weeks I charged on three occasions. It becomes so easy to slip into a routine. Once you experience the feeling of invincibility it is hard to race with just Vittel in your bottle, especially when you see other riders taking stuff.

I had always taken pride in my strength of character and my new habit started to worry me. I was losing control of my ability to say no, and on analysing the problem I decided never again to put myself in the position of riding a criterium without having trained. It was difficult at first but I managed to hold out. Even so, I never felt comfortable starting a criterium without at least two vitamin C tablets in my drinking bottle. I suppose it was doping, but at least it was legal. In my two final years in the peloton I stayed clean, but I am not particularly proud of this. There were many reasons why I never again touched it – a guilty conscience was the principal one, but there were other factors. I suppose you could say I was 'chicken'. The fear of being caught terrified me. The scandal it would have caused back in good old Catholic Ireland would have ruined me for life. I couldn't bear to bring that shame on my parents. But there was another factor. I was not prepared actually to stick the needle into my own arm. When my team-mates did it, I would look away. It was not a fear of pain or of needles, it was just the act of doping oneself that I found repellent. Another reason was the acquisition of the amphetamines. I had heard stories of police raids on riders' cars, and this scared me. I hadn't the balls to purchase and transport the stuff myself, and there was no way I could continue to borrow it from others. This would have given me a bad name among them and, above all, I wanted to be liked.

Back in Ireland, Stephen's Tour triumph was celebrated as a national victory. He was welcomed home to scenes of incredible adulation in an open-top bus tour of Dublin. Cycling was 'the' sport, and winning the Tour made Stephen the greatest sportsman the country had ever produced – and one of the most popular. I felt sorry for Kelly. Before Roche's Tour win Kelly had always been regarded as the country's number one cyclist. July 1987 must have been the most miserable month of his life. On the 12th he crashed out of the Tour, and to have sat at home injured and watch another Irishman wipe out everything he had ever done with one triumph must have been unbearable.

If Kelly was in agony then Roche was very much in ecstasy. For years he had played second fiddle to the 'King', but every dog has his day and this was Stephen's. He could have been forgiven for making the most of it, but he refrained from proclaiming himself as the country's greatest, which was admirable.

'People shouldn't say I have won this race and Sean had won that. They should look at our careers and say that between us we have won every race on the continent worth winning.'

When I look back on the nice things he has said and done throughout his career, it is to his eternal credit that he was nicest in his finest hour.

I met up with Kelly again in August. He was making his return to competition in the five-day Kelloggs Tour of Britain. My first words to him were those of consolation and encouragement, which I think he appreciated. I liked him and admired him more than any other rider in the peloton. It hadn't always been this way. Before I turned professional I never understood him: I'm still not quite sure that I do, but I'd go as far as saying that in those early days I actually disliked him. I found him solemn, a machine with no heart and no personality. He was the world's number one who could have helped me when I was struggling for my contract, but didn't. Ireland was split between the 'Kelly' men and the 'Roche' men. I was definitely a Roche man. It has taken me four years of professional cycling to break down the complex layers of Kelly. Talking to him was never easy. It still isn't. You have to make an effort to reach him, but once you do then the effort is worth it. He is colourful; he has a caring heart and a great personality. I am grateful now that he didn't help with my contract when I was struggling as an amateur. It made me fight harder. I earned it under my own steam, which is the only way.

I remember riding the Criterium International in my first year. I was eliminated in the Sunday morning mountain stage and as a result was exempt from the final-stage time trial in the afternoon. I left for the airport to fly back to Lille before the time trial finished and as the plane was about to close its door Kelly ran in, still in his racing gear. He had just won the final time trial, clinching the race, but had no time to change – there was just one evening flight to Lille, and his wife Linda was picking him up and driving him to their home in Brussels. We had to change flights at Lyon and he bought me dinner. We dined and talked and being with him was such a thrill that I completely forgot about the lousy weekend I'd had.

