There were just two stages left, but critically there was a time trial on the final day over forty-two kilometres from Soave to Verona. The course had a few bends but was flat as a pancake: made for Moser. Shortly before the start, when I saw he would be riding a bike like the one he had used for the Hour Record, I worked out that I was probably done for. We had estimated that the machine was worth about two seconds per kilometre. Knowing that I would probably lose a minute on him even if he used a normal bike, it was easy to do the maths. Moser was totally confident and admitted later: 'On the morning of the time trial I went out and did a test run with my trainer, Dottore Tredici. He asked me to ride flat out to see what I could do: I was going at hour record speed. I did the same thing in the afternoon without a care in the world: the trainer had told me to start flat out and told me I could ride at that speed for almost an hour, and that is what happened.'

Moser covered the forty-two kilometres at an average speed of over 51kph. I was second, 2min 24sec behind, 1min 3sec back overall. I didn't know where to turn. What made it harder to stomach was the fact that the pilot of the helicopter with the television cameras was particularly keen to do his job to the best of his ability by coming as close as he could to get pictures of me, even though he was almost mowing the number off my back with his rotor-blades. Obviously, the turbulence he caused pushed enough wind at me to slow me down a fair bit. Two or three times I came close to crashing and shook my fist at him. Guimard was beside himself with rage. So was I.

In normal circ.u.mstances, if all the stages had been run off in the usual way, or even with the bare minimum of morality, the time trial would only have been of secondary importance because the race would have been decided well before. And I would have won my first Giro d'Italia in the most logical way possible. Instead of which my chest burned with pain: the pain you feel at injustice.

Of course, the evening after the Stelvio stage we could perhaps have decided to walk out of the race, which would have been a strong statement. But I still had a chance of taking the pink jersey, Renault had the white jersey which was on the shoulders of Charly Mottet, I was wearing the best climber's jersey and we were leading the team standings. We were monopolising the jerseys.

After three very strange weeks one thing was certain at least: I was a rider capable of winning anything. I had come so close to winning in Fausto Coppi's homeland, but I will always feel robbed of that 1984 Giro. It's a sort of pain. The actual ache has gone, but the memory of the hurt is still very much there.

CHAPTER 17.

I'LL WIN FIVE OR SIX THEN I'LL STOP It was like a brand from an initiation rite that went back to the heart of antiquity. A maker's mark. A seal that could be pa.s.sed through the generations. Air, water and fire; courage, brains and power. I had begun to understand that being on the roll of honour of the Tour de France gave you a cosy sensation of having eternal life. But I had other ambitions: doubling the stakes, proving it wasn't a fluke and showing everyone that 1983 was just the first chapter in a much greater story. It was a perfectly reasonable objective if you relate it to my state of mind in those days. I knew what I had to do. And I knew exactly where I was going to do it.

The traumatic interlude in Italy had only made me stronger. That I knew. I was now ready to do battle with all kinds of subterfuges, prepared to confront the depths of moral turpitude to avoid being robbed in that way again. And rather than go over and over this psychological setback, rather than spending days seeking out the guilty parties it was clear who they were I only blamed myself. I was not going to shy away from responsibility. I wasn't going to turn in on myself. Never. I just had to be even stronger than before and never again let my opponents designate a battleground that suited them. The campaign in Italy had done wonders for my mental state.

And from now on everyone would know that my victory in 1983 hadn't been down to luck. I remember that during this time, although I was increasingly confident, I didn't get ideas above my station. I was capable of a.n.a.lysing my racing and I was sure that if Hinault had been there in 1983 I certainly wouldn't have won the Grande Boucle Grande Boucle, because I would have been working for him. But I could also say that without Hinault I would probably have been capable of winning the 1983 Tour of Spain. Had I been the leader, I could have won plenty of big races in 1983. My ability to stay the course was at its best when the stages were long, but I had another a.s.set. Unlike a lot of riders who come out of the Tour of Spain or the Giro exhausted, and then struggle to continue to the Tour in decent shape, I knew I needed two three-week Tours to maintain progress so that I could get to mid-July at a peak of condition. Even though the way the Giro had worked out was not ideal, it was anything but a handicap.

At the start of the Tour, the journalists were working themselves into a frenzy. Bernard Hinault's return to his old fiefdom made everything they wrote even more high-blown. It was a bit crazy; Hinault vs Fignon, the duel that everyone had been waiting for, was about to take place on the finest battleground in cycling. Everyone would finally know who was best. A large number of press had already made their choice and dreamed of a triumphant return for the Badger. The public on the other hand was divided. Hinault had always impressed people but had never been as popular as Raymond Poulidor, or even Bernard Thevenet in 1977. Not yet.

As for me, you had to look carefully and go deep into the specialist press to know what observant sports devotees truly thought. The week before the Tour began I had gone out and won the national champion's jersey at Plouay, on Hinault's own Breton roads, and I'd done so with disconcerting ease. A lot of jaws had dropped at the power with which I was turning the pedals. For most of the team managers and former greats I was by far the favourite to win the Tour. Jean de Gribaldy, Raphael Geminiani, Roger Pingeon, Raymond Poulidor, Jean-Pierre Danguillaume they were unanimous, the day before the start. And they kept saying it after the prologue time trial, near Paris, which I didn't actually win.

