Rough Ride (6 page)

I returned to Ireland straight after the Games for the Irish championship in Kelly's home town of Carrick on Suir. My performance at LA had not gone unnoticed in the Irish press, and they made me favourite before the race. I was obsessed with proving that bad luck had robbed me from being top Irishman at the Olympics. I had to win. I attacked from the start and followed every move. With one lap to go, I got clear with Eddie Madden of the Irish Road Club. Eddie was riding strongly and my efforts were starting to tell, making me a bit wary of an attack from him. But incredibly he said to me, 'Don't attack, we'll sprint it out at the finish.' I was surprised, Eddie was a hopeless sprinter – he couldn't have been feeling too good after all. Da drove behind the race carrying spare wheels, with my mother and Ann for company. With two miles to go he drove up alongside and reminded me of the rule forbidding the lifting of both hands from the handlebars in a victory salute. I thought, 'He's sure I will win. But what if I mess it up?' I became suddenly nervous. In the finishing sprint we both kicked at the same time and for a second I doubted but then I drew clear and won easily. Champion again.

I returned to Paris for the end-of-season classics and rode a stage race, the Tour of Seine-et-Marne. I was riding quite well, but in the time trial on the second day, Martin beat me by over two minutes and took the race lead. I made a big effort to win the last stage and thought I had it, but I was swallowed up within spitting distance of the line and finished sixth in a downpour. I remember lifting my head and seeing Martin raise his arms as the race winner; I felt ill. I rode the remaining classics with little motivation or conviction and left Paris with a vague promise from Escalon that I could return the following season. I agreed, but in reality I wasn't sure that I wanted to.

On returning home, the gravity of my situation hit me. Should I go back for another year? Earley had made it, but had taken two years. Why not try once more? Work was impossible to find in Dublin. Raphael was also out of a job and we both signed on for the dole for a few weeks. Then a friend of ours, Michael Collins, found us two places at the government training centre, ANCO in Finglas. Michael, who was cycling mad, seemed very keen that we try again. There was no way Raphael was going back to ACBB, but I couldn't make up my mind – at least they assured you a pro contract if you performed. A phone call from Sean Kelly made up my mind.

He was home for the winter and, besides keeping himself fit, spent his time entertaining the numerous journalists and businessmen who flocked to his door from the Continent in search of a story or a product endorsement. One of them was a man called Guy Mollet, who did PR for a French company, Reydel. Kelly had used Reydel saddles for two seasons and Mollet was over to negotiate a new deal. Mollet was also the president of CC Wasquehal and he wanted the Irish champion for his team for 1985. He had organised the Ostricourt race which I had won in May. At first I hesitated and told Kelly I would be going back to the ACBB. Kelly said he was coming to Dublin in the afternoon to leave Mollet at the airport, and arranged for us to meet and talk.

Chubby, curly-haired, with nine and a half fingers, Guy Mollet was a shark. He said he was great friends with Kelly's
directeur sportif
Jean de Gribaldy, and assured me a pro contract with him if I produced the goods. He also promised free lodgings, £150 a month to live on and attractive cash bonuses for winning. I did not have to reflect too long. ACBB had cost me £1,000 and I had never received a centime from them in prize money. Mollet was a rogue but he was a likeable rogue. We shook hands and the deal was done.

January 1985 was like January 1984, a difficult month. I noticed the change in Ann a week before leaving. She became moody and less gay, and I would often catch her with a tear in her eye, which she would quickly brush away and refuse to talk about. I knew what was upsetting her: soon I would return to France and the long winter we had passed together would be just a memory to sustain her till God knew when. I felt the pain, too, but tried not to show it. Men are not supposed to cry. Our relationship was three years old and we were totally committed to each other, but my obsession with cycling made it impossible for us to plan anything.