My justification for writing this book was that it would describe the unglamorous life of the 'back-room' boy. The account of the life of an unknown among many unknowns who pass most of their lives in the professional peloton without ever making a name for themselves. But, on reflection, I realise that I was not a
domestique
like the others. I had one great advantage. I shared a friendship and a comradeship with two of cycling's greatest-ever riders. It is a privilege that only now becomes apparent to me as I look back on August 1987.

Martin and I both profited enormously from the euphoria of Stephen's triumph when we returned to Ireland for three city-centre races at the end of that month. I will remember for the rest of my life the night of the first race in Dublin.

It wasn't easy. I hate city-centre races – one-hour dashes on tight circuits – and we were totally unused to this type of racing on the Continent. I just hadn't the speed to perform well in them. None of us had – except Sean. But because it was Dublin, and Stephen had just won the Tour, I expected that the opposition, all British apart from the Aussie Allan Peiper, would have no objections to fixing it for Stephen to win. I was wrong. We had a meeting among riders before the race. Sean spoke on our behalf and suggested we come to an arrangement for Stephen to win. He was backed up by Peiper and by Paul Sherwen. Paul had been a pro for seven years on the Continent, but was riding his last season with Raleigh in England. He tried to convince his compatriots that everyone would benefit from a Roche win. The spectators would applaud it and the future of the event would be assured. But the appeals fell on deaf ears. The 'English pros' argued that city-centre races were their bread and butter. They wanted financial compensation in return for a Roche victory.

Their attitude disgusted me. I walked out of the room before a solution had been reached. I had never liked the English pros, big-headed sods who thought having a pro licence made them professional. I despised them for their pettiness. They were not fit to polish Roche's shoes, and yet here they were laying down the law, in Dublin. Pathetic. I waited for the three lads to come out of the meeting. The English pros had agreed to let Stephen win in return for £1,000. The race was incredibly fast and I remember gritting my teeth so hard that I chipped one, sprinting out of the last corner and going into the finishing straight. Stephen won and most people went away happy, but not all of them went away.

After the finish we showered in one of the Georgian houses directly behind the finishing line on St Stephen's Green. There was a post-race reception at Jury's Hotel, but the view from our room told us that getting there would be a problem. Hundreds of people were banked at the entrance to the house waiting for us to come down. When we did, it was chaos. They all wanted autographs and they were shouting, screaming, touching. I felt like one of the 'fab four' coming out of a concert in the 1960s. We needed protection from the Gardai to get from the house to our manager Frank Quinn's car, and flashing blue lights and screaming sirens cleared the road for our drive to the hotel.

The second race was held in Wexford the following evening. We left Dublin in the morning and rode some of the way for training. The world championships were just twelve days away. Again, as in Dublin, there was a riders' meeting before the race. We weren't invited, and the English lads met among themselves to divide up the spoils. No one approached us about it, which we felt was most unreasonable. Stephen had paid to win in Dublin, and we felt it only right that we be recompensed in a similar way for an English triumph in Wexford. Being ignored irritated the two lads and we decided to pull out all the stops for an Irish win. At the end of another fast race Stephen led Sean out along the Wexford seafront, and Kelly swept by for the victory. It is questionable whether Kelly got as much pleasure out of winning two Paris-Roubaix races as he did in sprinting to victory that night on the seafront, for he was truly delighted and we all shared his pleasure. After showering at the hotel, we decided that a celebration was in order. A few pints in some quiet bar would have suited us fine, but it was impossible to leave the hotel. There was no such thing as a quiet bar for Kelly and Roche. They were instantly recognised anywhere they went, so we stayed at the hotel. We ordered fresh fruit salad, sandwiches, tea and coffee and a few drinks to be brought up to the rooms. I roomed with Martin and Sean with Stephen, but our entourage included Frank Quinn, his assistant Margaret Walsh, Kelly's brother-in-law Gerard Grant and Stephen's brother-in-law Peter. The bedrooms were too small to hold a party, so we laid out the trays of food and drink in the corridor outside and sat together on the carpeted floor. It was a great night. We talked and joked and made plans for Cork.

