Rough Ride (25 page)

Tonight they were all banging on his door, looking for a story,
but the door remained closed. There were just Patrick and Stephen and me to
talk out his future. I have never seen him so low. He won't be starting tomorrow.
Patrick has advised him to fly to Munich for treatment. I don't know how I'll
get through the race without him. I don't have a great rapport with the other
fellows on the team. I have noticed the way some of them are 'sneaking back
to bed' with Bazzo, now that Stephen is having problems. I suppose they are
worried for their futures; but even so, it never ceases to amaze me how low
some will stoop to stay in a job. Stephen still hasn't signed his new contract
with Fagor, and tonight Patrick saw two of the management in discussion with
race leader Greg LeMond. The scum. Roche is not even out of the hotel and
they are talking to other leaders.

Tuesday, 11 July
Stage 10: Cauterets to Luchon (136 kilometres)
Stage winner: Robert Millar (Scotland)
Race leader: Laurent Fignon (France)

Patrick knew what was going through my head. He saw me being passed by group
after group on the first climb of the day, the giant Tourmalet, and knew I
was just giving up. He drove alongside me and tried to persuade me to keep
going. I looked at him and thought about it. Roche's last words to me were
instructions to ride all the way to Paris. Patrick said I would be letting
him down if I climbed off. This hit the right note and I sprinted after the
group ahead. I was playing with fire. Physically I was going quite well, but
my indecision about whether or not I was continuing in the race had cost me
a lot of time. As we approached Superbagnères and its summit finish,
we all knew it would be touch and go for the time limit. There were about
thirty of us at the bottom but only twelve made it inside the limit. I made
it by three minutes. Tonight I thanked Patrick for helping me on the Tourmalet.
I am happy to be still in the race.

Wednesday, 12 July
Stage 11: Luchon to Blagnac (154.5 kilometres)
Stage winner: Mathieu Hermans (Netherlands)
Race leader: Laurent Fignon

Bazzo called a team meeting this morning at the hotel, 'to generate some team spirit'. Patrick was not invited. He told us that Fagor would definitely be sponsoring a team in 1990 and that the contracts would be signed as soon as a leader for the team was found.

I am normally passive at team meetings and it takes a lot to get me riled, but this was too much. I cracked.

'Why was this meeting not held before the start of the race, two weeks ago, because it's a bit fucking late to be talking about team spirit now? And what's wrong with Roche as a leader? For two months now Fagor have been messing us about. The contracts were supposed to have been signed at the start of the Giro.'

Bazzo didn't appreciate my comments, and immediately started criticising Stephen. Only two other riders spoke up in Stephen's defence: Eddy and Laurent Biondi. This disgusted me.

Downstairs another war was taking place. Patrick was having a go at Julien Navarro, our team doctor. The previous evening Navarro had been interviewed on French television and spoke with great authority on the state of Stephen's knee. He claimed that modern medicine had reached its proper limits with Roche's knee. It was an amazing declaration from a doctor who had never treated the patient. Patrick was furious. He advised Navarro to keep his mouth shut regarding something he knew nothing about. Patrick has a volatile temper and has broken fingers throwing punches in Stephen's defence. That he refrained from decking the doctor was a small miracle.

I repeat that all of this took place
before
the stage. Part two took place after the 150-kilometre ride to Blagnac-Toulouse. This time Patrick called the meeting. Bazzo was invited, but didn't turn up – which was probably just as well, as it would definitely have finished in violence. It was hot enough as it was.

Patrick wanted to flush the rats out of the cupboard. He wanted the riders to commit themselves either to Stephen or to Fagor for next season. It was a bit unfair to ask riders to choose when he had nothing concrete to offer, but this was the attraction for Patrick. It was a test of loyalty. Biondi committed himself and chose Stephen. But Lavenu and Chaubet resented being cross-examined, so there was a row and a shouting match. The argument did not concern me – I was giving up at the end of the year. I said nothing. I watched and listened, but couldn't really decide who was right and who was wrong. A month earlier the same bunch of lads had been totally committed as a group. In three weeks we had been reduced to this, disharmony and bitterness. Such a pity.

Patrick was told tonight by management to pack his bags and
go home. It seems that Navarro put a gun to their heads and gave them the
ultimatum, 'Valke or me'. Patrick will fly home to Lille tomorrow morning.

