Rough Ride (20 page)

The scandal rocked all France. Pedro Delgado,
maillot jaune – positif.
Riders testing positive was a not uncommon event in the Tour, but it was rare that the 'big fish' were caught. Delgado was the biggest fish in the pond. He had taken control of the race in the Alps, was second to Rooks on the Alpe D'Huez and he smashed all his rivals in the following day's 38-kilometre mountain time trial to Villard de Lans. Few doubted he would win the race when they entered the Pyrenees, no one did when they left. He was untouchable in the mountains – the tour had found its new champion. Or so we thought.

At Bordeaux, with just four stages to go before arriving on the Champs Elysées the bomb dropped. Jacques Chancel, a television journalist working on Antenne 2's nightly review of the race, screwed up his face at the end of the Bordeaux emission. He had something serious to tell us. He had heard, from a good source, of a positive dope test involving race leader Pedro Delgado. When a rider is called to dope control, the sample of urine he gives is put into two separate sealed bottles. The bottles are sent to a laboratory, where one is tested. If traces of illegal substances are found, the rider is informed. The rider has the right to either accept the analysis or appeal. If he appeals, then the second bottle of urine is tested. If this second testing confirms the initial results, then, and only then, can news of the positive test be released to the press.

This was not how it happened in the Delgado affair. Someone leaked news to Chancel that Delgado's first bottle had been positive
before
Delgado himself had even been told. Perhaps Chancel thought he was honouring his profession, but even so in my opinion it was still a despicable thing to do. Half the world knew of the findings of the first bottle before Delgado did. Journalists descended on him like vultures, but he professed total innocence in the affair.

Next day, the race
commissaires
were forced to clarify matters. They denied having leaked anything to Chancel, but confirmed that traces of Probenacide, a masking drug for steroids, had been found in Delgado's urine after the Villard de Lans time-trial stage. Delgado immediately appealed, and the second bottle was examined. For two days Delgado raced under tremendous pressure. The second bottle was opened and traces of Probenacide were again found, but the race leader was cleared. Incredibly, no one had consulted the UCI's (Union des Cyclistes Internationals) list of proscribed substances. They had consulted the IOC's (International Olympic Committee's) list. Probenacide was on the IOC list but was not due to enter the UCI list till August, a month after the race ended. Delgado could not be found positive for taking a medicament that wasn't yet proscribed – he was
blanchi,
cleared.

It was a most unsavoury affair, and the race was ruined. Even though Delgado had been cleared, the presence of Probenacide in his urine was still unexplained. He had escaped on a technicality, but for many he was still guilty. It was a difficult time to be a professional cyclist. In the cafe in Vizille I was bombarded by the bar's clientele with demands for information. When I sat down for coffee the jokes would start.

'Hey Polo, you are used to something stronger than coffee for riding your bike.'

And they would all laugh. Few of them held any grudge against Delgado: 'Poor Pedro', that's what they all said, 'Poor Pedro'. The consensus among the
pastis
drinkers of the Cafe de la Gare was that it was humanly impossible to ride a race like the Tour without taking stuff. Most ordinary people in France were of the same opinion. Delgado was encouraged like never before from the roadside: 'Poor Pedro'.

He is one of the most likeable 'leaders' in the peloton, and I was greatly surprised when news of his positive testing broke – surprised he had been caught, that is. The affair left me in an awkward situation. How could I possibly write another Tour article for the
Tribune
without mentioning the Delgado affair? Oh, I could have done it all right. A piece on my shock and horror that a fine rider like Delgado would do such a despicable thing and 'cheat' by taking drugs would probably have fitted in quite nicely. But I wasn't shocked, I knew what went on, and as soon as I picked up my pen I would have to be honest. I was not ready to write about the drug problems in the sport. They could not be explained in five hundred words. I talked it over with David and we decided that the best way out was to abandon the column. I forgot about journalism and went back to being a cyclist.

