That was no problem. Finding a place at another club and getting the job that went with it was simple. I was making a little bit of a name in the area around Paris and that did the trick: I signed a handsome contract with the US Creteil club, which had already brought through greats such as Pierre Trentin and Daniel Morelon.

The terms of employment were just what I needed. In the mornings I had to go to work in the town hall at Creteil. The afternoons were set aside for club training. To start with I wasn't formally placed anywhere: in other words, I had nothing to do. So to pa.s.s the time I hung around one department or another, which seemed to go down well with some of the secretaries. The council chief saw me spending time with his personal a.s.sistant and decided my attentions might be better directed elsewhere. There was a minor internal redeployment to ensure that my time was spent more efficiently.

I was put on a special a.s.signment: I had to go from one city sports hall to another, measure how big they were, get a precise figure for the number of kit lockers, make absolutely certain that the entrance doors had proper handles, a.s.sess the bounciness of the gymnastic mats and so on. I didn't find it demeaning: it was just rather a laugh.

The good side of munic.i.p.al employment was that it put my mind firmly back on cycling. I was becoming better all the time. Any urge to seek distraction slowly faded. And at the start of 1981 I was drafted into the French national amateur team. I don't remember being particularly happy about such a distinction. Presumably, for me, I saw it as just the logical next step in my progress onwards and upwards.

CHAPTER 5.

SHOULDER TO SHOULDER WITH THE BADGER.

As I got to know the other riders who made it into the national team in 1981, I eventually came across a friend I'd already made when we were both under-16s. He was a good friend and soon a very close one: Pascal Jules. We had ridden for different clubs so had not seen much of each other as first-year seniors, but we soon got to know each other again. There was a clear connection between us even though he came from more of a blue-collar background than I did. We were the same generation, both Parisians, both steadfast in our insolence, with a shared basic trait to our characters: an outrageous, voracious appet.i.te for life. Our personalities were complementary. Together, we could whip up storms. It was unsaid but there was a pact of kinship between us which was so strong, so inviolable, almost sacred, that it would last as long as life lasted. But some lives don't last that long.

Not long after the first training camp of the season at La Londe-les-Maures in the south of France the national trainer told us to our great surprise we were to ride the Tour of Corsica, one of the 'open' races that enabled amateurs to take on the professionals. It was a big step up.

On the ile de Beaute the race favourite had a name that was feared worldwide throughout cycling. He had already won two Tours de France, the Giro, LiegeBastogneLiege and an incalculable number of major races. That year, he was not merely the wearer of the rainbow jersey of world champion won in prodigious style at Sallanches the previous August but since his abandon at Pau in the last year's Tour de France everyone was predicting that this was to be a season in which he would avenge the slight to his pride. And it would be a year of tears for everyone else. The man's name was Bernard Hinault. The Badger.

He didn't say much and in front of us he didn't show off. He just showed the power in his jutting chin. Everything about him breathed confidence. His whole being expressed a single thought: 'I know who I am.'

As for us, we didn't have much to show apart from our youth. Apart from 'Julot' and me, Marc Gomez, Philippe Chevalier, Philippe Leleu and Philippe Senez were the hard core of an adventurous little group. I only wanted to do three things: observe, learn and understand. And I had to make as much use as I could of the fact that 'the Badger' was there. So on the very first stage, guess how I rode? I resolutely glued myself to Hinault's wheel. As soon as the ebb and flow of the race pulled us apart, I would immediately return to his slipstream. After a little while he began to wonder what this display was all about. He wasn't born yesterday, so he pulled to one side and said: 'What are you doing stuck to my backside?'

I answered: 'I've never ridden my bike behind a world champion so I wanted to see what it felt like.'

A similar thing happened a long time after my racing career ended. I was riding a cycle-tourist event in which Eddy Merckx was taking part and made sure I sat in behind him. Just to see if you could still see the whole world behind his two wheels.

The first mountain stage came. Only two amateurs were able to hold the tempo set by the pros during the final kilometres of the pa.s.ses; Rostolan, and me. I was riding pretty well, except on some of the descents where we raced like there was no tomorrow. It was impressive but terrifying. My technique left much to be desired: I thought I was going to die on every hairpin, but even so I got through, dragged along, sheltered by the other riders. I was seventh at the finish, which was not bad for an inexperienced amateur.

