Rough Ride (17 page)

The rooming arrangements were the same as in Ireland. Sean shared with Stephen and Martin with me. I liked rooming with Martin. As amateurs we had roomed many times together on Irish teams, but then we were rivals and it was often difficult to be honest. Now it was different. We were both professionals and no longer rivals. I had the edge on him as an amateur, but he was now the better professional. I was unbelievably nervous before going to bed. Two of my brothers, Raphael and Kevin, had come over from Ireland. They would be on the circuit tomorrow and I did not want to let them down by riding badly. But I was also very excited. My last appearance at a world championship was two years after my sixth place in the amateur race in Italy. I had lost any illusions about ever winning the Tour de France, but I secretly dreamed about one day being world champion. I polished my shoes before getting into bed, and had them shining. Normally I am not one for polishing shoes, but this was the world championships, and in my excitement I brushed them till they were sparkling. My enthusiasm irritated Martin, who was trying not to let the build-up start until the morning of the race. He offered me a sleeping tablet. I accepted. We slept like logs.

I love the sound of rain splattering off the windows when I'm cosy in bed. For a while I enjoyed the sound. My senses were still numbed with sleep and I could have been anywhere. In my childhood bed back in Dublin. In bed with Ann back in Grenoble. All I knew was that I was in bed and that it was raining outside and that I liked being in bed when it was raining outside. But slowly the messages from my ear found a receptive brain cell and the splattering sounds were analysed more carefully. I wasn't just anywhere: I was in the Hotel Piber in Villach. The rain that was battering the window would soon be making its way into every pore of my skin, chilling me, making me uncomfortable. 'Oh, my God, it's the morning of the world championships . . .
FUCK, IT'S RAINING
. . .
I HATE RAIN.'

How unlucky can you get? In the run-up we had three days of beautiful sunny weather, but now it was not simply raining but bucketing down. All my enthusiasm went out of the wet window. I hate rain. I never ride well in it. I'm not sure I talked over breakfast.

I was in serious difficulty for the first half of the race. I had been given new wheels and the rims were smooth, making it hard for my brake pads to get any sort of grip. Slowing on the descent was a problem, and for a while I felt very insecure. The other three sat near the front of the bunch, watching, controlling, waiting. Stephen came back to me to encourage me to come to the front. My only wish was to abandon, but I couldn't let my brothers down. They had spent their hard-earned money on coming over to see me, so I tried to follow him. The ease with which he cut his way through the bunch was heart-breaking. His incredibly efficient style. So graceful, so beautiful to watch – like a long-legged woman walking down the street. It was as if the bicycle was an extension of his hips. The rain stopped after about three hours, and slowly my stiffened leg muscles started to heat up again and I at last felt the urge to race. After eighteen laps the hill after the finish line started to feel like a small col. Cracks started appearing in the diminishing bunch, and amazingly I found myself closing gaps instead of opening them. With sixty kilometres to go a four-man group which included two favourites, the Dutchman Teun Van Vliet and reigning champion Moreno Argentin, went clear. The French took up the chase, aided by a quarter of the Irish team, Martin Earley, and the gap started to narrow. I sat near the front, waiting for a sign of weakness from Martin. The four were retrieved and the attacks followed. Martin, exhausted from his chase, retired – he had done his work. I moved up on Kelly's shoulder and told him I was available for short-range chasing. He nodded, and I set about closing down any serious break without a green jersey. As the bell rang, announcing the last lap, the decisive move went clear. It was on the climb, and I was shattered and really suffering. I looked up to the glorious sight of two green jerseys bridging the gap. Behind, the race was over, and we all knew it. I tuned my ear to the p.a. system and tried to work out what was happening up front. I said a prayer that Kelly might win. With both of them up front they had a great chance. The logical tactic was for Stephen to hold it together for Sean in the sprint. I strained my ears as we turned into the finishing straight. The p.a. announced the winner.

'Steven Rooks, Champion du Monde.'

There was a huge roar from the crowd. 'Did he say Roche or Rooks?' I wasn't sure. Rooks, the Dutchman, was also in the break. 'I think he said Rooks.' I didn't bother to sprint. It was seconds after crossing the line that I discovered the truth. I bumped into Irish journalist John Brennan as he scurried across for a few words from the new world champion.

'He's done it. The bastard's done it.'

'Who?'

'Roche.'

'No. You're joking.'

He wasn't.