I got terribly depressed watching the Tour on television. I loved the race. Riding it, being part of the glorious circus, made the hardship and sacrifice of the pro life worthwhile. But watching it from an armchair was an act of self-destruction. Always the same old questions. What future have I in the game? I am not good enough to ride the Tour. Will they sack me at the end of the year? Will anyone else give me a job? What else can I do but cycle? The conclusion was always the same – I had no choice. Bills had to be paid and riding my bike was the only way of paying them. I dragged myself out training, and tried to get back into some sort of physical shape. Mentally it was very difficult and on the weekend that the Tour finished I hit rock bottom. I had arranged with Kelly to stay with him for a week to ride some kermesse races in Belgium. I stopped for lunch at a motorway cafe near Lille which was half an hour's drive from the border. It was an awful hole, really grotty, and I didn't eat too much. While eating I suddenly felt terribly alone. I started to think about the race. I hated racing in Belgium and knew I was going to get a terrible stuffing. This depressed me, and the more I thought about it the more it annoyed me that I had to go. I was desperately short of racing practice and without competition there was no way I was going to have a good end of season. But I still didn't want to go. I even started to feel physically sick about it. I needed time to think, to work it all out. I went to a near-by shopping centre to try and get myself together. No, there was no way I could go to Belgium. I needed to talk to someone, I felt so terribly alone. Who could I ring? Ann was out. My parents in Dublin would not understand. I tried to ring David, but he wasn't at home. I rang Frank Quinn in Dublin and talked to his assistant Margaret. I don't know if anything I said to her made sense but I remember asking her to phone Kelly and to inform him I wouldn't be coming. I put down the phone and got into the car. I turned down the motorway and drove 300 kilometres back to my friends in Paris. It was as near as I have ever come to a nervous breakdown.

Frank phoned me later that night. He persuaded me to keep at it, and convinced me I should drive to Kelly's house in Brussels next day. I felt like a right idiot, knocking on Kelly's door, but I was welcomed as if nothing had happened. Sean and Linda were very kind and I raced next day and was back on the rails. During my stay, I made some interesting discoveries about the 'iron man'. One night we went for a sauna in a health club in Volvoorde. I never liked saunas, and Kelly insisted on raising the temperature by throwing water on the stones. We lasted fifteen minutes but had to get out. It had been incredibly hot and we were both so drained that we could hardly stand.

'Jaysus, Kelly, you look like death warmed up.'

And he laughed, but then said, 'Did you never feel this tired after finishing a race?'

I thought about it. Yes I had, but only once. It was in a prologue time trial of the Coors Classic in Boulder, Colorado a few weeks before the Olympic road race in Los Angeles. The finish was at the top of a hard climb, and I remember losing consciousness about fifty metres before the line and waking up with a blanket around me five minutes later. It was the only time in my life I ever pushed myself beyond my limits.

'Yes,' I replied, 'once. What about you?'

'Yes, regularly.'

I looked at him: he wasn't lying.

After a week of kermesse racing in Belgium I rejoined the team for a race in Montreal. I loved the circuit, which was the Olympic road race circuit of 1976, and rode well on it. I was in the thick of the action right from the start and got myself into the winning break, but I didn't have the distance in my legs so I abandoned before the finish. Still, I won over 1,500 dollars in sprint prizes so my team-mates were very pleased with me. Unfortunately, neither Vallet nor his assistant Jacques Michaud were at the race to witness my performance.

On returning to Grenoble, I visited team headquarters to ask about my programme of races for the end of the year. The team had ridden a lousy Tour. In its last week, Giles Mas, Regis Simon and Michel Bibollet were told by Vallet to look for a new job for the following year. Bibollet was particularly upset. At the start of the Tour, Vallet had told him not to go looking for another team, and that he would be signing him later in the race. Michel was delighted – security for another year. But signing-on day never arrived, and at the end of the race Michel was shown the door.

I didn't know if he was going to get rid of me. I asked him. He said he wasn't sure. He assured me that he personally wanted to keep me in the team, that I was a great team rider but that the sponsor Monsieur Braillon wanted only winners on the team. He told me of a new team that Patrick Valke and Stephen Roche were setting up. He said that Valke had assured him that he would take me on if Monsieur Braillon didn't want me. He told me that the ball was in my court, that it was up to me to convince Braillon in the two months of racing that remained that I was worthy of my place. So that was it: Vallet wanted me, Braillon didn't. Could I believe him? I was disappointed and confused. I desperately wanted to believe that Vallet wanted me in the team, but couldn't convince myself that he did. I told Colotti and Claveyrolat of my situation and both said they would canvass on my behalf. Colotti was very supportive, and argued with Vallet to keep me on. Vallet wouldn't commit himself, and for the month of August I lived in uncertainty. Andre had also been told to look for new employment. The news did not surprise him. He had ridden poorly all year and he was resigned to the fact his career was at an end, but he was still bitter.