Thursday, 13 July
Stage 12: Toulouse to Montpellier (242 kilometres)
Stage winner: Valerio Tebaldi (Italy)
Race leader: Laurent Fignon

I had no idea, riding into Toulouse before the start, that this would be my last day on the race. I was a million miles from thinking it would be the last race I would ever ride. The bickering and fighting had disgusted and disheartened me, but I had put it out of my head – there were other reasons for carrying on. If I abandoned the race it would mean the end of my race diary column for the
Sunday Tribune.
I was getting such great pleasure from writing it that it made the suffering worthwhile. I wanted another Tour medal. The 1986 medal meant more to me than anything I had ever won.

None of this even entered my head when I ran into trouble shortly after the start. I abandoned the race after fifty-five kilometres.

I don't regret it, it was almost a pleasure to leave the race. My grief on climbing into the broom wagon was nothing compared with what I had experienced in 1987 -

where I can't hide
my brave face
my brave my brave
my brave face

My intention had been still to finish my career at the Nissan Classic in Ireland in October, but I soon realised that I would never race again. As a cyclist I was broken. I had no spirit. Thinking about racing made me ill and after a week's reflection I decided enough was enough. I was not going to race again. There would be no dramatic final day, no tearful wave of adieu to my 'adoring fans'. Tearful adieus were reserved for heroes, and I was no hero. I was a
domestique,
an also-ran. Also-rans did not have tearful adieus. They raced as pros in anonymity. They quit in anonymity. And I was one of them. Adieu.

The law of silence: it exists not only in the Mafia but also in the peloton. Those who break the law, who talk to the press about the dope problems in the sport are despised. They are branded as having 'craché dans la soupe', they have 'spat in the soup'. In writing this book I have broken the law of silence. I have spat in the soup and a lot of people will resent me for it. It wasn't easy, and on numerous occasions in three months of writing I wondered if I was doing the right thing. The last attack of conscience was on 28 December, just before writing this chapter. I was banging away at my machine when the phone rang. It was Ma.

'Quick, Paul, switch on your TV. Channel 4 are showing a review of the Tour, and they've just shown the bit where you abandon.'

I followed her orders and tuned in just in time to hear Phil Ligget choking with excitement as Greg LeMond snatched the Tour from Laurent Fignon's grasp. It was riveting stuff, and my enthusiasm for a race that five months earlier had caused me so much pain surprised me. I was still in love with the sport. But was this really the same sport? I could see nothing bad on the TV screen. Was I justified in writing about my experiences? Would my shocking tales not spoil too many dreams? I was troubled for the remainder of the day.

Then I started thinking about it. Before all this, I had looked at the sweaty faces of the stars on the television screen and in photographs and seen only glory. And now what do I see? I see dilated pupils and unnatural spots. I study not what they eat but what they swallow. Where once I applauded muscle, I now question its fabrication.

What has happened in between?

Inspired by the glory, enthralled by their courage, I set out on my dream to join them. It was a hard struggle, one I gave my youth to, but I made it. I became a glorious, sweaty face. Unfortunately the promised land was not what I had dreamed it would be. It strangely resembled the world I was trying to escape. It was hard, desperately hard. It was also dirty and corrupt. I wanted to leave, but realised that leaving was almost as hard as getting there. I had donated my youth to the acquisition of cycling excellence. But what use was cycling excellence in the real world? No, there was no turning back. So I played the game by their rules. To survive, I was forced, against my will, to take drugs. It happened three times. I was never caught. If I had been caught I would have been branded, as all drug takers are branded, a cheat. Isn't that ridiculous? A cheat, 'an unfair player'. I was never a cheat.
I
WAS A VICTIM.
A victim of a corrupt system, a system that actually
promotes
drug taking in the sport.

In 1983, in an effort to modernise the sport, the professional world cycling body, FCIP, established two new ranking tables. The first was for the riders as individuals. It was run along the same lines as the ATP ratings for tennis. Every event was awarded a set number of points to be given to the first, second, third, and so on – the number of points varying with the size of the event. The second ranking table was for teams. Too many teams wanted to ride the big events, and the massive bunches were making racing much too dangerous. Under the new system the points of the five best riders of each team were added, giving the team's total. The top twenty teams had automatic entry for all the classics and major tours. It was a good idea which had damaging repercussions. Sponsors of the weaker teams were not prepared to pay out money to play in the 'second division'. Some pulled out and their teams folded. Others merged and suddenly a lot of professionals were without a job. The
domestiques
were in big trouble. There were no world-ranking points to be gained for helping someone else, and
directeurs sportifs
were obliged to hire riders with points in order to survive. Riders became more selfish and it didn't take them long to cash in on the new system. The more points you had the more noughts you could put on the end of your salary. Points meant pounds.