I made my way through the crowd to our pit area. Stephen had been whisked off for the medal ceremony, but our pit was still crowded. Kelly was giving his story to journalists, Martin was having the back patted off him by almost every Irish supporter on the circuit and there were scenes of great joy all around the pit. I too wacked him across the back and then threw my arms around Kelly and congratulated him on his fine performance. I really wished it could have been him on the winner's rostrum, but I suppose it's the one title he is destined never to win. We pulled on some warm clothes and cycled back to the hotel, where it took some solid scrubbing under the shower to remove the grime and dirt from seven hours of racing from my legs. Stephen arrived about an hour later. He looked resplendent in his new rainbow jersey, but the magnitude of his achievement had not yet sunk in. He had done something that only one other man in the whole world had done. In winning the Tour of Italy, the Tour de France and the world championships in the same year he had equalled Eddy Merckx.

The celebrations went on late into the next morning. Most of the supporters came round to the hotel and it was a great night to be Irish. I felt very privileged to be part of it all, as it's something I can tell my children and my grandchildren. I can see myself in my rocking chair by the fire, forty years from now with grandson on my knee.

'Tell me about the day you helped Stephen Roche become world champion, Granda.'

And I will tell it, without doubt exaggerating my contribution to the victory.

'And where did you finish, Granda?'

'Well, son, I was so tired after all my work that I could only finish forty-fourth.'

My good performance at the world championships gave me great confidence for the end-of-season races. I particularly wanted to do well in the Nissan Classic in Ireland in October. Thevenet was kind. He allowed me to choose the four riders to accompany me in the race as a reward for my good year. I chose the four who I was closest to: Andre Chappuis, Jean-Claude Colotti, Thierry Claveyrolat and Per Pedersen.

I went into the race as team leader, the only time in my life that I held such a responsibility. On the second stage I asked Thierry and Jean-Claude to ride over the Vee climb as hard as possible in an effort to break up the race. I sat in their slipstream and they set a pace which blew the race apart. This was a new kind of pressure, one I had not experienced before. My normal role was to do what they were now doing for me – the donkey work. But the pace they set was so fierce that I began to wonder if I had the legs to continue the effort, once they finished their effort. If I cracked, then I would be the laughing stock of the bunch. Joel Pelier attacked just after the hairpin, and I bridged the gap. Eleven others joined us, and for those behind it was curtains, for we soon had a gap of over ten minutes – I had detonated the vital move in the five-day race. I so wanted the break to succeed that I did too much work and was knackered by the time I got to the stage finish at St Patrick's Hill in Cork, so I was not placed highly on the stage. The following day was a hard loop around the Ring of Kerry to Tralee and I did another good ride, moving to seventh overall. The stage was won by Sean Yates in a solo break which I rate as one of the best rides I ever saw in my time with the pros. The fourth stage was a team time trial. Dede and Clavet packed it in after getting dropped after the Vee on the second stage, and spent the rest of the week buying Aran sweaters and drinking pints of Guinness. So we were down to just three men for the trial. I slipped a place to eighth, which I held on to until the finish of the race in O'Connell Street in Dublin. I felt very satisfied with my performance, for the organisers had put together a high-class field. Sean won, Stephen was second, Martin was sixth and I was eighth – it was another week of being 'fab'.

Your wedding day is supposed to be a great day in a couple's life. I enjoyed mine, but only after the church ceremony; for I was so nervous that I bungled the 'for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health' bit – still, it got a good laugh. We were married in Ann's parish church in Balscadden in North County Dublin on 23 October. Most bike riders get married in October. It's the month that the season ends, the time for drink and fun and relaxation and, well, marriages. I had been going out with Ann for five years and I was twenty-five years old and she was twenty-two so we both reckoned we were 'ripe'. I invited the other 'Beatles' to the wedding. Sean was tied up and couldn't come, but Martin and Stephen were both present. From RMO I asked the four who had ridden with me on the Nissan, but Dede was the only one to come. Stephen's presence was a big surprise. He was besieged with requests for functions and promotions all over the country, and I honestly didn't expect him to turn up. While we were being married word got round that Stephen Roche was in Balscadden church, and village kids and housewives from the area converged on us when the ceremony was over, looking for his autograph. Stephen felt a bit worried that his popularity might detract from what was essentially 'our day', but on the contrary his presence created a carnival atmosphere that made it all more enjoyable.

We honeymooned in Connemara and Clare and I returned to France two weeks later to spend the winter in our flat in Vizille. 1987 had been very satisfying. I was sure I would continue to improve. I was wrong: it was the summit of my career.

The village of Vizille lies twelve kilometres outside Grenoble on the road to Gap. It's a typically rural French village but can claim a certain notoriety because it was here that the French Revolution started two hundred years before. A magnificent château, a former residence of French presidents, dominates the village square, and life and traffic circulation in the village revolve around it. The Cafe de la Gare is ideally placed, being fifty metres opposite the château and its magnificent park. It's a typically French cafe. From seven to eight in the morning it serves mostly coffee, nearly always black, and croissants. Just before twelve there will be a rush on
pastis,
the aniseed drink which is the French labourer's aperitif. From one to two it's coffee time again; but the afternoons are calm until just before seven, when there will be another rush on
pastis.

I got to study the patterns quite well during 1988. There was a great view from the terrace and I studied Vizille, its inhabitants and its château in falling snow and falling rain, in grey skies and in blue. I watched green leaves turn to falling leaves – always from the terrace. From my chair and an empty row of coffee cups I studied them. The old men playing
boules
in the shade of the sixteen sycamore trees. The old woman hastily loading a basket of groceries on to her bicycle as the rain started to fall. The village idlers doing the rounds from one cafe to another, scrounging drink. The buzz of traffic clogging up the square. At every hour of the day, on every day of the year, you could be sure there was something happening in the village square. Which is precisely why I went there so often. It was an escape. I found immense tranquillity in buying a cup of coffee and sitting on the terrace with it. Watching, analysing, thinking and inevitably searching for a way out. A job. I spent more time on the terrace of the Cafe de la Gare that year than I did racing my bike. It was a bad year.

Everything had been rosy at the end of 1987 – too rosy. It was in the months of November and December that I let it slip. Because I had had a hard season I felt I needed a good break. I did, but I got carried away. When I should have been sweating it out in the weights room, I was off touring the wine cellars of the vineyard round Avignon. Wine was a passion: smelling it, tasting it, buying it and especially drinking it. I had the reputation in the team of being a 'gourmet' – a connoisseur of good food and wine. A hard man for the drink and the crack. I impressed with my knowledge of
grands crus,
and I found a new pleasure in being impressive. I got too cocky. I became great friends with Colotti. He advised me to watch my weight and to train hard. I advised him on the wines he should stock his cellar with. I rode the odd cyclo-cross, did a little jogging; but it wasn't enough.

The year started with a training camp and a 'let's get to know each other' week just before Christmas. It was Bernard Vallet's opening act as the new
directeur sportif
of the team. Thevenet had been disposed of ever so tidily and ruthlessly. He was first offered the job of team manager. The manager is in charge of team administration. He co-ordinates travel to races, deals with race organisers for expenses and acts as public relations officer. It's a cosy number, and although he would have preferred to stay on as
directeur sportif
the post of manager held a certain attraction for Thevenet. He accepted and Vallet's promotion to
directeur sportif
was announced to the French press. The dust was allowed to settle for six weeks, then Monsieur Braillon informed Thevenet that he had reconsidered and that his services were no longer required. Thevenet claimed unfair dismissal and won his case before the courts. Monsieur Braillon was forced to pay him a year's salary, about £30,000.

The training camp at Autrans, a cross-country ski resort in the Vercors mountains, was fun even though there was no snow. The core of the team remained the same and there were just five changes. Bincoletto, Lavenu, Grewal, Peillon and Huger were replaced by Frank Pineau, Eric Salomon, Hartmut Bolts, Alex Pedersen and Patrick Vallet (no relation to Bernard). We played indoor football, swam at the local pool, jogged and did some mountain biking. In between sports outings we were photographed, measured for our new clothes and examined by doctors. At night we had team talks from the new chief. Vallet gave some great team talks.

He told us he was confident that we were going to have a great year. He intended to run the team like the captain of a ship. We were all in the same boat, and we must all row together for the team's success. If he'd known the words of 'The Soldier's Song' I'm sure he'd have sung them.

And it worked. We believed him. We left Autrans convinced we had a good
directeur sportif
and that everything was fine. A day later our opinion had changed.

Looking back on it I am reminded of those gory 'Friday the Thirteenth' movies. You know, the 'just when you thought it was safe to go back in the water' stuff. In our case Freddie, or Carrie, or Gory attacked us in the shape of a newspaper article.

L'Equipe,
the French sports daily, had sent a journalist to Autrans to cover the training week. The journalist, Guy Roger, did a half-page interview with Vallet, which was published a day after we returned home. To say it shocked me is an understatement. It was a question-and-answer piece, no room for misinterpretation. Vallet was questioned about the
faiblesse,
or 'weakness', of his new team. He replied.

I will be frank. Of the eighteen riders in the team, half were signed before I took control [i.e. by Thevenet]. I personally wouldn't have done it. I believe also that none of the eight would have found jobs in any other French team either.

I remember reading the interview over breakfast. I interrupted my bowl of porridge and did a quick calculation. I was one of those who had signed under Thevenet. Was he referring to me? Surely not.

He didn't criticise everyone. He had glowing praise for two of his signings, two of the new pros.

I am pleased to have signed Hartmut Bolts and Alex Pedersen, who finished second and third respectively, in the last amateur world championships. These two have the right approach. I haven't seen them pedal yet but their mentality and behaviour are those of real pros. They will help the others to get the finger out.

I had expected criticism from Vallet at some stage in the year but not before we had even turned a pedal. I picked up the phone and rang headquarters for an explanation. Vallet was not around but Jacques Michaud the assistant
directeur sportif
was. Yes, he had seen
L'Equipe.
No, there was no need to worry about it, all lies. He said that a letter of explanation from Vallet was already in the post and to make no further comments to anyone until reading the letter.

Sure enough, the letter arrived next day. Vallet told us to pay no attention to the lies written by Guy Roger, whose only interest was to upset the normal running of the team.

I didn't believe him. Any advantage Guy Roger could gain from rocking the RMO boat was beyond my comprehension. No, I was quite sure that Vallet had said it all right. Not intentionally, of course, and perhaps he just got carried away. Being in
L'Equipe
is all that ever matters to a lot of French pros. Vallet could now give them half-page interviews and in my view he loved it. He loved the power, being the centre of attention. It seemed to me that in his first interview as a
directeur sportif
he wanted to make an 'I'm a tough guy' impression. He made an impression all right.

Two days before writing this chapter I met up with Guy Roger at the Grenoble Six, a track event. I had always wondered about the famous interview and asked him if he had altered any of Vallet's words. Roger assured me over the heads of his two children that he had written the piece word for word. When Bolts and Pedersen came to the end of their two-year contracts, signed with Vallet, he fired them both.

I accept that the job of
directeur sportif is
difficult and that harsh decisions are often necessary for the good of the team. I don't blame Bernard Vallet for my failure at RMO in 1988. He was the epitome of what a good
directeur sportif
should be. A superb organiser, he has a total understanding of professional racing and is a good motivator. He was certainly better at the job than Thevenet. But Thevenet had a quality that made up for his organisational faults, his sincerity. In my opinion Vallet didn't know the meaning of the word. I think he was as two-faced as they come.

I was fully prepared for a hard start to the 1988 season. I knew I would have problems, but it didn't worry me too much. I had had problems early in 1986 and 1987, but each time I had hit form at the right moment to win a place in the team for the Tour. I felt that 1988 would be the same, that it would take me two months to hit form.

February, March and April were disastrous months. I just couldn't get going, found it impossible even to finish races and abandoned one after another. But in May, in the Grand Prix of Wallonie in Belgium, I started putting it together. I could feel good form coming on. I had trained really hard for it, and felt good except for one thing – I had this maddening itch around my arse. I couldn't understand it, but put off getting it seen to, as it was a bit embarrassing. The day after Wallonie, we lined up for a three-stage two-day race, the Tour de L'Oise just north of Paris. It opened with a short eighty-kilometre stage but I was totally knackered, and suffered from stomach trouble. I was dropped with thirty kilometres to go and lost nine minutes. I was terribly depressed at this latest setback, and couldn't understand it as I had ridden so well in Wallonie the day before. I was rooming with Frank Pineau. I had a shit at about nine and left the most dreadful smell behind me. Frank complained that he had never experienced anything like it. He assured me there was something wrong with my insides. This got me thinking. The itch around my anal passage was driving me insane and had developed into a rash. Perhaps there was something wrong.

I started the stage next day but I had this persistent stomach cramp and was completely drained of strength, so I abandoned. I flew to Grenoble that night and on Monday morning paid a visit to the doctor. He looked at my bum and asked me to stick out my tongue.

'Champignons (mushrooms).'

'What's that?'

'It's a fungus that develops in the digestive tract. It's gone right through you from your tongue to your bum.'

I was told to stay off the bike until the rash had disappeared and he advised a break from competition for ten days. It was almost a relief to have been told there was something wrong with me. Until then I just couldn't understand what was going wrong. Now I had a reason, an excuse. Even if the mushrooms were not totally responsible for my lack of form I had no problem convincing myself that they were. Coffee sales were up that week at the Cafe de la Gare.

I made a return to competition at the Tour de l'Armorique. I was still undergoing treatment but was feeling brand new if a little behind physically. There was one place left to be filled in the team to ride the Dauphine, to be filled either by me or by Eric Salomon. I wanted to ride the Dauphine. It was my ticket for the Tour. But the mushrooms had set me back in my preparation. I rode with little flair at Armorique and Vallet offered the ride to Salomon.