I too became bitter. I resented the riders on the team who had signed contracts. Their 'I'm all right Jack' attitude sickened me, even though I fully realised that I had acted in the same way previously. I started to panic. What the hell was I going to do? A rider's career was measured in results. I had given three years of mine to helping others obtain results. Only RMO knew my worth as a team rider. I thought of asking Kelly or Roche for a dig-out, but decided against it. If they offered I would accept, but I would never go begging. My relationship with Vallet deteriorated. A week after returning from Montreal I got a new dose of
champignons.
We were riding a two-day Paris-Bourges, and I was so uncomfortable that I could hardly sit on the saddle, never mind race. Vallet was not very understanding, and I knew straight away there was no way I would be in an RMO jersey in 1989.

I treated the
champignons
and they quickly disappeared; but I couldn't find decent form. I went to the world championships in Belgium in September determined to do the ride of my life. I failed miserably and abandoned with five laps to go. As in Austria the year before, I cried on entering our pit. But this time the tears were of bitterness and not joy. The season had been a complete and utter disaster.

It was Roche who came to my rescue. We went back to the hotel after the world championships ended and he called me into his room. 'Don't worry about next year, Paul, I'll look after you.' I thanked him and accepted gratefully. Stephen was that type of fellow. If he promised, he delivered, and even though he didn't know who he'd be riding with I never once doubted that we'd be riding together for 1989. Some of my sacked team-mates got word that I had found a saviour. They knew Stephen and I were good friends and asked me to talk with him on their behalf. I didn't like Frank Pineau and told him to his face that I wouldn't speak for him. The two others, Mas and Rault, I liked. I just hadn't the heart to tell them that I couldn't canvass on my own behalf, never mind theirs, and promised them both I would talk to Stephen for them. I never did, just hadn't the balls. I was afraid he would think I was asking too much, so I said nothing. Jean-François Rault rang Ann a few times and left his number for me to return the call, but I never did. He never found a job. I would have liked to help him, but I was powerless.

I felt sorry for him. Six months earlier he had won the marathon classic Bordeaux-Paris. He was promised the post of assistant
directeur sportif
for 1989. Jacques Michaud would be promoted to team manager. The squad needed a manager, as Vallet had signed Charly Mottet and was strengthening the squad. The French national champion Eric Caritoux came on the market, and Vallet offered him a deal. Caritoux agreed, but insisted that his former
directeur sportif
Christian Rumeau be given a job with the team. Caritoux signed, Rumeau was made assistant
directeur sportif,
Rault was given his marching orders. I thought they should have had the decency to keep him on for another year as a rider.

The Nissan Classic was my last race with the team. Unlike 1987, I wasn't allowed the pleasure of selecting the team and simply felt thankful to be in it myself. As a result, Andre and Clavet stayed at home. Jean-Claude was picked, but his wife lost a baby the day before we travelled, so he couldn't come. He was replaced by Esnault, and the others on the team were the Belgian sprinter Michel Vermotte and the two Danes Alex and Per Pedersen. The day before the race I was visited at the hotel by the sports editor of the
Sunday Tribune,
Stephen Ryan. He wanted me to write a diary of the week for Sunday's paper. I agreed.

The Nissan Classic is a five-day race. For four days I rode my arse off. I desperately wanted to succeed in front of the home crowd, and I tried hard on every single stage. Nothing went right. I punctured at the worst possible times, fell off on the climbs when my gears wouldn't work properly – and some little bastard stole a pair of brand-new sunglasses from my hotel room. After two stages I was starting to feel pretty pissed off. On the morning of the third day I met a girl in a wheelchair just before the start. Her name was Deborah Kane. Her father Dave had raced with my father, and Deborah had once been the top female cyclist in the country. She was racing in England when she rode into a parked lorry. She suffered horrific injuries and was paralysed. We had a good chat before the third stage and she smiled radiantly. I could not believe she could still smile. Her smile did something to me. I suddenly felt terribly fortunate and greatly moved by her enormous courage.