I don't know if the English riders saw it as we did, but for us the three-race series had developed into Ireland versus England – especially now that we were winning two nil. We were outnumbered ten to one, but this sweetened the challenge for two aces were always going to beat forty jokers. We did indeed look on them as jokers, with the exception of Sherwen and John Herety, who had both served hard apprenticeships on the Continent and so knew what real pro racing was about. They had 'played in the first division'. But it was never easy beating the jokers in these city-centre races. I wasn't capable of it, neither was Martin. Stephen could win only by breaking clear alone and there was no way they would let him away in Cork. Kelly was our only hope, and all our efforts would go to help him.

We rode some of the way down next morning and talked about the next challenge. Martin and I were to control the race for as long as possible by keeping the pace high and closing down any breakaway attempts. Stephen was to save himself for a lone assault in the last few laps and, that failing, would act as lead-out man for Kelly in the final sprint. The tactics worked well, right up to the last lap. Stephen hit the front, riding as hard as he could, with Kelly on his wheel. Sean came through going into the last corner and Roche followed him round. Kelly started sprinting, Roche made no effort to follow him, and, realising the danger Englishman Mark Walsham tried to go past; but in his haste he rode into the Tour de France winner. There was a huge crash, bodies everywhere. I cornered seconds after the impact and couldn't believe it. I picked out the yellow jersey of Stephen in the middle of the tangled bodies and gingerly picked my way around the groaning heap. Walsham and some of the other crash victims threatened violence towards Stephen, claiming he had closed the door and had deliberately caused the crash. Walsham and Co. were forgetting that they were in Ireland and that Stephen Roche was sacred here. If they had put a finger on him they'd have been lynched. In the turmoil of the crash, Kelly's victory almost went unnoticed. Unnoticed to all except Roche, that is. He made a fake effort at cooling tempers on both sides.

'After all, lads, the score is Ireland three England nil, and the match is over.'

Talk about adding fuel to the flames!

Martin returned to Dublin after the race, and from there took a flight back to Manchester to get to his home near Stoke. Stephen, Sean and I flew back to the Continent early next morning. We had spent five days together and those five days will remain in my memory as my happiest five days in professional cycling. We teamed up again twelve days later in Villach, Austria for the world championships.

Villach was more serious. Sean wanted badly to save a disastrous season by winning the rainbow jersey. It was the one single-day race which had always eluded him and he trained particularly hard for it. Stephen was much more relaxed about it all. When you have just won the Giro and the Tour de France, nobody expects another performance in the world championships. His life had turned into a perpetual series of product promotion, press interviews, autograph signing and hand shaking. He had come to Villach to get back into serious racing and to give Kelly a bit of a dig-out. The difference in attitudes showed at the hotel on the day before the race. In the morning we trained on the circuit. World championships are very special. There is a great atmosphere generated among the thousands of bike lovers who have congregated from all over Europe to cheer on their favourites in the annual feast of cycling. The circuit was hard, and the long drag after the finish was more difficult than first announced. I liked it and knew I could ride well here. I felt very proud riding with the three lads. Sean and Stephen rode at the front, flanked by Martin and me. I could not help noticing the ease with which Stephen pedalled. Kelly noticed it too, but neither of us thought he had the form to be world champion. Lunch was followed by a long discussion on the choice of gear to be used. We spent most of the afternoon in bed snoozing and reading – except for Stephen, that is. Some journalists had come looking for interviews and he spent his afternoon talking to them in the garden of the hotel. At meal times he would leave his food to answer telephone calls and other requests, and he wasn't a bit serious about the race. I started to feel the pressure in the evening. None of the Irish supporters came to the hotel. It was the night before battle and they knew better.