The organisers had come up with the idea of a time-trial stage, to be run after dark. Just before the start something fortunate happened. Cyrille Guimard himself came up to talk to me. As directeur sportif directeur sportif of the Renault team Hinault's manager, in other words the former rider embodied cycling science, the art and profession of bike racing. When he began talking it was as if a century of acc.u.mulated knowledge was coming out of his brain. He had such an aura that the slightest movement of his arm could command a whole peloton of cyclists travelling at full speed. of the Renault team Hinault's manager, in other words the former rider embodied cycling science, the art and profession of bike racing. When he began talking it was as if a century of acc.u.mulated knowledge was coming out of his brain. He had such an aura that the slightest movement of his arm could command a whole peloton of cyclists travelling at full speed.

So what did he talk to me about? I can't remember now. Finally, enigmatically, he took a long slow look at me as if to p.r.i.c.k my curiosity. He eventually murmured: 'You know how to do it tonight, don't you?' I said: 'More or less.' He spoke again. 'This is my advice. Listen up. In a time trial you start quickly, accelerate in the middle bit and finish flat out.' It was a bizarre way to behave: I believe he actually couldn't think of anything else to say to me. But I didn't dare laugh. One hour later in the midst of all these pros, I found out where I stood: fifteenth. Promising.

After four days I had really acclimatised well to the whole environment, to the ambience of the professional cycling world, to their way of doing things, of which I could only get glimpses of the most obvious parts, their self-discipline, their obvious seriousness. More than anything else, the style of racing suited me. The early kilometres of each stage slipped gently by at low average speeds which allowed me enough time to get my engine warmed up and then, with no warning, the pace would be raised abruptly and it was eyeb.a.l.l.s out all of a sudden. It was ideal for me. I was in my element. I was an attacking rider, able to go time and again, and quick enough when I needed to be. Above all, I could keep up with the sustained, high speeds. Professional racing was made for me.

On the last day, Guimard came and saw me. Pascal Jules had also been riding superbly all week and was there as well. Guimard had asked for the meeting; we couldn't say no. We got there early. 'Do you want me to keep an eye on you this year...' he said. We were frozen with desire. After a brief pause, he continued '... with an eye to having you as pros one day?'

There was no reply we could give Cyrille Guimard. He would speak, do as he wished and arrange it all. We must have just muttered a vague, meaningless 'Of course, Monsieur Guimard.' He presumably wanted to impress us and he had managed it.

During that Tour of Corsica he was the only directeur sportif directeur sportif from a French team who came to talk to us. Was that a coincidence? Clearly not. We were hotheaded young amateurs riding for the first time with the pros and anyone could see we didn't lack courage. But only Guimard felt the need to come and make our acquaintance. from a French team who came to talk to us. Was that a coincidence? Clearly not. We were hotheaded young amateurs riding for the first time with the pros and anyone could see we didn't lack courage. But only Guimard felt the need to come and make our acquaintance.

What he had said to us not to mention the fact that he had wanted to have some involvement in what we did was as good as a contract. At the very least, it felt like a moral contract. Guimard had spoken. There was nothing more to say. It was now up to us to prove that he had not made a mistake. We were honour-bound to try, in whatever way we could.

A lot of things have been said about the closed little world of amateur racing. There is a lot of fantasising. Some of the stories are true, of course, but they need to be clarified, situated in their time and their context. A lot of the old wives' tales need to be refuted.

What I saw in amateur cycling I'm talking only of the time when I raced bears no resemblance to a world of 'shameless cheats' who would 'sell their grandmother' to earn a few francs. At that time, everything followed unwritten rules laid down by the 'old guys', often former pros who were ending their careers as amateurs. They had a code of conduct but no one was obliged to follow it. However if you wanted to really get involved in the races, to be at the front and have a chance to win, sometimes you had no choice but to accept their little set-ups and play the game. For them it wasn't a matter of bending moral rules; it was simply like that and not any other way, just as the Earth happened to go round the Sun.

I'm not talking about doping. Obviously I'm not saying that there were no cheats in the amateur races. I'm certain that there were and when I think back, I'm sure a lot of guys were using amphetamines because back then drug tests were only carried out in professional events. But I was young and had no awareness of any of that and to tell the truth I wasn't interested. I cycled because I wanted to have a whale of a time; I wanted to compete, I wanted to progress on my own terms, and I wanted to win. What I did know, however, was that to have a chance of winning it was worth cultivating allies. That would be done either at the start or during the race.

Not long after the Tour of Corsica I was racing one Sunday at Chateaudun in Central France. There were young seniors like me and old guys from the past, in a fairly friendly atmosphere. I remember that the wind was so strong you could hardly stay upright on the bike. The wind: a cyclist's worst enemy.

I was in great shape. I loved these races because you really learned how to compete there. There was no comparison with pro racing but it was serious enough. The guys knew how to hurt themselves, the bike handling was of a good standard and I always learned something by watching how they behaved in the race. The only thing was, when the combines between the 'oldies' began to function, the race was as good as over: you had to be extremely strong to prevent them from st.i.tching up the whole event. But you have to understand: this is how amateur racers earned their living.

So on this day there were plenty of old pros. I can remember as if it were yesterday: they were all in it together. I was flying and was continually off the front, getting in among them, pushing the pace up, counter-attacking. I was getting in the way of what they had arranged beforehand.

After a little while they had worked out that I wasn't going to burn myself out and that I might well win the race rather than one of them, and so the leader of the little band came up to see me and said: 'You can be with us.' I had worked out they were a combine and didn't think twice before saying 'OK, but I'm the one who wins.' They suggested I put 3000 francs (about 300) in the kitty afterwards. That was a fair bit for me but it was the only way I could join them and seal the alliance. I had to learn, and so I said yes.

The race went as expected. Together we were unstoppable, and as if to prove that I was in my best form I ended up in front with the leader himself. We were working well together and when we fought out the finish there was no artifice. It wasn't my day: on the little climb to the line my gears jumped and I could only get second. It was tough: I was annoyed to lose like that.

A little while after the race we met up to divide the loot as arranged. It was the first time I'd done this. And I couldn't believe what happened. They formed a circle and stood there looking down their noses at me, sure of themselves, as if they owned me. The big chief looked at me scornfully and said: 'Actually I'm only putting in 1500 francs.'

Not only had he won the race, but he was putting in half my contribution. It was completely out of order. Presumably he wanted to test a young guy like me, to see if I was going to take the bait and set me up to be a useful workhorse in future. They weren't taking a risk, or so they thought: those guys had a stranglehold on all the races. But I wasn't happy about it. My impulsive side got the better of me and I lost my temper. I wasn't going to accept this injustice. We had agreed the principles according to which we would work and the cash to be paid. Why go back on it? I stood up in front of them and yelled: 'Give me the money I'm owed and I'm out of here. And hear this: you won't f.u.c.k with me again!' They laughed. I went berserk: 'You will never win another race if I'm in it. So go f.u.c.k yourselves.'

As I turned my back I could hear them taking the p.i.s.s. They must have found me arrogant and ridiculous. But I was young and had it all to prove. They had been around the block and had years of painful experience behind them; they wanted to wear me down, humiliate me, and turn me into their servant. I could respect what they had been in the past. I couldn't put up with what they wanted to force on me.

Some of them had not managed to keep their careers as pros going; others hoped to be pros some day. It would have been simple to find them a bit pathetic, poor b.a.s.t.a.r.ds. But when I look back at it, I think that these guys were both freakish and n.o.ble in their way. The bizarre aspect was that they were trying to survive in cycling, pushing their bodies to the limit in a world of physical suffering rather than taking an easy route somewhere else. The n.o.ble side was that they loved bike racing so much that they had to impose their own rules on it, whatever you might think of them.

Well, they thought they could laugh at me, but they didn't know quite what a pig-headed lad I was. Each time that happy little family turned up at a race where I was riding, I applied the same principle: either I won, or I raced to make them lose. I didn't spare any effort in going through with the line I'd decided upon. There was only one occasion when they managed to catch me out, which was one day when I was completely on my own. Otherwise it worked out like ABC. I became their bete noire. They even tried to renegotiate a deal with me but I wasn't swallowing that. They had wanted to humilate me so it was their tough luck.

Without being aware of it, by expressing my character in this way and imposing a kind of authority, I was showing signs of being a champion in the making. Behaving this way toughened me up and taught me to race.

It was May 1981. While France lived through the frenetic hope that followed the political upheaval after the election of the left-wing president Francois Miterrand, my personal destiny was changed overnight. It took a single telephone call. Cyrille Guimard was on the line. It was very early in the season for this, but I distinctly heard him say: 'I'll take you next year. You'll sign for me.' A funny shiver went right through me; I believe I may have had furtive little tears in my eyes. I'd done it. As I came to terms with it, I called Pascal Jules. I was twice as happy. Guimard had just called him as well. We shouted in delight a shared battle cry that is etched on my mind.

The boss of the Renault team had arranged a meeting with us in July, early on the morning after the final stage of the Tour de France, in the Sofitel at Porte de Sevres. We got there early, our hearts pounding. Time pa.s.sed by, but there was no sign of Guimard. Julot and I looked at each other. Then he turned up, very late, in a tracksuit, with a hazy look about him. He seemed a bit washed out: the Tour was over, and there's always a party. He didn't say a lot; then he got out the contracts. Of course neither of us took a second glance at what was written on them. We knew the key thing: our new professionals' salary, 4500 francs a month at the time. Anyway, we weren't going to argue with Guimard: he could have stipulated that we had to sleep in handcuffs and we'd still have signed.

We used our best joined-up handwriting and handed back the contracts, very pleased with ourselves. And he said emphatically: 'Well, you've just got your first thing wrong.' What on earth was he saying? He just amused himself by letting time tick on, keeping the suspense mounting. After a few lengthy minutes he explained: 'You've signed the contracts and handed them back but you haven't kept one. That's not how it's done.' He sounded as if he meant it but I gave as good as I got. 'But Monsieur Guimard, we gave them back because you haven't signed them yet. What's the point of us having a contract that hasn't got your signature on it?' He looked at me, amazed that I was so quick. All he could say was: 'Well, anyway...' The exchange sums up Guimard; he always felt he had to prove he knew best, make an impression; he wanted to show he was boss.

Well, we were on cloud nine. Not only was I going to turn professional, but Julot, who had been approached by the Peugeot team, would be at my side after all. At Creteil I was now seen as the little local celebrity, like any amateur who has just got a deal with the pros. The final phase of my amateur career was going to be good. Guimard, who already had a moral claim on what we did, wanted us to take part in the Tour de l'Avenir, come what may. Julot and I felt we would rather go to the Tour de Nouvelle Caledonie. We wanted to go into the professional world without letting anyone be our master. That's how we were. That's how we would remain.

CHAPTER 6.

FLYING WITH RENAULT.

'Where the risks are greatest, that is the area I aim for.' I've often thought of this phrase of Jacques Anquetil's. Anquetil: the giant, the magnificent, the reprobate. The man who wanted to knock history out for the count, in a quiet way at first, then by beating the door down.

I knew where I had landed by signing for Renault. This was a turning point in my story, which was flying high, in club cla.s.s. I was going to Guimard's. I had ended up with Hinault. It was the cycling equivalent of taking a degree at Oxford or Cambridge.

Pascal Jules and I were living the dream that forms in the minds of all French cyclists when they embark on their careers. It was the plushest pa.s.sport you could carry when you had begun working with Cyrille Guimard, but also when you rode in the colours of Renault, owned by the state and often just known as La Regie La Regie the company. I am not sure that today people are still aware of precisely how much Renault had come to mean back then; the company. I am not sure that today people are still aware of precisely how much Renault had come to mean back then; La Regie La Regie was part of the flesh and blood of French life. was part of the flesh and blood of French life.

In the cycling world, the company's status as a national inst.i.tution further enhanced Hinault's exploits and made Guimard's aura even more magisterial. The wasp-striped jerseys which could be picked out anywhere in the peloton were awe-inspiring. In a few seasons, Hinault and Guimard had ticked off everything on the wish list: the great Tours, the biggest Cla.s.sics, the world championship. The fans loved Hinault because he was the equal of the greats of the past. As far as we youngsters were concerned, the slightest look from him meant recognition, even though we weren't overawed. Still, we kept our sights low. For the time being.

At the first training camp with the Renault-Elf-Gitane team at Rambouillet, any worries cleared. The atmosphere was good-humoured, open-minded, honest. It suited us because we were never slow to laugh ourselves or to set other people laughing. We blended in and our sense of humour a very Parisian one stood out. The friendship between Pascal and I was obvious and clearly smoothed our way. Any fears we might have had were a distant memory.

There were a lot of other young riders around us. At the start of the previous season, Pascal Poisson and Marc Madiot had turned pro. And that year as well as Pascal Jules and I, Martial Gayant, Philippe Chevalier and Philippe Salomon were among the new intake. There were about twenty of us all told. We didn't know anyone else, and we had to understand where we stood in the hierarchy, although it was all informal enough. I know that even back then, in spite of my intensity as a youngster, I had a strange character. A lot of people must have soon pigeonholed me as a cheeky so and so, a pain in the neck, a guy who simply wasn't all that nice to know.

It was during a training camp in the south of France, at Opio in the Alpes-Maritimes that we really got to know each other, that we began talking to each other and finding out what we thought. But not all of us. Our communication with Hinault never went very far at this point. In the evening at the dinner table the Badger liked to behave like our big brother, and that was pleasant enough. He would recount his exploits, tell us of the way he liked to behave in the bunch when he was going well. During these meals together Julot and I would often make a daft comment or two and one day, Hinault said something, in his usual way, calm yet firm, with the implication that if we didn't agree, we'd sort it out between us on the bike tomorrow. 'Well, guys, just remind me how many races you've won?'

We had a good laugh. And Guimard quickly put our training programmes together. It was no-nonsense stuff. He was right up-to-date. He had files for everything. He was interested in all the latest training methods. Where his proteges were concerned, he would look at the very last detail and even the slightest defect would be corrected. He knew how to ensure everyone had the very best equipment that was on the market: made-to-measure bikes, the newest gadgets. As early as 1982 he was trying to become a specialist in biorhythms. It was his latest big thing, but a pa.s.sing fancy as we later found out.

Julot and I knew what to expect. Generally speaking when young riders arrive in a major team, they come in to work for two or three leaders, depending on the big objectives of the season. At least it was straightforward at Renault. There was Hinault and no one else. We were all Bernard Hinault's teammates. And that's how it would be for the biggest events in the season.

Cycling fans who discover the sport in the twenty-first century through television and the values of today probably do not know that in the 1980s the big teams and the great champions did not prioritise one single race in the entire year, the Tour de France. When Hinault was on song he could obliterate everyone and so he would win everything he could from the start of the season to the end, whether it was March or November. Back then, cycling champions didn't do things in a small way. They weren't restrained. When the Badger won, he won big-time.

So we were just team riders, but ambitious ones. Because Pascal and I were sure of one thing: we knew we were going to win races. We just didn't know which ones. We had shown what we could do as amateurs. We had no inhibitions and knew how good we were, but if we were going to win, it was on one condition. Hinault would have to decide he didn't want to put his arms in the air that day, because if he was going for the victory, we would be nowhere.

When Hinault was at his height, he soared to alt.i.tudes that only eagles could aspire to. But even so, not all the eagles could soar there.

CHAPTER 7.

DOING THE JOB RIGHT.

I don't know where I first heard this saying: 'Understand before you pa.s.s judgement. But how do you pa.s.s judgement once you have understood?' It may have been from a lawyer. Or a solicitor. In any case, it must have been someone who had thought about how complex life can be.

In the early months at Renault one thing in particular struck me. The 'old guys' didn't want to reveal everything to the young ones. There were mysteries, bizarre rituals, things that had to be kept hidden. It was all pretty vague, never something that was clear, but it quickly became obvious that the young riders were steered away from certain topics. I could see why that might be, but I didn't think it was fair. There was a 'traditional' side to it that was all too obvious: things that had been handed down and were repeated simply because they had to be repeated, because that was how it was.

Pascal Jules and I used to talk about it a lot. We wanted to break through the secrecy, understand the mysteries, particularly because the two of us were not used to holding anything back. We wanted to be straightforward in dealing with our fellow human beings. We thought it was all a bit silly, as far as we could see. At the same time, we wanted to show what we were worth. It was an apprenticeship like any other, something that we had to go through like everyone else. We were barbarians and we had to be educated, brought into the fold, progressively, patiently. It was just that it was not long before the impatience Julot and I felt turned into a desire to get it all out in the open: we wanted to break down the doors, make our education happen faster. We wanted to know everything. We were avid to be brought into the inner circle.

Bernard Hinault had his ways: he had his own hierarchy in dealing with other people, but was direct. Of course, there were times when he would shut us out of his room, as all the older guys did, but he never held back when he was asked for advice. Having said that, we never dared ask him in detail about his training methods. We'd have been afraid he would take against us. Sometimes he was just as closed as everyone else. He was impressive in more than one way as both a native Breton and a superstar.

Often we would catch little bits of conversation. On the lips of the support staff: ma.s.seurs, physios, Guimard's a.s.sistants, we would hear the miracle word of the time: 'preparation'. Or sometimes: 'That guy really does the job right'. Faire le metier Faire le metier how many times in my life have I heard that catch-all expression which means everything and its opposite? Preparation. Pascal Jules and I kept discussing it. To start with we didn't really know what this enigmatic word meant. Whether or not you believe me today, it's true: we didn't think 'drug taking' when we heard the word 'preparation'. Was it because we were young? Or was it that convention meant that there were certain words that did not convey the correct meaning? It makes no odds. I would have found out sooner or later that 'preparation' is a whole range of things and that the drug side has a very secondary place within that. When you look at what cycling was to become a little later on, it's clear that this was a totally different world. how many times in my life have I heard that catch-all expression which means everything and its opposite? Preparation. Pascal Jules and I kept discussing it. To start with we didn't really know what this enigmatic word meant. Whether or not you believe me today, it's true: we didn't think 'drug taking' when we heard the word 'preparation'. Was it because we were young? Or was it that convention meant that there were certain words that did not convey the correct meaning? It makes no odds. I would have found out sooner or later that 'preparation' is a whole range of things and that the drug side has a very secondary place within that. When you look at what cycling was to become a little later on, it's clear that this was a totally different world.

Because we didn't have access to everything, we were desperate for the smallest bits of information. We nosed out the tiniest code words and devoted hours of patience and oceans of thought to decoding the meaning of what might have been said. But even so, the process of fitting in went well. We were disciplined in our work, when we were training. Cycling is simple: if you keep a healthy respect for what the other guys are doing, you find your slot quickly enough. And as we got more confident we dared ask about certain things. But the old guys would always fob us off 'until next time'.

Everything needed to be clarified. With hindsight I feel it was good in one way, because you have to protect young riders, but at the same time this unwillingness to explain things was dangerous. Because when you don't get an explanation, you understand what you want to: you fantasise. At least when you are told honestly about something you can think it through and make a choice in total knowledge of what is involved.

Let's ask a question which is on everyone's lips. When my career was over, there were journalists who told me that it was widely talked about. I've heard it said that drug taking was a common thing in Guimard's teams and that he himself incited the riders to do it. It's completely untrue. It's a pathetic thing to say. Saying that everyone took anything and everything is ridiculous. It is so far removed from what I saw people doing that I am ashamed people can sum up an era so naively. The more so because in our day and I have to be clear about this most of the drugs that were 'on the market' for sportsmen (not just cyclists) were detectable in drug tests and there were enough positive tests to prove it. It was only at the start of the 1990s that 'miracle' drugs such as erythropoietin EPO appeared in sport. Everyone who has dug around a bit knows that you can't compare the two eras.

Here is the truth in two sentences: In my day, doping methods were derisory and the riders' exploits were ma.s.sive.

For the last fifteen years or so, it has been the other way round: there is a huge number of ways in which riders can dope, and any exploits are derisory.

In the years when I raced, drug taking was not universal. There were still a lot of races being won 'on mineral water'. What did 'preparation' mean? There were two definitions. Firstly, there was training, physical ability, diet, rest. Then there was drug taking, which you can't even describe as scientific because it was so unproven and primitive. The riders came to it naturally, as soon as a rider was a new professional, and they would experiment by themselves to see what suited them and what didn't. Of course, the directeurs sportifs directeurs sportifs would always ask the same question: 'What are you doing at the moment?' That meant: 'What are you using?' But it didn't always refer to drug taking but also to vitamins, supplements to restore imbalances in this or that. But lying underneath there was always the question: 'Are you preparing properly?' There, they were definitely talking about stuff which made you go faster. If you wanted to be the best, you had to learn to improve in every area. And obviously drugs were part of the panoply. At the very least, the riders made sure they were informed. And then made a decision. That's the 'cycling way'. That's what would always ask the same question: 'What are you doing at the moment?' That meant: 'What are you using?' But it didn't always refer to drug taking but also to vitamins, supplements to restore imbalances in this or that. But lying underneath there was always the question: 'Are you preparing properly?' There, they were definitely talking about stuff which made you go faster. If you wanted to be the best, you had to learn to improve in every area. And obviously drugs were part of the panoply. At the very least, the riders made sure they were informed. And then made a decision. That's the 'cycling way'. That's what faire le metier faire le metier means. Do the job the best way you can. means. Do the job the best way you can.

Pascal Jules and I tried to figure it all out; we wanted to know why the older guys shut themselves up in their rooms. We weren't completely wet behind the ears. Riders would only have recourse to 'preparation' in the medical sense for the biggest races, as opposed to how it's done today. Back then, the most frequently used banned drugs were known to everyone. There were amphetamines, which were widely used in races where there were no drug tests, but which were useful only for a short time and were unpredictable depending on the person involved. They were also used for 'partying', for example during the criterium season, when the festivities were a real tradition, a way of life. It was all a laugh: letting your hair down every day.

Anabolic steroids were barely used by the early 1980s, because they had been detectable for a long time in urine tests. And testosterone had not appeared yet, nor had growth hormone they would come later and there was no blood boosting (or not that I knew of), and no EPO.

However, the drug that dominated the scene was the anti-inflammatory cortisone, for one simple reason: it could not be detected. You have to understand that we didn't feel as if we were cheating: each of us settled matters with his own conscience. And in any case, everyone did it. As for me, I never took any risks, physically or compet.i.tively. I worked within the system in my own way, but it never seemed shocking to me that guys 'did the job right'. You have to keep in mind that every era has sportsmen who are sensible and others who have no idea what they are doing.

In all the teams at the start of the 1980s no one ever mentioned 'doping'. Obviously, the word was banned, taboo. The only thing you talked about was 'help'. A lot of vitamins were taken, in a systematic way, in particular B12, Pascal and I were determined rather than patient when it came to finding out what was going on. As soon as we saw one of the old guys nipping off on his own, we would go into their gaff, sit down on a bed and wait. The rider would be embarra.s.sed, wouldn't dare go out again or say a word. Then we would push a bit: 'Come on, tell us.' It really wound them up, but then we found the whole rigmarole just absurd. Pascal and I solemnly swore that we would never behave like this with young riders.

Luckily, Cyrille Guimard would try to keep it all on an even keel. He at least would talk a lot to the new professionals, would pa.s.s on huge amounts of info, would ask the riders about things, try to work out what they were thinking, find out how it was going basically, he didn't limit himself to driving the team car and propping up the bar in the evening. He for one felt that he was responsible for the riders and their health, both mental and physical.

To understand that different times in cycling cannot really be compared, you have to be aware that never, in my entire career, did anyone talk to me or anyone near me about 'doping'. Occasionally someone would ask: 'Have you taken something?' But that was it. And most of the time, it was not viewed as cheating, which must now seem completely incredible. In the context of the time, where there were still riders whose careers started in the early 1970s like Bernard Thevenet or Joop Zoetemelk, it was an integral part of the system, totally a.s.similated. It must have seemed completely normal to some of the guys: an everyday matter, an integral part of the make-up of cycling.

In those days I only ever had recourse to one doctor, the team medic Armand Megret. It would never have occurred to me to go and ask elsewhere in the way all the riders seemed to in later years. Megret and his ilk were proper doctors, who looked after your health and nothing else. Certain deficiencies required certain vitamins. The riders would react to different treatments in different ways. Apart from when I was actually ill, I always hated medicine of any kind and my body didn't accept it. Simple prescriptions for flu or a headache could make me even more poorly.