Wasquehal would be my last chance. I decided to stay with the club for as long as my savings would support me. Raphael and I left for France at the end of January with about £500 between us, half of what we had taken to ACBB. This time it was make it or bust. A weird twist of fate turned us once more into the hands of Monsieur Wiegant. He had been overthrown at ACBB by a
coup d'état.
Escalon was now in full control of the team. Mollet phoned Wiegant and asked him to look after the Wasquehal riders for the month's pre-season training on the Cote d'Azur, and so, for the second year on the trot, we found ourselves at the Hotel La Quietude under the spell of the old sorcerer. He was a bit of a swine, but I respected him and felt almost sorry for him as he pined over his downfall. My form on the Cote was dismal and I didn't get one decent placing. Mollet was getting a little impatient with us, but I promised him I would get better once I was back in the north.

We rode our first northern classic, Amiens-Beaurains, a week after returning from the training camp. With twenty kilometres to go I broke away with three others, and in the finishing sprint was narrowly beaten to the line by my Wasquehal team-mate Jean-François Laffile. Mollet was delighted and kissed and hugged me in gratitude. I was pleased, he was pleased, I liked him.

The competition up north was not quite as tough as in Paris and we raced regularly, which was the big advantage. I won my first big race, the Tour of Cambresis, by out-sprinting a seven-man group in a fierce downpour. Mollet paid us regularly, and as the club won most of the races we always had a share of the prize money, so we made enough to live on. Raphael, too, was riding better. In May he won his first French race in the coastal town of Boulogne – I was second, and the bitter memories of Paris were effaced for us both.

I had good form in May and was probably the club's best rider for the month. Half-way through the month I was third in a Paris-Roubaix-style classic over the worst cobblestones of northern France. The morning after the race I got a phone call from Mollet.

'Bonjour Paul, c'est Guy. You are riding Bordeaux-Paris this weekend.'

(Bordeaux-Paris is 575 kilometres long, and the longest professional race in the world. Because of its savage distance, only a dozen or so professionals started the race. They lined up in Bordeaux before midnight, cycled 250 kilometres to Poitiers, were given twenty minutes for a change of clothes, and then rode the rest of the way with each rider individually paced behind a motorbike.)

'What? You must be joking.'

'No, no, it's no joke. The race organisers contacted Monsieur de Gribaldy and they want one amateur in the race, so I suggested you.'

I was taken aback and unsure how to respond. The race was just five days away. The pros riding would have more than a month's preparation in their legs. I had five days and would be on a hiding to nothing. Mollet and de Gribaldy could hardly criticise me if I refused to ride, but perhaps they would perceive this as a sign of weakness. And this would be a factor against me when I asked them later about a contract. I needed something to throw me into the national limelight; perhaps this was my chance. I agreed.

I trained twice behind a motorbike that week or rather, I had two four-hour sessions behind Guy Mollet's daughter's scooter. On Friday I flew to Bordeaux, with a change of aircraft at Lyon. There I recognised de Gribaldy and two of his riders, Dominique Garde and Eric Guyot, going through the departures hall. I was shy and preferred not to introduce myself. I let them board the aircraft before me. Monsieur de Gribaldy sat in a front row, but Garde and Guyot sat at the back. There was a place vacant beside them so I sat there. It was fun to study them close up. The next day we would be racing back to Paris together, but they hadn't a clue who I was. They read motor-car magazines and half-way through the flight Garde opened a packet of chocolate biscuits which they shared. As they munched, they peered over the top of the seats at de Gribaldy's head and giggled like school kids. I found it all very bewildering, but later, at the dinner table, when I had introduced myself and been accepted into the group, I understood. De Gribaldy surveyed everything we ate. Portions of everything were small, and we were given miserable sweets. Monsieur de Gribaldy frowned at my waistline and said I would ride much better if I lost a couple of kilos. This was news to me. I had always worked on the principle that it was OK to stuff your face as long as you trained hard. But de Gribaldy's method was to train hard and starve. He had extraordinary presence and I didn't dare argue with him.

We went out for a light spin on Saturday morning. After lunch we were ordered to bed from two in the afternoon until eight in the evening. Lunch had been extremely light, but I had brought a bit of my mother's fruit cake. I made sure the door was locked before I cut it. I shared my room with a pro, Guy Galopin, who couldn't believe I had been told just five days earlier I was riding. He took a great liking to my mother's fruit cake.

We left Bordeaux at midnight, riding as a group through the blackness until we came to a small village just before Poitiers. Here, we changed into fresh gear, ate a little (a bit of chicken), used the toilet and then jumped back on the bikes. During the stop-over Guy took out some pills and offered me one. I looked at him suspiciously. He said they were for 'le froid'. My French had improved and I knew that 'froid' meant 'cold'. But it was really warm outside. Why the hell was he giving me tablets for cold when it was thirty degrees? I took the pill and pretended to swallow it as I did not want to offend him, but secretly I threw it in the bin.

Looking back, I realise that Guy
was
trying to help me. He had not in fact offered me anything for 'le froid', but rather something for 'le foie' (the liver). When you ride a bike race that lasts more than seventeen hours, the digestive system gets completely screwed up from eating sweet things. Guy had offered me a tablet to help digestion, but naively I had thought he was trying to give me a charge. In my suspicious mind all pills were drugs and I would never take drugs.

I was left behind with about 200 kilometres to go to Paris. Mollet followed in the team car, and each time he was sure that the race commissar was out of sight he instructed my pacer to push me. I freaked out when the pacer put his hand on my back. I told Mollet I was either getting to Paris under my own steam or getting off- a question of honour. I was a sorry sight at the finish and had to be lifted from my bike. Three pros had abandoned and I had beaten one, finishing ninth out of thirteen starters. I had proved my point. This was a test of courage and I passed. But the price was high. That night I hadn't the strength to walk up the stairs to my bedroom – I crawled on my hands and knees. The mental strain of the week was over and I felt I had made a giant step towards my contract.

In July a stage of the Tour de France finished near Wasquehal. I went to the stage start the next day with the intention of talking to Kelly and Roche but instead ended up spending all my time with Martin Earley. He was riding in his first Tour and looked splendid in his Fagor jersey. He looked the real pro, quite unlike the scrawny amateur I had grown up with. I envied him as he rode off on the stage to Rheims. It was the first time in my life that I actually admired him for something.

Later in the month I had my first bad argument with Guy Mollet. I had taken a complete nine days' break from competition but on the tenth day, a Sunday morning, he stormed into the house and demanded that I ride the race later that day. I shouted back at him, replying that the professional contract he had been promising me since Bordeaux-Paris was long overdue. He assured me that he would fulfil his promise, but only on condition that I raced immediately. I raced and he was happy.

At the end of July I rode the Tour of Poland for the Irish national team. It was probably the hardest amateur stage race I ever rode. Conditions were horrible, the hotel food was tasteless – the bare minimum – and it was impossible to buy supplements. The racing was pretty savage and we took a hiding for the first couple of days. On the seventh stage I broke clear twenty kilometres from the finish with a Polish rider who left me with a kilometre to go and won the stage. I was really disappointed with second place, but I learned a month later that the Pole had tested positive in dope control after the stage and I had been awarded the victory. But it wasn't the same. It was a prestigious addition to my list of victories, but I had been robbed of the pleasure of winning. The Pole had raised his hands to the huge crowd, he had milked their applause and kissed the pretty girl with the flowers. No, it wasn't the same.

From Poland I returned to France and raced the Tour of Normandy again with the national squad. Peter Crinnion was our manager. Peter was an ex-pro and had helped Stephen Roche to go to France. I respected him greatly. Before the race he pulled me aside from the others in our team group and told me I could win the Normandy. I looked at him as if he had two heads, but then asked myself: 'Why not?' It was one of the best weeks of my career. I won a stage and finished second in two others and finished fifth overall. I would undoubtedly have finished higher, but in the race's only time trial I had the incredible misfortune to puncture twice in ten kilometres. I was flying.

I returned to Wasquehal and rode a small race that Mollet insisted I ride. A five-man Mafia, a mix of Poles and French who toured France and split all prize money between them, were riding. Near the end of the race I broke clear in a five-man group with two Mafia men. One of them approached me on the last lap and offered me £50 if I did not sprint. Surprised, I thought about it but said, 'No'. He increased the bid to £100. I had become a bit hungry for money, so I agreed – but it bothered me. So I thought about it: 'Mollet would probably give me a bonus if I won, and another win would do my chances of a contract no harm.' I went back to the Mafia man and told him there was no deal. He spat in disgust, and I immediately felt pressure. If I won, I would justify my argument. If I lost, I'd be £100 poorer and the laughing stock of the Mafia. The sprint to the line was a desperately close thing, but I managed to edge him out. Mollet was delighted. He announced to the crowd at the prize ceremony that Kimmage would be riding the World Championships for Ireland one week later in Italy. But he also announced that Kimmage would soon be turning professional. I laughed, very pleased with myself, I liked winning. I had no idea that it was the last race I would ever win.

The World Amateur Championships were in Montello, Italy. Even though it was very hot, I managed to pick up a bad head cold two days before the race. We rode the circuit in training: it had a hard hill, and I liked it and felt optimistic about my chances. Poland and Normandy had given me a new confidence. On race day, I was given a great boost when a note scribbled on a piece of paper was handed to me. It said: 'Compared with all you went through in Bordeaux-Paris this will be nothing. Good luck. Raphael.' The note gave me great heart and I started the race, tense but incredibly determined. I was content to just follow the others for the first half of the race and didn't feel too good.

To please the Irish supporters on the circuit, I attacked on the climb at half-way, but I didn't get very far and instantly regretted my foolishness. The World Championships were a gradual process of elimination. Over 200 had started, but with just one lap to go there were just twenty-six men in front and I was one of them. Just before we entered the finishing straight I noticed that my rear tyre was deflating ever so slowly. There was no question of changing a wheel so close to the finish, so I carried on. I started the sprint early to avoid being boxed in; the tyre was softening but holding. The Polish rider Lech Piasecki passed me like a bomb but as the line approached, no one else arrived and I thought: 'Christ I'm going to get a medal.' But then a Danish rider, Weltz, passed, then a Belgian, another Dane and an Italian, Maurizio Fondriest. I crossed the line and counted. Six. Sixth in the world. The sixth best amateur in the whole fucking world. I was overjoyed. It was the summit of my career.

I watched the pros ride next day. I visited the pits after the race and received congratulations from Roche, Kelly and Earley. Kelly was the last to leave for his hotel. A man of few words, he turned to me just before getting into the team car, and said, 'De Gribaldy will be talking to you.' This was music to my ears and I returned to Wasquehal a happy man. I met 'de Gri' on the eve of the pro-am classic, the Grand Prix d'Isbergues, at the small hotel where his team was staying. He made me wait for half an hour but then sat down beside me at a table in the bar. He looked at me and said I would have to lose some weight and then asked me some details, including my age. I had expected him to produce a contract for me to sign and had already decided I would not sign for less than £600 a month – de Gri was a notoriously bad payer. But he produced no contract and made no promises. He just said we would meet again after the race, which I was riding with the Irish national team. Three-quarters of the way through I was following French pro Jacques Bossis down a narrow gravel-lined descent. There was a sharp right-hand bend at the bottom, which I failed to round and ran off the road. The front wheel dropped into a sharp dip in the ditch, throwing me over the handlebars, and I landed face down at the roadside. I don't remember much, just the pain from my back and left wrist and the sensation that someone had kicked me in the mouth. I spent five days in hospital in Béthune with a fractured vertebra and left wrist. I had expected de Gri to call at the hospital with my contract, but he never came. I left hospital dejected. Raphael packed my things and we went home to Ireland – to wait.