The relevance of all this to the system
promoting
drug-taking becomes clear on reading the list of races where points are awarded. Throughout this book I have talked about certain French classics that never have controls, the notorious Grand Prix des Chaudières. Take just one of these, Mauleon-Moulin, as an example. To the uninformed it's a small race, worth a few paragraphs in
L'Equipe
and a nice trophy to the winner. Wrong: it's worth much more – world-ranking points. A win in Mauleon is worth the same number of points as being fifth in Paris-Roubaix, the queen of classics. And so the night before Mauleon, when the
directeur sportif
starts the pre-race meeting by stressing the points to be gained, and in the same breath reminds you that there are never any controls here, what do you do? Do you laugh with the rest, or do you cry? How can you win? And all of these races, the 'GP de Chaudières', carry points. What a ridiculous system.

In Chapter 10, I talked about my experiences in my first Tour, 1986. On the last day we all knew that there would be no random testing, just the race winner and stage winner, and so on. Whenever there is no random testing, people will always find a reason to charge up. Several of my team-mates didn't hesitate. It was a way of ensuring they would ride well on the Champs Elysées and would be mentioned on TV. Publicity automatically increases your market value. Nothing much, mind: the sports shop owner in your local village sees you breaking clear on the Champs Elysées and asks you around for some promotion. Or the criterium manager notices, and offers you a few contracts. But it all adds up. It's all cash in the bank.

In Chapter 12 I described riding on an RMO team in the Midi Libre stage race. One of our riders, Patrick Esnault, was race leader at the start of the last day, a split stage. Because it was a split stage there was no random testing after the morning stage. And because the afternoon stage was the last stage it meant there was no random testing in the afternoon either. This gave us the green light to charge up on both stages to defend our teammate's lead. And provided we didn't win the stage we would get away scot-free (not winning really is child's play, believe me). Esnault duly won and his loyal team-mates were rewarded with a big lump of prize money and a nice bonus from the sponsor.

In 1989 my season opened with two races in the south of France but I then flew off to a race in Venezuela. My good friend, Jean-Claude Colotti, spent the best part of six weeks racing on the Cote d'Azur with his team, RMO. He rode the usual season's openers: Bessèges, the Tour of the Mediterranean, the Grand Prix of Cannes, the Tour of Haut Var. All prestigious races, all carrying world-ranking points.
NOT ONE CONTROL.
In March he lined up for Paris-Nice and Criterium International, ten days of stage racing. There were controls on just three of those days.

In May I rode in the Trophée des Grimpeurs. It's a circuit race held at Chanteloup les Vignes, north-west of Paris near Pontoise. The Grimpeurs is a
chaudières
race that has always received good coverage on French television. This year the organisers had trouble finding a sponsor, but with the help of French Prime Minister, Michel Rocard, who lives in the region, the necessary finance was raised – on one condition: Stephen Roche, another 'local boy'
had
to ride. Stephen agreed, but imposed his own condition – he insisted on dope control after the race. The organiser agreed.

On the night before the race, Patrick Valke conducted his team meeting around the dinner table. He emphasised that there would be dope control after the race and warned us not to take any chances. On the morning of the event, Patrick attended a meeting for the
directeurs sportifs.
After the meeting the race organiser discreetly pulled him aside. She had a slight problem, no doctor to conduct the test. The French Federation designate certain doctors to conduct controls in the different regions. Patrick was told that the official regional doctor could not attend because it was his child's Communion day. Please don't laugh.

Patrick returned from the meeting and told us there would be no control. Perhaps he should have said nothing, but in a way it was his duty. Most of the other teams would know there was no control. Some of the riders would charge up and our lads would be at a disadvantage. It was Patrick's duty to tell us, even though it disgusted him to have to do so. This is what we are up against: we play with the rules we have been given to play with.

We are not to blame.

Perhaps that's not totally correct. One of the most frustrating parts of it all is the reluctance of the riders to change things. Too many are unwilling to breach the law of silence. The big men never talk and to be honest I don't really blame them – what have they to gain? They too were once young and innocent. Why should they jeopardise their hard-earned respect? If they took illegal substances it was only because everyone else was doing it. It's not their fault. If races were tightly controlled they would still come out on top. Why
should
they talk? So that some smutty columnist can label them 'cheats'? No, we must not wait for confessions from the champions before taking action. They won't be painted as devils. I respect this. But I don't respect them when they start passing the buck, pointing the finger, promoting themselves as angels, as is often the case.