Other guys were different. In this ultra-medicalised little world where there were countless suitcases of remedies going the rounds, there was always the temptation to take something like a vitamin or a supplement, just to make sure. To ward off I don't know what. Looking logically at it, there are times of the year particularly when it's cold when you have to look after yourself if you're going to ride a bike seriously. That is habit-forming, and those habits can degenerate. To do the job as well as you can, you can end up believing that medicine of all kinds is as integral to cycling as the bike itself. I've known riders who turned out that way and those are the ones who would go over the top.

Pascal and I still avoided going too far in winding up the older guys. We stuck to the basic rules of the team. But only the basics. You should have seen the faces of older riders like Maurice Le Guilloux and Hubert Arbes when we teased Hinault at the dinner table. They put their faces in their soupbowls. The shame they must have felt for us! But we couldn't restrain ourselves. There was nothing particularly disrespectful about it, it was just a new atmosphere to get used to; we were taking the old order down a peg or two, shaking up the hierarchy. After all, I would go through it myself later on. You have to accept that a new world pushes out the old. The wheel turns.

That year Julot and I didn't think twice. We were more interested in the fun we could get from racing than the tough bits. Fun was a moot point, however. During the first training camp at Rambouillet, in front of the entire team, riders and backup staff, Cyrille Guimard took the floor. He was even more solemn than usual. There was an impressive silence in the room. The boss of the team was about to say something, not the guy who was our friend and confidant. He came out with this jaw-dropping p.r.o.nouncement: 'Anyone caught with a bird in their room during a race will be kicked out, tout de suite.' tout de suite.'

Pascal and I caught each other's eye at once: panic stations. Guimard wasn't talking about us, as we were new to the team, but what shocked us was the idea: no s.e.x. We figured out that one or two of the guys must have taken the p.i.s.s the previous year and we looked round to see if anyone was blushing. But we were thinking mainly of ourselves, and the future. We were in cycle-racing paradise but what if the price to pay was that we couldn't go near a woman? It seemed a bit steep.

s.e.x is another of cycling's great taboos. But having s.e.x never prevented me from winning a race, and feeling good about yourself helps keep you on an even keel. Nothing could be more obvious. But the point was that Guimard was out to make an impression as a disciplinarian, along the lines of Guy Roux, the trainer for the Auxerre football club.

We quickly worked out that, actually, Guimard had never sacked anyone because they had been found with a girl in their room. But he always had a fair idea of what was going on. He was just firing a warning shot so that no one went too far. Or so he thought. Julot and I soon forgot the threat and let our instincts go unchecked. When we wanted to meet up with a girl, we would always think of a way around the rule and we would cover each other's backs. And the evening when Guimard had put the fear of G.o.d into us by issuing an ultimatum in public at least provided us with one handy bit of information, which had not gone unnoticed. If there had been hanky-panky the previous year, that meant there were opportunities to be had. Pascal whispered, 'At least that means there is a bit of skirt out there.' And he was right.

You had to 'do the job right'. Absolutely. But not at the expense of all of life's little pleasures.

CHAPTER 8.

RIGHT AND PROPER PEOPLE.

On two wheels people always have to show their true colours. You can never cheat the world for very long. Cycling is a way for men to find themselves and show what they are worth. It exposes their weaknesses and their hidden value and it allows huge appet.i.tes to be indulged. It is nothing to do with glory: it's more a matter of fulfilment. Cycling allows us to mine the deepest recesses of our souls.

For me, the best example of this was a man I saw again and again. He was a captivating character and he had a big name: Bernard Hinault. In winter, he would train so little that when he came back to us for early training camps he looked like a man who had been on holiday for a year. He was overweight. Let's just say he looked as if he had been inflated. You could tell the second you saw him. And if you were not well acquainted with the Badger which included new pros like us, of course you would seriously wonder how much time it would take for this man to get back to what he had been. But we were making a colossal mistake: Hinault the human being and Hinault the cyclist were one and the same person. As the start of the 1982 season was to prove.