Bernard Hinault had reminded everyone that he was still a force to be reckoned with, one of cycling's greats. Or so most people thought. These clever souls had happened to forget that I had come second, only three tiny seconds behind the Badger, which was a major feat for me. In the same way, they had not understood the results, or they would have noticed something which stood out: of the other 'favourites' Stephen Roche and Greg LeMond were already 12sec behind, Sean Kelly 16sec, Julian Gorospe 17sec, Simon 34sec and so on. I wasn't just on the pace, but a few guys had good cause for concern.

I had become better in every area. And I had Guimard at my side. We both knew that Hinault was an impulsive, angry rider who didn't have the best tactical awareness. He would return blow for blow or simply knock everyone senseless, but when he needed to calculate, hold back and race with his head, Hinault had dire need of Guimard. As yet, if what we had seen since the start of the season was correct, the La Vie Claire directeur sportif directeur sportif, Paul Koechli, had not shown sufficient strength of character to make the Breton do what he asked. Also on the minus side for the Swiss manager, the boss of the team, Bernard Tapie, had a nouveau riche way of operating and wanted to run everything show-biz style, which didn't leave Koechli much room to manoeuvre.

The media frenzy around Hinault didn't affect me. When he pulled on the yellow jersey again, I can understand how emotional that must have been, the happy sheen on his face on the finish podium. What's more, he said, 'It's funny, I feel as if nothing has changed.' He was talking about how he felt, but one witness would tell me a few days later that he saw Hinault looking 'completely wasted' after he crossed the line; 'washed up', 'dead' as he put it. That was obviously an exaggeration, because this was a fine comeback victory. Hinault had added, when someone said that I was still the favourite: 'Yes, Fignon rode a fine Giro, but he was beaten by Moser. And I've done Moser a few times.' That's his way, always looking for an edge. Always going into a discussion with his fists up.

The pressure was huge. I loved it. It just made me even more motivated. I was already relishing the battle that lay ahead on every stage: the battle to be the best. I have to tell the truth: the frivolity which had been my hallmark since the start of my career was still there. While France was cut in two, split between him and me, I felt genuinely detached from everything that happened. Nothing could get me worried; nothing could change anything I did. 'You are a non-conformist, so hang on to that; it's a rare thing in French sport,' a friend told me one day. I didn't pay too much attention, but maybe he was right.

What I mean is that in spite of the hype, in spite of the bets being laid on both of us and knowing full well that this will shock all those who view these things as somehow sacred I didn't feel I was taking part in the making of cycling history. If I won, I won. If I lost, I lost. I would have gone on to something new, and that would have been that. I can remember precisely what I thought on the evening of the prologue. While all the wise commentators were getting worked up about Hinault and waxing lyrical about his 'triumphant return', no one realised that sitting there on my own I had one thought in my mind. It was crystal clear to me: 'I'm on my best form.' I was flying. It was a joyful feeling and what everyone viewed as a little setback didn't displease me in the slightest. While all France imagined that Hinault was capable of winning his fifth Tour de France, I was on cloud nine. I couldn't have been any better.

The Renault team was head and shoulders above the rest of the peloton. It was quite something. With Jules, Barteau, Didier, Gaigne, the Madiot brothers, Mentheour, Poisson and the world champion LeMond we had all the available cards in our hand. We could have fun. The day after our first stage win, for Marc Madiot, the team time trial (stage three 51 km) set the tone for the symphony that we would rehea.r.s.e daily, getting better each time we played. We started the stage prudently and were in perfect harmony in the final part of the stage. The pedals were so light that it felt almost ecstatic going to the front to put in my turn. This was our first goal and I had dared to say before the Tour that Renault would win this time trial. We didn't win by much compared to teams like Panasonic-Raleigh or Kwantum: a handful of seconds. But La Vie Claire were 55sec behind. We took the first round.

Thanks to a long-distance escape which we organised and in which the other major teams allowed us to gain over twenty minutes, as early as the fifth stage Vincent Barteau took the maillot jaune maillot jaune with over 17min lead on everyone. We partied at the hotel, because this was just the start of our long-term possession of the yellow jersey. We had to control the race: that was just what we wanted. And I could be restrained and not move an inch. with over 17min lead on everyone. We partied at the hotel, because this was just the start of our long-term possession of the yellow jersey. We had to control the race: that was just what we wanted. And I could be restrained and not move an inch.

With Vincent in the yellow jersey, I was able to be every inch the leader. I looked on as Hinault got all hot and bothered, racing for time bonus sprints as he began to wage what he thought was a war of attrition, every day, on every kind of terrain. In fact it was pointless. It suited me fine. He was doing the right thing. He was the old aggressive Hinault, who wouldn't give an inch. It might have worked on a rider who was mentally weaker than me. But I had an answer for everything and above all, contrary to how he saw it, I never lost my head even if the guerrilla warfare occasionally got a bit tiring, because you had to keep your eyes open all the time. But I was completely aware of Hinault's audacious character, which was worthy of respect. That should come as no surprise, because I had the same mindset. It's always been my way to try to make my rivals feel insecure, to bend them to my will, to make them believe that any opportunity may be perfect for an attack, so that they don't know where and when it's going to happen. When an adversary has to be permanently ready for action he becomes tired, he makes mistakes and he gets weaker and weaker through his own actions.

Guimard knew how to use the team's abilities to our best advantage. For example when a break got a bit too much of a lead, he was the only directeur sportif directeur sportif at the time who would go up behind them with a stopwatch and work out the average speed so that he could tell us how fast to ride. He would say 'go faster', or 'slow down' depending on his calculations, which were usually one hundred per cent reliable. Even with a nine-minute gap to a break he could work out that if we began chasing at sixty-two kilometres to go, at a certain speed, we would bring them back three kilometres from the finish. It was impressive. And it meant that every day we could play on the nerves of all the other teams. That's why Guimard was worth learning from. at the time who would go up behind them with a stopwatch and work out the average speed so that he could tell us how fast to ride. He would say 'go faster', or 'slow down' depending on his calculations, which were usually one hundred per cent reliable. Even with a nine-minute gap to a break he could work out that if we began chasing at sixty-two kilometres to go, at a certain speed, we would bring them back three kilometres from the finish. It was impressive. And it meant that every day we could play on the nerves of all the other teams. That's why Guimard was worth learning from.

The first real moment of truth was the time trial from Alencon to Le Mans over sixty-seven kilometres. My perfect form became obvious to everyone: on a new aerodynamic Delta bike I won the stage by 16sec from Sean Kelly but above all I was 49sec faster than Bernard Hinault. As for the vaguely possible threat that there might be a leadership contest within Renault, that was scotched. Greg LeMond lost more than two minutes. That potential problem was settled for the time being. I had said before the start when someone asked me about it: 'There is no problem, I can a.s.sure you. The race will decide, because one day one of the two of us will lose a lot of time on the other one.' That day had come.

Everything was going perfectly, and my happiness became even more complete the very next day: Pascal Jules won 'his' stage, at Nantes, and our celebrations that night were joyful and noisy. It was one big happy din. These were evenings of fraternal warmth and expansive friendship: if you weren't there, you would struggle to understand what shared happiness is. It was striking and it was authentic. The stage wins were piling up, Barteau was still in yellow, I was more the favourite than ever and as soon as we got off our bikes the warmth of our feelings lit up everything.

As we went through the Pyrenees without the Aubisque and the Tourmalet Hinault was plunged into even more obvious trouble. On the evening the race finished at Guzet-Neige, after the Portet d'Aspet, Core and Latrape cols, in overwhelming heat, the quadruple winner had conceded another 52sec to me. But I had only attacked three kilometres from the line without really putting the hammer down.

I suspect that Hinault must have been worried by how comfortable I looked on every kind of terrain. The very next morning, in a move which was unexpected almost pathetic the Badger showed that he was now riding on pride alone. He attacked on his own en route to Blagnac, just sixty kilometres into the stage. It was complete folly. It was neither the place a flat stage nor the time windy roads for a solo escape. But Hinault left himself no way out and had to keep going for about twenty kilometres. Was it confusion or ambition? We were never worried for a second, rather the opposite. We came up to him with a calm grip on the situation then took advantage of our collective strength to set Pascal Poisson in flight for our fifth stage win.

At Rodez it began to get humiliating for the rest of the peloton: Pierre-Henri Mentheour outsprinted his breakaway companions Dominique Garde and Kim Andersen. Win number six. As soon as we made up our minds we could scatter the defeated bodies behind us, overwhelmed and wounded by our mastery. We gave nothing away. The journalists had all turned coats days before. Every day they sought new superlatives to describe the wasp-striped jerseys. Because the wasp stings everything that moves. We were the only ones who liked it.

There were attacks galore on the stage into the Alps via Gren.o.ble and I wasn't on my best form, but it didn't change my plans. During the rest day, where I spent most of the time in my room relaxing, I managed to eliminate the little bit of stress in my head before we went into the individual time trial to La Ruchere en Chartreuse: twenty-two kilometres, with the last ten at high alt.i.tude.

It was a steep, brutal hill for a time trial. And even if I didn't quite know what I was going into, I felt strong and the pedals spun easily. I wasn't surprised to win the stage, but I had not expected to be so far ahead of the rest. I managed to marry my skills at both flat and mountain time trials: on the one hand I was quicker than flat time trial specialists like Kelly and Hinault, but I had also managed to put time into the pure climbers on the flat part of the stage, putting them far enough behind me to avoid any nasty surprises. Only four of them were quicker on the ten kilometres uphill at the end of the stage. At the finish I was 25sec ahead of Lucho Herrera, 32sec in front of Pedro Delgado, with Hinault 33sec behind. The Badger was slipping further and further down the standings.

I have a very clear memory of how I felt perfectly in harmony with everything that evening. Barteau was still in the yellow jersey but the last few grains of sand were inexorably slipping out of the timer: he didn't know it but he had enjoyed his last day in the yellow jersey. I was in a state of grace, perhaps because of the effects of the rest day. I was on top of my game. I had already defeated Hinault and Herrera; I felt nothing but desire to devour as much as I could. It feels almost embarra.s.sing to admit it but by now I felt completely unbeatable. It's such a worrying feeling that at the time you are simply not aware that this might be as good as it gets; you don't think that this is a feeling that you will end up trying to recreate throughout the rest of your life.

From that day, Cyrille Guimard took on a more active role. He had understood that I was capable of winning any stage that took my fancy. Rather than hiding my form or rea.s.suring my vanity, however misplaced it might be, he now took on the job of making me play for time. I couldn't believe he was doing this. It was quite surreal. He had the best cyclist in the world under his orders and all he could suggest was 'keep calm', 'hang on', 'let the others do the work'. In a manager of lesser intelligence it would have been disconcerting, but here was the voice of expertise talking. He was worried I might make some fatal mistake, wear myself out or have a disastrous attack of hunger knock; I don't know what. Rather than being a source of comfort, the simplicity of it all was a worry for him. As for the absence of any physical stress, that was merely temporary in his eyes. I was completely on top of it, and Guimard couldn't get a grip on how straightforward it all was. Presumably he was worried that something would happen, the disaster that he had to cater for whatever that might cost. It was as if he was taking on board the lesson we had learned at the Giro: I should never have lost that race, which was sitting there waiting for me. But I had lost it.

Guimard was wary of the stage finishing up l'Alpe d'Huez, the one after the time trial. All through the stage he kept coming up alongside me to prevent me from going on the attack too early. My legs were itching to go. But he was as regular as clockwork: 'not yet, not yet'. He was far too careful, but I can't blame him, in spite of what happened.

The point was that Hinault had not given up. During the stage between Gren.o.ble and the Alpe, he made a vicious attack on the Col du Coq. Then, after we had come up to him easily on the descent, he attacked again on the Cote de Laffrey, three times. I had no trouble warding off these guerrilla attacks, without a hint of panic. But it got on my nerves. So, to calm myself down, I pushed a little harder on the pedals and astonishingly I realised that Hinault could not stay with me, even though he had just attacked. I kept going. Only Herrera was able to stay with me over the top of the Laffrey. I even pulled out a forty-second lead on the descent, which was a surprise, because I never felt as if I was going all that quickly. In the valley, Hinault was almost a minute behind, but just before Bourg d'Oisans the little town at the very foot of l'Alpe d'Huez the whole front group came back together. Hinault wasn't going to wait for the fourteen kilometres climb to the finish and before we'd even got to the first hairpins, on the flat part just before the climb, he attacked yet again, rolling his shoulders and setting his face in that impenetrable glare which everyone knew.

When I saw him get out of the saddle and ride away up that long straight bit of road, I started laughing. I honestly did. Not in my head, but for real, physically, there on my bike. It was too much for me. His att.i.tude was totally nonsensical. When you get dropped the least you can do is to take advantage of any lull to get your breath back. Bernard was just too proud and wanted to do everything gallantly. But the battle was already lost.

The inevitable duly happened. As soon as we got to the first slopes of l'Alpe d'Huez I caught up with Hinault. The only hiccup was that Herrera had taken a fifty-metre lead. Guimard drove up to me and told me to hold back a little bit, so that I stayed about thirty metres ahead of the Badger. Guimard wanted to crack Hinault completely. And that is exactly what happened. Hinault went progressively slower and slower, and his physical state got even worse in the second part of the lengthy episode. Up until then he had lost time in tiny increments, but the gentle, unstoppable seepage of time became stronger, ever more constant, as the ski resort drew nearer. The Badger was really suffering as he finished the stage, more than three minutes behind me, in a state verging on distress. And do you know what he came out with, less than ten minutes after he had crossed the line on his knees? 'Today, it didn't work out, but I won't stop attacking until we get to Paris.' Hinault was amazing.

I had a different problem. By the time Guimard came and told me 'Go now' it was too late to take the stage win. Herrera had too big a lead to be overtaken; he hung on by just forty-nine seconds and deprived me of the most prestigious stage win in the Tour. That evening I pulled on the yellow jersey a happy man: that was my goal. But could I ever have imagined back then that I would never in my entire life manage to win at l'Alpe d'Huez? Guimard's excessive caution had done me out of it. In life, just as in sport, you must never ever let an opportunity go.

At the end of the afternoon on Jacques Chancel's chat show the little incident with Hinault became a minor controversy. The journalist asked me this: 'How did you feel when Hinault attacked at the foot of the Alpe?'

Without thinking twice I made the day even crueller for my former leader by answering: 'When I saw him going up the road like that, I had to laugh.'

All I was doing was telling the truth. The truth and nothing but the truth. I wasn't being deliberately unpleasant, but everyone thought I was laughing at Hinault. That simply wasn't it, not in the slightest. I had absolutely no intention of being disrespectful, rather the opposite. Why would I have wanted to do that, to him of all people? Hinault, a man of honour, had understood exactly what I meant and he never made anything out of it. He just moved on. And in any case, as it happened we did speak to each other: we were engaged in a straight fight, with nothing done behind anyone's back. There was no chance of that because neither of us was good at double dealing.

That evening at the hotel in l'Alpe d'Huez the new yellow jersey on my back didn't change anything in the way I behaved. One of the riders on the team had pulled an 'unofficial' Miss France with a rather different judging panel compared to the regular contest and he needed my room to spend the evening with her. I never thought twice about leaving him the keys. I provided him with an alibi by telling Guimard, who was looking all over for him, that he had spent the evening with two journalists. It was a lie, and Guimard knew it.

On the stage between Bourg d'Oisans and La Plagne I broke everyone's hearts on the final climb. I broke away, without getting out of the saddle. I simply flexed my lower back and no one was on my wheel any more. It was almost too easy. Such a feeling of domination might have turned my head. I was playing with the race: there was no other term to describe it. That very morning in L'Equipe L'Equipe, Bernard Tapie stated 'I want Fignon!' Two days later in a press conference I had the courage to say this though: 'Next year, I may go back to being n.o.body. What happened last year was a dream. This year I am not as surprised by what is happening, so it feels different.'

Hearing me come out with statements like this, a lot of people felt that I had become big-headed. That was ridiculous. I just wasn't going to come out with plat.i.tudes. But I noticed day by day that trying to be honest about things simply rebounded on me. The more I let myself go, with complete peace of mind, without any second thoughts, the more unpleasant things were written about me. But I was trying to be confident and modest, because on the same day I came up with: 'Am I becoming "one of the greats"? I have no idea. But what I do know is that all good things come to an end. Look at Hinault, he's won almost every big race. Two years ago everyone was still saying that he was unbeatable. Today he's no longer the best. So what does that mean? And most of all, how do you manage to keep going at the same level?' I was on the crest of a wave: but I must have been thinking clearly to come out with that. So why did people hold it against me? I didn't understand back then, and I still can't figure out the way certain journalists see things.

Between La Plagne and Morzine I tried to control everything, even what happened to the other riders. On the Col de Joux Plane I tried to help Greg LeMond escape so that he could move into second place, above Hinault. He wasn't able to hold the pace. And the next day, on the climb to the stage finish at Crans-Montana, I did everything I could to enable Pascal Jules to s.n.a.t.c.h his second stage win. I slowed the group down as best I could so that Julot could hang on. But angel Arroyo and Pablo Wilches were stronger than him. So I had no option but to win.

I know that this amounted to a huge number of stage wins. The Renault team ended up with a total of ten: the team time trial, Madiot, Jules, Poisson, Mentheour and five for me. It was sporting heaven. It was a breeze from start to finish. The atmosphere was idyllic.

In addition, history will record that I won the final time trial from Villie-Morgon to Villefranche-en-Beaujolais, completing the show of strength in the most decisive way, with a fifth stage win. But not many people remember that sometimes the margins were infinitesimal: according to the timekeepers there were just forty-eight thousandths of a second between Kelly and me.

On the evening of the Champs-Elysees, the media went off into wild conjecture. They had just followed three weeks of 'total victory'. Some wrote that it was comparable to Merckx's first Tour win in 1969. My feelings weren't quite so clear-cut and had a bit more nuance to them. I don't remember one moment where I felt I had 'become a legend'. My domination had been so overwhelming that a good many journalists were resorting to statistical comparisons and were already wondering in complete seriousness, and there was a logic to it 'How many more can he win?' I wasn't thinking that way. But even so, finally giving way at the umpteenth time of asking, I ended up replying: 'I'll win five or six and then I'll stop.'

You have to see it through my eyes. At the end of July 1984 no one was capable of beating me in a major Tour. That was obvious. So not surprisingly the idea took hold and I hoped I could win everything. No one had any more doubts about my talent: why should I have spoiled the party?

But having said that, let's be reasonable. Even in 1984 I was not Bernard Hinault. Hinault was a better all-rounder, a better time triallist, better at hurting himself, and less susceptible to getting ill at the start of the season. I wasn't driven by the same forces. I didn't have pride like his, nor as uncompromising a personality.

One thing must never be forgotten: I did not have the cla.s.s that was Hinault's. To me, that was obvious, there was no question of it.

Dominating as I did in that 1984 Tour did not mean that I had lost my grip on reality, or my zest for life and basic pleasures. On a bike, all facades gradually fade away. Stylistic effects don't last long. Cycling is the naked truth.

CHAPTER 18.

POST-OPERATIVE TRAUMA.

Bike racing at the highest level is one of the most reliable means of inspiring happiness and acquiring self-knowledge. However, it is also a production line turning out disappointments. The output is continually increased, without warning, at any time.

On a bike you not only compete against the opposition but against yourself, and your image of yourself. It's not just a battle against time. I hadn't yet got to the stage where I was counting the years, but you are constantly pushing your body to the limit, and unfortunately none of us has a grip on every physical parameter.

The start of the 1985 season went exactly as I had predicted. There was a lot of enjoyment. It was delightful progressing on every front with what amounted to a ma.s.sive placard on my back denoting my new status. It was captivating, euphoric. The marvellous feeling of physical power which had lain dormant somewhat since the 1984 Tour began awakening as soon as the first race days arrived. All I can say is that the winter was exquisite and I was in dazzling form.

I was still wearing the red, white and blue jersey of a French national champion and bore it to victories in the prologue time trial at the etoile de Besseges stage race, then the overall standings at the Tour of Sicily, five days of sensual delight among lemon trees, olive groves, marble-fronted palaces and antique temples. There was plenty to be happy about with the start of the season. My teammates were content, because I felt fulfilled and that trickled down to them. I was still the same person inside in every way.

It didn't last long. After the etoile de Besseges, the opening stage race of the season, I often felt a pain in my left Achilles tendon, originating in a rather stupid knock from the pedal. The pain didn't seem anything to worry about; it came and went, but sometimes became unbearable when I had to press suddenly on the pedals. The specialists were perplexed as to the reason. After a fine ride at Fleche Wallonne (third) and a disappointing LiegeBastogneLiege (fifth) I stalled in full flight. Even training became painful. It was like being stabbed with a knife. Some people believed it was a mild tendonitis, others that there were microscopic ruptures in the tendon. Without any prognosis that I could rely on I decided to consult Professor Saillant, the authority among experts in this area. His verdict was that I had multiple internal inflammations in the tendon sheath. Saillant stated: 'The tendonitis which is affecting Laurent Fignon leads to the formation of nodules of a considerable size and he will have to be operated on. What needs to be done is for the sheath to be opened to enable removal of the scar tissue which has been formed by a succession of minor ruptures in the tendon.'

I remember asking Saillant: 'Do I have to go through with this operation?'

He replied: 'If you want to ride your bike, you have no choice.'

There was no alternative. So I went for the only reasonable option: surgery. It made no difference what way I thought it through, I knew that this logical decision would send the rest of the season up in smoke. I would be out for at least three or four months. This was the price: no Giro, no chance of the hat-trick in the Tour.

Fate plays curious tricks on sportsmen. You can fall victim to the smallest thing. And the surgery was not superficial in the slightest. Compared with Bernard Hinault's operation two years before he had had minor nodules on the interior face of the knee in the Pes anserine insertion, a ligament known as 'the goosefoot' what I had was clearly deeper, and in some people's eyes I had waited so long that undergoing radical treatment was the only solution.

And all the while Cyrille Guimard who was not delighted at what fate had thrown his way was having fun sending the press off down blind alleys as he had done with Hinault in 1983. He told them anything and everything, kept the suspense growing. Up until LiegeBastogneLiege he was dropping heavy hints about my health without ever giving a precise name to the mysterious problem that was affecting me. He asked me to let him take personal charge of letting the world know, which ended up being counter-productive. Even the announcement that I was to be operated on, which was sent out through a release to the Agence-France-Presse news agency, had a disturbing side to it. The craziest rumours about me were doing the rounds. There were rumours of doping in particular, following the basic and utterly contemptible principle that there was no smoke without fire and I must have sinned in some way. I was deeply hurt, and disgusted.

I simply couldn't handle the media bubble. I've often berated myself over it. All I needed to say was exactly what was happening at the moment it happened and nothing would have gone wrong. Instead of which the Renault team doctor, Armand Megret, had to go on the record to calm down the press. The medic explained once and for all and his statement is worth repeating here.

Unlike certain other people who are being asked at random, I believe I have full knowledge of the pathology behind the infections, accidents and illnesses that affect top-cla.s.s cyclists. First and foremost it should be underlined that in both the cases of Bernard Hinault and Laurent Fignon the issue is inflammation within the tendon sheath rather than within the tendon itself. Tendon sheaths are subjected to ma.s.sive pressure for a host of physical and mechanical reasons; when pain appears it is an alarm signal that requires the doctors involved to prescribe firstly complete rest and then anti-inflammatory treatments. Unfortunately these two cases involve sportsmen of exceptional ability whose racing programmes cannot easily be curtailed; as at the same time it's impossible to know the level of damage of the tendon sheath, surgery is the only answer. Contrary to what others say they believe, repeated medical controls have banned the use of anabolic steroids, drugs which were directly responsible for unrestrained growth in muscle ma.s.s and have caused serious problems in many sports. As for stating that the use of cortisone-based drugs might equally be at the root of these injuries, that goes against medical orthodoxy because it is completely untrue. Cortisone is primarily an anti-inflammatory and its repeated use can cause atrophy of the muscle-tendon ensemble rather than the opposite.

I didn't want the public to witness my admission to the Pitie-Salpetriere hospital as a limping invalid. I didn't want to turn the operation into a national issue. In the same vein, I didn't want to be filmed or photographed in a hospital bed. Perhaps it was idiotic of me but I didn't want to be seen in a hospital bed. I had that right. The public had a different image of me and it wasn't that of a man lying in a ward. In any case, I didn't want anyone to feel pity for me. I've always been like that: when I get ill, I roll up in a ball and take cover.

No one died. Let's not get it out of proportion. The operation went perfectly and Professor Saillant, who had had more than a few people through his hands, had perfectly diagnosed the scale of the injury. He and his two a.s.sistants, doctors Benazet and Catone, worked cleverly to ensure that the operation didn't last any longer than it needed to. On opening up the tendon they found a nodule of abnormal size. Two other tiny ruptures in the tendon were treated with the same precision. Saillant took out the sheath completely which no one was ever told about. If I had gone on as before, with individual fibres shearing off and forming small nodules, all movement would eventually have been prevented. I would not have been able to make the slightest effort, even to go on a touring ride.

I was informed that the rehabilitation process would be a long one, at least three months, during which I would have to gradually increase the workload. On the days after the operation I had to lock the door of my hospital room. One day someone disguised as a nurse came close to gaining entry. I didn't understand how anyone could want to violate someone's privacy to that extent.

I was in plaster, but I was still optimistic. I refused to panic about what would happen in the future. There were journalists who suggested to me: 'What will happen if you don't get back to your best?' I just laughed at that. I was convinced I could heal. More to the point, Bernard Hinault had shown the previous year that a great champion was capable of returning to the very top after major surgery.

Why get worked up? I was only twenty-four years old. At my age, anything still seemed possible. I took advantage of the long hours when I had to rest by broadening my horizons through reading. Not long before the start of the 1985 Tour which I watched from a safe distance I finished l'Amant l'Amant, by Marguerite Duras.

At this time I often mulled over one of Jacques Anquetil's more surprising sayings. 'If you just win, you put your name in the record books. But convincing victories win over people's minds.' And my internal world had no boundaries.

CHAPTER 19.

RENAULT LEAVES THE ROAD.

As the saying goes, bad luck comes in threes. At the end of June I had just begun walking again, happy to get outdoors and fill my lungs with air, when Cyrille Guimard told me something that seemed impossible. It was the worst possible news and it left me adrift in a sea of confusion. The directors of Renault had informed him that la Regie la Regie would cease all sports sponsorship at the end of 1985. No more cycling team. No more Formula One. It was a national trauma. would cease all sports sponsorship at the end of 1985. No more cycling team. No more Formula One. It was a national trauma.

Their withdrawal was not made public until 25 July, four days before the end of the Tour de France. It put an end to one the finest ventures cycling has ever seen. For Guimard, a time of panic ensued as he struggled to save the team. He had no sponsor and the future was dubious because there was only limited time to find another backer. Fortunately, the bulk of the riders kept faith with us as we sought a sponsor and they decided to wait until September before accepting contracts with other teams. During the holiday period, however, there were few other companies who could be contacted as possible replacements for Renault. Sometimes it was a wild goose chase as businesses tried to take advantage of us to get their name in the papers for nothing. We went nowhere, and as the days progressed the tension grew and ended up having an effect on the team's morale. My best mate Julot had been going from one crazy episode to another and was on the point of splitting with Guimard. The breakdown was to be irreparable.

Guimard didn't manage the situation as well as he might. He was worried and tended to lose his cool. Until Renault had told him what was happening he had always had a secure existence. Suddenly, overnight, he had to fend for himself. We had to find a way out, fast. So we both put a lot of time into the hunt, going to one meeting after another trying to talk a variety of businesses into putting up the money.

As you can imagine, the quality of the team and the reputation of the staff made an impression on some possible backers. Early on, the boss of the RMO employment agency, Mare Braillon, made Guinmard an offer. But from the word go I could see that it was shaky. We needed 15 million francs a year; they only put 10 million on the table, plus a few million in 'appearance fees'. It wasn't very clear-cut. Guimard was cornered and wanted to accept. He was afraid we wouldn't get anything better.

During this whole process, Guimard brought me into the negotiations. Together with him I was what amounted to the 'shop window' of the company. I had a name and a reputation that I wanted to keep and which I felt had worth. As a double winner of the Tour de France I didn't believe for a second in what Marc Braillon was offering. It was a fool's bargain. And in any case it wasn't anywhere near what our reputation merited. I didn't buy in. And I ended up telling Guimard: 'You see, we will get 10 million and nothing else, which won't do. I don't agree with it. We have to turn him down and go on looking.'

And so I began to think of an alternative way of running things. After a few days I said to myself: 'What if we owned the team?' I can remember as if it were yesterday. Guimard didn't understand what I was suggesting. My idea was simple. We would set up a company to sell what amounted to the advertising s.p.a.ce that was represented by the team's jersey. We would sell it at the price that we decided upon, which would not be based strictly on the expense of running a team. My idea had two angles to it. Our company had to be where the money was paid and at the same time we would be the only ones who had a say in running the cycling team. The sponsor was there only to buy the advertising s.p.a.ce. Guimard quickly grasped the cleverness of the idea, but didn't believe in it. He kept saying: 'You're crazy. No one will buy into it.'

Traditionally, to set up a professional cycling team in France, a business founded under the law of 1901 is necessary. The team belongs to the sponsor who nominates a chief executive from within the company. The sponsor has complete power over the team which is dependent upon the goodwill of the company putting up the cash. The formula that we were trying to dream up meant that the sponsoring company would have a contract with a marketing company whose role was to set up a professional cycling team.

Guimard had no option but to give in. So we created the France-Compet.i.tion sporting club and a company called Maxi-Sports Promotion, both of which were jointly owned and run by Guimard and me. We officially became the bosses of the team and were responsible for contracting the riders. Thanks to this redistribution of power, we achieved complete independence: all we now had to do was find a sponsor who would meet our requirements. And if the sponsor were to pull out at the end of their contract, we would then have to find another to replace them. In 1986 it was revolutionary. Soon all professional cycling teams would copy this structure. It was the 'Guimard-Fignon' system. I can quite reasonably claim to have paternity rights over this one.

Cyrille had also understood the financial implications. If a sponsor paid 15 million francs and Maxi-Sports Promotion spent less on the cycling team but still managed to stick to the terms it had agreed with the backer, the difference would make up the company's profit.

That was simultaneously the virtue and vice of the system. Soon Guimard would be counting the coppers and that would end up sullying our shining, n.o.ble idea for standing on our own two feet. But neither he nor I was ever short of cash; the opposite was true. We even used one of my sleeping companies and took advantage of the tax benefit that came to newly founded companies: a three years' tax holiday. We were making money without spending any. We had found the goose that laid the golden eggs.

An astonishingly good opportunity then came up with the Systeme U supermarket company, which had been competing for several weeks with Cetelem to get involved with us. Systeme U were the dream sponsor; the way we suited each other was rare, something to be treasured, a spirit embodied by its chief executive Jean-Claude Jaunait. Not only was he happy to sign a contract for 45 million franes over three years but he accepted and actually wanted the new way of working that we were suggesting. Jaunait was a real cycling fan who had tried running a team in 1984 that had ended up as a mixed blessing. He explained: Our setback in 1984 taught us two lessons. The first one was that you had to come in at the highest possible level or you would go under the radar. The second one was that we didn't want to get involved with the technical side of the team. The new system is ideal for these reasons. We are putting money into the best French team and the sponsor whose place in my eyes is alongside the team in a support role will not have to deal with problems that he won't be able to solve. Guimard has full powers and all the independence he could want. He will be in charge and he has my total confidence.

That is what you call buying in. Without Jaunait perhaps we would never have had the chance to show the cycling world that such a system was viable and efficient. As soon as the contract had been signed Cyrille and I began receiving our monthly salaries: between 100,000 and 200,000 francs depending on what we needed. Maxi-Sports was making money and everyone was happy.

At Jaunait's request, I personally worked on the design of the jersey using the same colours as the Renault kit, with the logo resembling a wheatsheaf pointing upwards. My idea was to make the rider look a bit more slender and maybe more muscular. It worked: the logo was clearly visible with the famous 'U' in red. Looking down from a television helicopter, it was all you could see.

When we officially presented the team in November 1985, all keyed up in our new jerseys, we all felt that this was a new beginning. It felt as if there was a creative soul behind the venture. We now had incredible peace of mind. But someone was missing from my happy state. Pascal Jules was no longer riding at my side. In spite of my repeated attempts to reconcile him with Guimard, I failed: Guimard no longer wanted even to talk about him.

It was a setback for me as well. By signing with a Spanish team, Julot would wreck his career, and he would soon go completely off the rails.

I had to relearn how it all felt. I had to get back in touch with the little signs that were coming from my body, which had been left to itself for too long. I had to grit my teeth and then struggle to get where I wanted. And if I made it, the price was high.

A few weeks after my operation, about the time of the French national championship at the end of June, I got back on the bike. My problem was not how I would go back to being a champion but just becoming a simple cyclist again. I had to learn how to turn the legs again, stay upright and last through the kilometres. It was a seemingly impossible task.

I don't have many memories of the 1985 Tour. I did follow one stage, from Autrans to Saint-etienne. That July, Bernard Hinault joined cycling's most legendary names. He had come second in 1984, won in 1985: what more could you say? His life force was still there, virtually intact. He was a great compet.i.tor: powerful, unstinting, aggressive. In those two brief years, 1984 and 1985, cycling would experience, without knowing it, a high point, a zenith of beauty. It was the pinnacle on a building that was about to crumble; the last great gasp of a golden age that would not return.