On 21 November 1989 the French television channel TF1 broadcast a special programme on the problems of drugs in sport. A large panel of invited French sportsmen was present, including one professional cyclist, Marc Madiot. Madiot, a former winner of Paris-Roubaix, is one of the stars of French cycling. He knows what goes on and he has seen what I have seen. By agreeing to appear he knew exactly what he was getting himself into. He knew he would be questioned.

The panel were shown pre-recorded declarations from sportsmen and women whose lives were almost destroyed by drugs abuse. Didier Garcia was one of those interviewed. In 1985 Didier turned professional with the old System-U team and raced with them for two years. He was just nineteen years old when he was thrown into Mauleon-Moulin and other 'chaudières' races. They were unbelievably fast, and he couldn't understand this at first. It didn't take him long to realise why, and he was faced with the choice of doing the same as everyone else or being fired at the end of the year. He started taking amphetamines for the
chaudières
races, but also started on a course of corticoids. Each cure lasted ten days, and he would do four cures a year. In the winter he rode six-day races. It was worse on the track. He needed amphetamines every night to race, and Valium to sleep once the races were over. He once saw a rider go completely berserk at three o'clock in the morning: he smashed his room to pieces, broke the toilet bowl and was unapproachable for fifteen minutes. The drugs started to affect Didier also. His personality changed, his friends deserted him. In 1987 his employer, Kas, did not renew his contract. He was out of a job. It was hard at first and he went into depression. For three months he continued using amphetamines for kicks, but with help from his girlfriend he gradually returned to a sane lifestyle. He now earns £700 a month working in a hospital. It's three times less than he was earning on a bike, but he's happy.

When the interview ended the spotlight turned to the invited panel for their reaction. Marc Madiot was asked to comment. He looked straight at the camera.

'Well, this is a typical comment from a guy who was never any good.'

I was furious. I could identify with everything Garcia had said and agreed with him. It was the ideal occasion for Madiot to stand up and explain the problems we endure when organisers refuse to enforce dope controls, and what it can lead to. But what did we get?

'Typical comment from a guy who was never any good.'

Thank you Saint Marc, protector of the professional peloton. I won't bother phoning to ask his impressions of my book. I know exactly what he will say about it: 'Typical comment from a guy who was never any good.'

A lot of my former colleagues won't be pleased with what I have written. In particular I refer to two French team-mates I raced with at Fagor. They are two smashing guys, but they have strange views on the drugs issue. They believe in the law of silence. Whenever a big fish was caught in the drugs net they would always say: 'Encore un sale coup pour le vélo' ('Another dirty blow for cycling'). They love cycling, never see anything bad in the game. It's their life, their passion. Both use amphetamines liberally whenever the occasion demands it – part of the job. One of them told me an interesting story about the 1988 Paris Six. The story gives an insight into how he views the drugs question.

On the third night, a medical team from the French Ministry of Sport arrived at the track. They had a ministerial order to perform controls on the top ten riders. It was supposed to have been a surprise swoop, but there was a leak. All the riders knew and all those tested were clean. Now if I had been riding, I would have been delighted with a control that kept everyone clean, but my team-mate objected to it.

'Is it any wonder the crowds don't come to the six days any more? I mean, we have just come from a hard season on the road, all of us totally knackered. The people expect to see a performance, a show. How can we be expected to put on a show with just Vittel in our bottles?'

Hard as I try, I just can't come to terms with his argument. I know what he is saying but I simply can't find any justification in it. Perhaps I don't love the game as he does.

There are others who believe that the fairest way is to abolish dope controls completely. 'Let guys take what they want to take, and if they want to kill themselves then so be it – we're all grown men.'

Time Out: 3 January, 16.14

This chapter really is heavy going, can't quite take all this analysis. I'm typing it out in David's office in the wilds of Kinnegad in County Westmeath. It's a nice office, he must have a hundred sports books. They tempt me each time I lift my head from the page. I've just picked one up called
Running in the Distance,
written by an athlete, Jack Buckner. Interesting fellow, a lot more famous than me: in 1986 he was European 5,000 metres champion. I'm glancing through its pages, a diary of a year in athletics, Olympic year. 'Hmmm now that's interesting. We all know what happened at Seoul, don't we? Ben got caught. Jack should have something to say about that but the Johnson affair only gets half a page.' He writes: