I was raging mad. I had the very distinct impression that this was the end. This was no longer where I wanted to be. I noticed later that I definitely have to hit rock bottom before I can pick myself up. I have to go deep down into distress before climbing back out again.

After the Ventoux, after these agonising episodes, there was now no question of quitting. I wanted to demonstrate to everyone that I could still spring the odd surprise. The very next day we had a look at the route map and we decided to 'skip the ravito ravito' race hard through the feeding station while the other guys slowed up to collect their rations. That put us back in the thick of the action. This was the day that Bernard lost the race, for good. His teammates wanted to get him up to the front at once but he was not concerned, and refused, saying they had plenty of time to get back on terms. It was a basic error because, up front, an imposing alliance of rival riders was coming together.

As for me, thanks to my pride, my legs seemed to be functioning again, more or less. Then I lost my temper with those blasted pulse monitors: I handed mine back so that it wouldn't tell me anything more. That seemed to work. The next day, at l'Alpe d'Huez, I came sixth and the day after I won a prestigious stage at La Plagne, even though I remember I was actually trying to save my strength. So perhaps I didn't deserve to be completely sh.e.l.led out of the back of the bunch on the Tour after all. Even though I felt pretty ropey, I still rode into Paris in seventh overall, with a deficit of eighteen minutes: more or less the total of what I had lost in the various time-trial stages. My consistency in the mountains did have some meaning. Two or three days after the Champs-Elysees, ensconced safely in my sofa, I began to question seriously whether I had the capacity to win the Tour again one day.

The end of the 1987 season brought some more answers which pushed me further into the depths. At the Tour of Catalonia Guimard lagged behind everyone when it came to getting the team organised, because we needed the charitable a.s.sistance of other teams to meet our equipment needs the crowning glory for what was supposed to be 'the best team in France'. Afterwards I suffered a memorable slap in the face at the Grand Prix des Nations, which I had carefully underlined in my year planner. It was the end of the season and just this once, as a means of plumbing new depths, I tested a new drug which was supposed to be 'fantastic'. Other guys had tried it out with great success. I succ.u.mbed to temptation and took the easy way out. Fortunately I had an unbearable headache. I went nowhere, my legs simply wouldn't move. I never tried it again. The moral is clear: the weaker you are mentally, the easier it is to show your weak side. I was no longer going down into the depths merely in a cycling sense: I was exploring the lowest dregs of my personality, my inner being.

Who on earth was I now? The more I bailed out, the more my personal boat seemed to take on water. I wasn't really there any more: the talent I had been born with was no longer sufficient to fool anyone. I was vulnerable, at the mercy of any temptation. Let's be serious, and honest. If I had not been called Laurent Fignon, if I hadn't already won two Tours de France, if I had been less high-minded and had a weaker character, I could have descended into who knows what idiocy, and I could have sold my soul to some witch doctor peddling magic potions. I've known plenty of riders who have resorted to doping, drugs or alcohol and have ended up falling by the wayside and losing everything: dignity, self-respect, wife, children, family.

My friend Pascal Jules, on the other hand, would not have time to enjoy a full life, nor to take his foot from the accelerator. A car accident had cut him down in his prime, just after I had convinced Guimard that he needed to get him back in the fold. Julot had been to a charity soccer match. Everyone had had too much to drink. They were all well gone. Julot had said to me: 'You'll see, I'll die young. I won't get past thirty.' It was such a dumb thing to say, but that night, he fell asleep at the wheel.

Guimard called me in the early hours. I went into shock. For years and years I thought of him every day, and I still often think of him. But since his funeral I've been unable to visit his grave. I simply don't have the strength. I can't do it.

The way every life ends is unique in itself, like the end of a little world. Death at twenty-six years of age is a notion that I find unbearable.

CHAPTER 24.

PRIMEVAL YELL.

You could call it the revenge of the d.a.m.ned. It was a sort of redemption, but I don't know from what or who. Mostly, it was the slow, patient story of how I regained my powers, and I owe it mainly to Alain Gallopin.

As soon as 1987 drew to a close, Alain was the one who began drumming a single idea into my head: I might be able to win MilanSan Remo. To start with, to be honest, I found this idea a bit bonkers. Since the start of my career, apart from the Fleche Wallonne that I had already won, I had always felt that I had a decent chance one day of winning LiegeBastogneLiege or Paris...o...b..ix (failing to win either of them, along with the world t.i.tle, is the biggest regret I now have). But never, never in the slightest had I seen myself as a possible winner on the Italian Riviera. But Gallopin had begun to know me inside out, my strong points as well as my defects; he had thought it through completely and never stopped going on about it. He had all the arguments at his fingertips. For example, he knew as well as I did that it would take a long, long race for my stamina to be a real advantage. MilanSan Remo was 294km long at the time, the longest race on the calendar, and it called for above average endurance. In addition, a possible winner needed to be able to make several intense efforts in the final ten kilometres, when the race went over the Poggio climb, just before the finish. Gallopin kept repeating: 'That race is made for you.'

Until MilanSan Remo, the way I'd started the 1988 season hadn't been particularly persuasive, whether it was Sicilian Week where I was fifth or ParisNice fifth as well. I was still smarting at the departure of the Madiot brothers and I blamed Guimard for being at the root of it but no one was particularly aware that the logistical problems that had affected me so much the previous year were partway to being resolved. Following Alain's advice we had hired his brother Guy, whose sole responsibility was to lighten the load on the organisational side. It was a miracle: we felt the effect immediately. He clearly had a special gift for getting everything ready for an army as it began a long campaign. He relieved us of any logistical issues. That helped a great deal.

At ParisNice I tied my hair into a ponytail for the first time. It drew plenty of mickey taking. I heard guys in the bunch yelling 'girlie'. I thought it was hilarious.

But the real joke was my complete inability to go back to what I had been, and that one had gone stale long ago. So just after the 'Race to the Sun' had finished, Gallopin and I put a radical plan into operation. It was supercompensation, in which you go out to exhaust yourself three days before a major race. It was well thought out, as the future would prove.

There were exactly six days between the end of ParisNice and the Sat.u.r.day of MilanSan Remo. Here is what I did. Monday and Tuesday were devoted to active recovery. I rode, but no more than necessary to turn the legs over and help me recover. Wednesday was the day for a ma.s.sive session. I had to go to the very limit of my strength, until I was exhausted. The physiological principle was simple: on this day, your body burns up all its reserves, the glycogen that it stores up. Once your stores are empty, your organism overreacts and puts back more than it actually needs. It takes the body forty-eight hours to do that: three days later, usually, the process of supercompensation is at its height.

Let's go back to that Wednesday. To dig as deep as I could I left Gallopin's house in the Essonne in the morning for an initial training ride of about 120km. I made sure I ate only a little beforehand: a few cornflakes, a yoghurt. Back at Alain's house, I remember well that I had just an orange juice and a bit of cake. And it was off for another 100km. He got on a Derny, with me behind him. We started off slowly, 4045kph, no more. About halfway round he gradually began to go faster. Stuck on the back wheel, I began to struggle. Finally, the last 35km were flat out, and I finished with a full-on sprint. I couldn't feel my legs. I remember that when I went for it, I was quicker than the motorbike.

I'd started to enjoy it again. Something was happening in my head. That evening I had a ma.s.sage, ate a bowl of rice and went to bed. The next morning it was a little outing, about two hours, just a leg-stretcher.

I was absolutely determined to travel to Milan on the Thursday, because flying has never worked for me. I don't know why, but the air pressure always seems to make my legs swell up, which is unpleasant for a cyclist. I had to lose my temper with Guimard before he would allow me to travel on the Thursday. He just didn't want it. More surprisingly, he didn't understand why suddenly I was making so much out of the first Cla.s.sic of the season. He even ended up muttering: 'MilanSan Remo, what use is that?' He didn't say I wouldn't win, but he wasn't far from it. He didn't believe I could, and he proved it by putting out a team of just six, while I wanted a full team of nine. That was how Guimard was. I forced the issue: he gave in.

The day before the start in Milan it just so happened that I was the first rider to collect his race number. 'Because I'm going to win,' I smiled at the organisers. I was back in the permanently unstressed state which had been my trademark until 1985.

MilanSan Remo is a special race. The course isn't difficult but it's long and stressful. The two vital qualities it takes to win it are patience and punch. You have to be able to attack once, flat out and in the right place. I'd worked out my tactic beforehand: keep hidden in the bunch as far as Ala.s.sio, 240km into the race, then move up into the first twenty in the bunch and make just one attack: on the Poggio, the gradual twisting climb just before the finish. I would have one opportunity, and it would either work or it wouldn't. That was the law of MilanSan Remo. As I'd planned, I stayed away from the front all day, apart from on the Turchino pa.s.s, which takes the race away from the Lombardy plains and down to the outskirts of Genoa. The descent can be dangerous and there are often crashes. It felt sacrilegious keeping to the back of the peloton so I had to fight my natural instincts and keep a tight grip on myself. I hated having no idea of what was going on at the front of the race. It was counter-intuitive. After about two-thirds of the race I said to myself, 'My G.o.d, I'm flying.' It was fabulous: apart from on the Poggio my legs never hurt, the entire day. It hadn't been that way for such a long time. On the Turchino I might as well have had a f.a.g in my mouth. On the Capo Berta, where you can lose the race in a split-second, I climbed as if in a dream. It was such a feeling that I remember the thought coming into my mind, very strongly, 'I'm going to win.'

The Dutch team PDM were an awesome outfit including Adri Van der Poel, Raul Alcala, Steven Rooks, and Gert-Jan Theunisse. All four of them were up at the front. Then we came to the foot of the final climb, the Poggio, a sort of little hummock which rises up above the Italian Riviera. I was fairly well placed. Earlier in the race I'd said to my friend Sean Kelly, 'I'm going to make a big attack on the Poggio. If it doesn't work, I'll lead you out in the sprint.' Since 1983 or 1984 I'd had a close relationship with the Irishman, who was a straight-dealing individual who never held back when it was time to repay a debt of honour. We were good friends and we were happy to squash the smaller guys for the common cause. So in the first few hundred metres of the Poggio, Kelly came alongside and said, 'You better move up, Laurent.' I hadn't asked him but the Irishman always felt that if a deal had been done, he had to stick to it. I didn't think twice, but followed him. It was a good job I did. No sooner had I got to the front than the PDM team got rolling. They gave it everything they had. Kelly had saved my skin.

For about two miles we were all hurting like h.e.l.l. I hung fire, but I wasn't sure that my chance would come. Suddenly though, my legs stopped feeling sore: it was as if I'd only just got on the bike. At moments like that, I never panicked. I just waited, calmly. The speed was still high, so high that when we got to the place where the road got slightly steeper, and where I had decided beforehand that I would attack, I began to wonder whether I would be able to make my move. The window of opportunity was small, perhaps 150m of tarmac. But because this is the hardest part of the Poggio, Theunisse, who had been setting the pace, gradually began to weaken a little. It probably wouldn't have been obvious to television viewers, but it was more than enough for me.

I didn't think twice. I went through the little gap that had opened in front of me between the Dutchman and the wall by the roadside, and I stood on the pedals, putting in all the weight of all my time on the bike and the anger I felt at all the sacrifices I'd made in the last few years. I had been waiting impatiently for this one instant and I felt that this was a big, big attack. Kelly was on my wheel and kept his side of our bargain by letting a gap open. I was using 53x15, a colossal gear, and I was convinced I had left everyone gasping; to my surprise, however, I caught sight of Maurizio Fondriest, a mere youngster, just behind me. I had no idea how he had managed to get across to me. But he didn't worry me for a second. I knew I could beat him. He had no chance. So on the descent I used a cunning old man's trick; I swung wide out on the bends, pretending to be a poor descender. The idea was to let him come past so that he would make the pace on the straights. He fell for it like an amateur. On the television, the commentators didn't have any idea what was going on: I was totally in charge and deliberately saving my strength and they said I was 'struggling'. Idiots.

That year, the finish was 1km from the foot of the descent. One of us was going to win. In terms of natural ability, as the rest of his career would show, Fondriest was quicker than me in a sprint. But he was only young, and with almost 300km in my legs I knew exactly what I was capable of: in a one-to-one sprint I was almost unbeatable. Just like Hinault did at the finish of Paris...o...b..ix in 1981, I kicked off the sprint a good distance from the finish. We were side by side until 100m out, and then he suddenly cracked. I was 20m in front by the time I hit the line.

My G.o.d. I'd done it. I don't remember anything about it, but those who were there said I screamed with joy. It was a yell that came from back down the years. A sound that was almost 'primeval', said some. Gallopin had been right, right to convince me I could do it and right to go through with it. When you think that victory in San Remo always eluded a world champion and Cla.s.sics specialist of the time like Moreno Argentin, it's incredible to think I had managed it.

One footnote: just for the record, French television Antenne 2 to be exact didn't show a report of this MilanSan Remo, not even highlights. The bosses turned down Jean-Paul Ollivier's request to cover the race. 'There's no way a Frenchman can win,' he was told.

With my head in the clouds somewhat, I imagined that I had once again got back to what I was. Above all, I knew exactly how I had won. And I could just glimpse a return to the peace of mind of my best days. But on the podium, believe it or not, I was cursing myself for not managing to win alone. It was a stupid way to think, but my old mindset was reawakening.

Was there a whiff of a new beginning in the air?

Whatever the answer, one thing is true: the pa.s.sing of a few years allows those who can withstand them to acquire an amazing ability to take control of their actions. Mind and body can be at a peak of harmony. The proof of that came the next year, 1989. To win MilanSan Remo again Alain Gallopin and I put together exactly the same programme, but with one small variant. We made the Wednesday's training even harder, 50 kilometres longer. I was a year older and used to an extra effort or two.

To avoid being caught out, I knew that I had to avoid making the same move as in 1988. This time, no one was going to let me go anywhere on the Poggio. So I picked out another place to have a go, between the Cipressa and the Poggio. There, and nowhere else. The race panned out exactly as I needed it to. My legs didn't hurt; the pedals turned fluidly. I felt astonishingly calm. And when the Dutchman Frans Maa.s.sen, who had just won the Tour of Belgium, pulled out a 100m lead on the bunch, I didn't waste a second wondering whether I should go for it. It was done before I'd even thought about it. No one came up to us, and with more than forty seconds lead on the bunch at the foot of the Poggio, I pushed up the pace on the hardest part of the climb. Maa.s.sen folded. This time round, I was the only rider in the finish picture. It's hard to describe, but winning a Cla.s.sic of this importance a second time was such a rare feat. I had to have total belief in the strength of my race knowledge and in my ability to focus completely on a single day.

That year, Guimard didn't come to Milan, although he should have been at my side at a race which was to put me in the history books. The day after, he came to pick me up at the airport when I flew in. Even now, I can still recall the surreal scene. He spotted me walking towards him while I was still a good way off, but remained seated in his armchair holding L'Equipe L'Equipe ostentatiously, wide open in front of his face. There was a vast photo of me on the front, of course. I came up, but he never moved. It was his way of saying: 'b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l, you did it.' I stood in front of him for at least two or three minutes but he never blinked. It was his way of doing things. After a while I cracked and said, 'You daft b.u.g.g.e.r, you could at least say well done.' ostentatiously, wide open in front of his face. There was a vast photo of me on the front, of course. I came up, but he never moved. It was his way of saying: 'b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l, you did it.' I stood in front of him for at least two or three minutes but he never blinked. It was his way of doing things. After a while I cracked and said, 'You daft b.u.g.g.e.r, you could at least say well done.'

CHAPTER 25.

WORM IN THE YELLOW JERSEY.

Having fun keeps you alive and having fun while you win prevents you from believing that you are the centre of the universe.

It's something that poets know how to do. There are ways of sidelining yourself from the demands of daily communication. You make it hard for people to find you. You refuse to open up to any old person who comes towards you with a big smile on their face. You keep a little bit aloof, and ensure that any messages take a while to get through. I needed to make myself a bit less accessible, because the clarity with which I saw everything around me and myself was not to everyone's taste. I decided to give less of myself. After my first win in MilanSan Remo, all of a sudden, people decided I was worthy of interest again. I even read a few newspaper articles which while not actually friendly I've never liked biased writing at least took a view of reality which wasn't far from mine.

I had good form in that spring of 1988. I could feel it and I wanted to use it to the full. I came thirteenth in the Tour of Flanders and two days later I struck another blow in ParisVimoutiers by escaping alone on the 'wall' at Champeaux. They didn't see me again and my teammates understood why I had stipulated that they must stay at the head of the bunch all day, chasing down anything that moved.

It all felt easy again. During times like these, incredible as it may seem, I never had any pain in my legs. There were some of the other riders who never believed me. I remember talking about it once with Dominique Garde. He was adamant that he suffered on his bike 'every day', whether he was training or racing. Throughout his entire career, he added, he had never had a good day. It was true for him, just as the opposite was true for me.

For example, that year, when I threw myself full tilt at the cobbled sections of Paris...o...b..ix a race where I hadn't turned a wheel since 1984 without thinking of the possible dangers, I did so because I knew I could do well. When I went into the zone that led through the Arenberg forest, usually the place where the first selection happened, my computer was reading 60kph. Kelly told me later I was crazy heading into it at that speed. It was the complete opposite of a lack of awareness. I was fully in tune with what my body could cope with; I knew the agility you have when the power is there. My only worry was that it would all disappear again and I would go back into my sh.e.l.l like a man returning to d.a.m.nation.

I caught a sinusitis, a cold and to cap it all I cracked a bone in my right hand in an infamous ma.s.s pile-up on a descent in LiegeBastogneLiege: then I lapsed into a long series of mysterious, inexplicable attacks of fatigue. By the time I started the 1988 Tour de France I had reverted to a state of p.r.i.c.kly solitude. If leg power is the judge of true n.o.bility on a bike, I was only too aware that my status was very uncertain. I wanted time to speed up so that I could find out what was the matter. I had to know. I found out.

The new format for the prologue time trial in that year's Tour made everyone smile. It had been renamed 'preface'; each team had to start as a unit to ride a team time trial until the final kilometre, when a designated rider finished on his own. This was a ridiculous innovation by the new Tour organisers they were very much to the fore that year but it had one saving grace. In all of 3.8km I was given a foretaste of what was coming: I was struggling to stay with my teammates. My fears were confirmed two days later in the full-length team time trial: every camera lens was trained on me, and with good reason. About 20km from the finish my strength gave out. I was overcome with panic. I could hardly feel it at first but I was slipping back every time the team made the slightest acceleration. Then, suddenly, I slipped off the back. It had never happened to me before. The team waited for me the first time, but not the second. I told them to leave me behind and I finished 1min 20sec behind my teammates, who were devastated to have deserted their leader. I was wasted, and neither my doctors nor I had any idea why.

I kept dragging along the road, heavy with fatigue, fed up with drudgery. I struggled at the slightest effort and in the evening I would collapse with exhaustion in my hotel room. I began to wonder what was going on. There had been something I didn't understand in the last few weeks: I had never seemed to lose any weight.

After the first individual time trial I was shunted down well beyond thirtieth place so I said goodbye to the overall standings. And then, in Nancy, I agreed to have a journalist come up to the hotel room to interview me after my ma.s.sage. Shortly before he came, I went to the toilet. It was horrific: I felt something long and soft down below. I was terrified. I thought I was expelling my intestines. I called in Dominique Garde and he burst out laughing: it was a tapeworm. I pulled on it: about two metres came out. Then it broke. At last I knew what was going on.

When the journalist came in, I talked him through it and showed him the beast. He couldn't believe his eyes. That same evening I took the medicine that would kill what remained of the parasite, which was completely ejected from my body the following evening. I was shattered.

On the eleventh stage from Besancon to Morzine, completely devoid of any strength, I forced myself to get to the finish, twenty minutes behind the leaders. It was an exploit of a sort, which had no purpose at all other than to symbolise the fact that I wasn't going to give up. I use the term 'symbolic' for anything which helps to delay the inevitable or give some indication, if not actually some concrete proof, of what I might manage in the future. I wanted to force the good feelings to come back. I wanted to exhibit the last depths of courage so that I could quit with my head held high.

But I had got to my limit and gone over it. That same evening I announced that I was going home, and no one was surprised. The next morning the newspaper Liberation Liberation printed an article that was mind-bending in its perversity and lack of professionalism. The correspondent declared point blank that I had refused to continue riding in the Tour because I knew that I had tested positive a few days earlier. As it so happened, I had not actually been tested since the start. I sued them for defamation and won. They had called me a b.a.s.t.a.r.d, but it was obvious who the real b.a.s.t.a.r.ds were. printed an article that was mind-bending in its perversity and lack of professionalism. The correspondent declared point blank that I had refused to continue riding in the Tour because I knew that I had tested positive a few days earlier. As it so happened, I had not actually been tested since the start. I sued them for defamation and won. They had called me a b.a.s.t.a.r.d, but it was obvious who the real b.a.s.t.a.r.ds were.

When I caught the TGV the next morning after leaving the race, I felt relieved, as if a ma.s.sive weight had been taken off my shoulders. As I watched the countryside go past, buried in my happy feelings, I read Rene Char. 'Clarity is the wound that most resembles the sun.' It's dreadful to have to admit it, but the further I was from the Tour, the happier I felt.

I had hated the last two weeks. There was nothing to enjoy about it at all. The atmosphere at the Tour was tense a year after the departure of Jacques G.o.ddet, who had run the race since before the Second World War. With new, less competent organisers at the helm, the race had declined into a kind of travelling circus. Those who lived through it still have painful memories. It was a Tour of excess at every level. The number of cars containing corporate guests expanded. There were more and more helicopters which came and hara.s.sed the peloton and prevented the racing from being correct. The riders were under permanent pressure and constantly stressed, because they were no longer the key element in the race, merely partic.i.p.ants in a 'show'. It was as if the race was merely the thing that justified all the rest of it commercialism and consumerism.

The lack of respect for the tradition of the Giants of the Road and the myth of the Tour and its history horrified me. It felt like the end of an era. But Amaury Group, owners of la Societe du Tour de France, didn't make the same mistake twice. The new heads rolled. They only just avoided irreparable damage to their event.

You must never confuse having fun and messing about. Having fun is what prevents you taking yourself too seriously. Messing about is when you endanger something that actually matters.

CHAPTER 26.

RETURN OF THE GRAND BLOND GRAND BLOND.

Fortunately, the life of a top sportsman is not constant catastrophe. It seems that somewhere inside there is always a seed of renewal lying dormant. My eighth year as a professional, at the age of twenty-eight, was set to be a good example of that.

By the start of 1989 I was the only leader in the team. Even Charly Mottet had left. Cyrille Guimard didn't like to hear it, but you could say the team was average in quality. It was not a team worthy of an important leader who was capable of winning a major Tour. I was well aware of it but it didn't bother me a great deal. On the plus side, we had recruited a young Danish rider named Bjarne Riis who I had spotted at the Tour of the European Community the previous year; he was reliable and strong enough to be a good teammate. After noticing him I had said to Guimard, 'We've absolutely got to hire that guy.' It was amazing. By the end of 1988 Riis still didn't have a team for the next year. No one wanted him. He told me later that if I hadn't offered him a place he would have given up cycling. A career can hang on threads like that. Bjarne was happy to get stuck in, he had a solid const.i.tution and liked to work hard. Riding on his wheel was total joy, because he could do anything: go fast when he had to and go through a gap with perfect timing. I never had to tell him anything, never had to say 'Come on' or 'Slow down'. I glued myself to his wheel and didn't have to do anything else. It's not often as harmonious as that. I had got it right with him but I had no idea that he would make his name in any of the ways he eventually did. He had a 'big engine', but this has to be made clear: he was a good rider but not capable of winning a Tour de France in normal circ.u.mstances. He later confessed how he won the 1996 race by using EPO.

During the winter training camps, Guimard had put together some really testing sessions, with a lot of power exercises. There was one we had to do on a hill at Pont-Rean, where we went round a circuit that had been used for a French national championship. Up the hill, down again. Guimard made us do it ten times, flat out. Or he would have done if we hadn't gone out to a nightclub the previous evening, and got back to our rooms at 7 a.m. I'll put my hand up: it wasn't the right thing to do. But my old insouciance was back.

When I had gone back up to my hotel room, which I was sharing with Pascal Simon who had just signed with us, I made a bit of a noise. I was not alone. There were two of us making little happy sounds in my bed. Simon woke up and began watching the show that was going on under my covers. The old boy seemed very interested. All at once, just as he was getting totally fascinated, we jumped out of the bed. It was Barteau hiding under the blanket. Simon had had no idea. 'You b.a.s.t.a.r.ds.' It was better than an alarm clock. And funnier.

So none of us had slept a wink. And I don't know how, but Guimard had figured out that we had been partying hard. He didn't like it. So the next morning, he made the famous strength exercises even harder. It was h.e.l.l. Seeing his black look, it was obvious that he wanted to get me, make me crack. So we did the full ten sprints: I was livid and won all ten. We even did an extra lap, which he didn't count. Guimard had wanted to test me in front of my teammates and in spite of my night on the tiles I'd given him the answer. It was a good sign. I could have some fun and still perform on the bike: I was back.

There was a new technical development available to us that year. At the Systeme U team we had begun to use Michelin high-pressure covers. It was a kind of revolution. Tradition demanded that the thinnest possible tubular tyres were used by the pros: 20mm in general. And now, not only were we being given standard covers to ride, but Michelin were asking us to use 23mm section tyres. Three millimetres sounds like nothing at all but it seemed impossible to us. We were not proud of them, and we didn't have confidence in them. Of course, the most advanced technicians from Michelin came to present the data on the issue. They were determined to prove to us that the amount of rubber that came into contact with the road didn't change even if the tyre was a little wider: it would always be 89mm. For them, the big change was elsewhere: how the tyre reacted when the bike was cornering. They a.s.sured us there would be more of the tyre in contact with the tarmac so it would hold the road better. We were more than sceptical. During our first training sessions on the tyres the problem was in our heads rather than anywhere else. The size of the tyre seemed 'large' so we felt they were slowing us down.

Then we raced the Tour du Haut Var. It was the best possible weather for testing the tyres: it lashed down with rain all day. And miracle of miracles, on the descents, using the tyres we were leaving everyone else behind. No one could keep up; they couldn't even hold our back wheels. It was fantastic, the roadholding was exceptional and here was a considerable technical advance. As far as rolling resistance went the difference was actually minimal, and they were definitely more stable.

In those days I read L'Equipe L'Equipe every day. I went through it all: the most trivial result, the tiniest report. All the race results were still to be found there from the biggest to the smallest races on the calendar. It meant I could chart the progress of the other riders and it never failed. If a rider began to appear in the results of certain races it meant something and you could expect to see him at the front sooner or later in a major event. Until the end of the 1980s these were fundamental reference points which had meaning for us, but now it means nothing at all. Everyone goes off and trains on his own, often a long way from where anyone is racing, sometimes on the other side of the planet. In my day, the riders would test their form in every event on the calendar. No one could remain hidden for very long. They had to put their cards on the table, and by racing they learned their jobs and progressed. every day. I went through it all: the most trivial result, the tiniest report. All the race results were still to be found there from the biggest to the smallest races on the calendar. It meant I could chart the progress of the other riders and it never failed. If a rider began to appear in the results of certain races it meant something and you could expect to see him at the front sooner or later in a major event. Until the end of the 1980s these were fundamental reference points which had meaning for us, but now it means nothing at all. Everyone goes off and trains on his own, often a long way from where anyone is racing, sometimes on the other side of the planet. In my day, the riders would test their form in every event on the calendar. No one could remain hidden for very long. They had to put their cards on the table, and by racing they learned their jobs and progressed.

Now it's enough for a rider to win a stage in the Tour de France once in his life for his career to be fulfilled. Some people are clearly content with not much at all.

That wasn't the only change. After my glorious repeat win on Corso Cavallotti in San Remo I wore the shiny new jersey of World Cup leader. And this rag, without colour or soul in poor quality cloth, was certainly fresh in cold weather. So much so that during the Tour of Flanders, in pouring rain, I never managed to get warm in spite of multiple layers, capes and anoraks. I stopped. Once it got wet this ridiculous garment never dried out. Rather like the World Cup it had no substance and was clearly made of thin air.

The International Cycling Union (UCI) had just come up with the concept of this World Cup which had only a distant resemblance to the ski or tennis series of the same name. It was officially intended to make the racing calendar more coherent and, at the end of the season, would be awarded to the most consistent rider in one-day races, which wasn't a bad idea in itself. But the UCI slashed the calendar by arbitrarily choosing between those Cla.s.sics that were judged worthy of being in the World Cup and those that were seen as secondary. Of course the calendar needed to be reworked, but not in that way. While having reasonable intervals between the Cla.s.sics was vitally important, so that the riders could prepare better for them and they would be more comprehensible to the public, instead the notion of having them all together was set in stone. And with the World Cup, the whole of the cycling season was distorted. For example, Fleche Wallonne was slimmed down. It was grotesque. In cycling history, real cycling history, there are the five big Cla.s.sics (MilanSan Remo, Tour of Flanders, Paris...o...b..ix, LiegeBastogneLiege, Tour of Lombardy), plus GhentWevelgem, Fleche Wallonne, ParisBrussels and ParisTours. The rest is by the by. I had nothing against the idea of creating new events but it seemed that now you could decree out of thin air what were the major events. The Grand Prix of Montreal had small worth alongside LiegeBastogneLiege, let alone the Cla.s.sique des Alpes compared to the Tour of Lombardy.

To make things more complex this was the time when the FICP rankings gained far more importance. FICP stood for Federation Internationale de Cyclisme Professionnel: at the end of the 1980s the great reunification between amateur cycling in the Eastern bloc and professional cycling in the West had yet to take place. The UCI would not become a unified governing body until several years after the fall of the Soviet Union.

FICP points were awarded every time a rider completed a race and led to a profound change in cyclists' mentalities. The points became key in establishing the value of a rider, because they counted towards a team ranking, which in turn decided entry to the biggest races, and in particular the Tour de France. 'Racing for points' became almost obligatory. For the teams, signing up riders with a decent points tally enabled them to guarantee in advance that they would get in the big races. For the riders, points were a source of income when they came to negotiate transfers to another team. What was completely perverse was that riders shifted their sights from winning races to gleaning points. Tactically, it led to a profound modification in the strategies teams adopted in races. Victories became increasingly devalued. What was particularly damaging was that that had a corrosive effect on a whole generation of riders. Riders became negative and calculating when they raced. A good domestique domestique had never before had any great need to finish a Cla.s.sic, because it didn't serve any purpose: now, however, it was worth a few points. To take another example, riding the Gren.o.ble six day was worth twenty-five points, but this was an event only open to invited riders. The soul of cycling was turned into a laughing stock. had never before had any great need to finish a Cla.s.sic, because it didn't serve any purpose: now, however, it was worth a few points. To take another example, riding the Gren.o.ble six day was worth twenty-five points, but this was an event only open to invited riders. The soul of cycling was turned into a laughing stock.

I was within an ace of not starting the Tour of Italy in 1989. In the months leading up to the start the organiser Vincenzo Torriani had pushed hard for Systeme U (which had become Super U) to enter the race. He pulled out his chequebook as was customary in such cases. But this was the same old bandit, chummy face and a f.a.g constantly on his lips, who had dreamed up a course that would help Francesco Moser in 1984, when I had last ridden the race. It was he who had done his best to do me out of the win by leaving out the Stelvio, and so on. The memories were not that old. Five years on Torriani's obvious desire to be friends intrigued me. But I was relaxed enough and my teammates were struck by my calm and inner poise. As for the course that Torriani had put together, it was billed as one of 'the toughest in history', without a rest day and with the main mountain stages bunched together over six days. Maurizio Fondriest, who I had beaten the year before in MilanSan Remo, went so far as to say: 'With a course like this, Moser would never have won.' It was a nice thought. I felt a little bit Italian, and not before time.

We were confident enough but we had set out with a team that wasn't strong in the mountains: Dominique Garde, Thierry Marie, Riis, Jacques Decrion, Eric Salomon, Pascal Dubois, Vincent Barteau. The first time trial gave some idea of how the hierarchy might look and there too Guimard might have had some cause for concern. I was eighth, about thirty seconds behind the pink jersey wearer, Erik Breukink of Holland. But I was still aware that I had ridden my best time trial since 1984. It was a victory of sorts.

During the thirteenth stage, to the legendary finish at Tre Cime di Lavaredo, under a coal-black sky and intermittent showers that washed inky mud out of the gutters and beneath our wheels, I had a repeat of the Alpe d'Huez episode of 1984, with the same two protagonists: Lucho Herrera and me. It will stick in my mind for ever. Twenty kilometres from the summit of the mountain the Colombian put in one of the sudden attacks that only he knew how to do, and Guimard, more careful and less confident than ever, could only come up with one answer which he yelled through the car window: 'Stay put!' Whether or not he was being overcautious, I felt five years younger. And the outcome was identical of course. I never saw Herrera again. I was second at the top, a minute behind the little climber, and moved up to second overall. That evening, the American Andy Hampsten, who was to finish third overall, came up with this warning: 'The winner of the Giro won't necessarily be the strongest rider, but the most intelligent.'

That was something I had to prove the next day, which was one for the history books. High mountains all the way, still raining and with the temperature nudging zero. With wet and cold like that, usually there was barely any point in my being on the start line. But early in the morning, Alain Gallopin came up with an idea. Back then the ma.s.seurs would rub us down in the morning with creams to warm up the muscles: ours were made by Kramer. There were three kinds: red, which was the most powerful; orange was average, and basic was the most gentle. But I could barely handle even the basic one on my skin. That morning, Gallopin was clearly worried about me and was determined that he would put one of the creams on my skin to help me to keep warm. He wouldn't let up and eventually I gave in, 'OK, the orange.' What did he do? He used red all over me, without telling me. And he didn't stint it. Legs, lower back, stomach. Oh my G.o.d. There was more than an hour to go to the start and I was burning so badly that I had to get out of the car in spite of the cold. I was jumping all over the place. It was foul, but the upshot was that I didn't feel the cold, all day. In spite of the fact that it was a day from Dante's Inferno, with snow every now and then among the rain showers. At one point I dropped back to see Guimard: 'OK, when am I attacking?' 'Wait.' And as soon as he came up to the bunch next: 'So, when do I attack?' And he never changed his tune: 'Wait'. He was worried.

Whatever ideas he had, I had thought it all through. Although the road in front of our wheels could barely be seen in the fog I made an initial attack sixty kilometres from the finish. Just to see. A few guys managed to follow me. I remember that on the descents I kept forcing myself to keep pedalling so that I would not run the risk of stiffening up. In eight years' racing I had been through a few bad days like this one. On the Pa.s.so Campolongo I attacked again, a bit more viciously. I was countering the violence of the weather with violence of my own, as if the insanity of the elements was drawing the best out of me. The leader Erik Breukink blew up and lost more than six minutes. I took the pink jersey but my main rival had changed. The threat was now a young Italian, Flavio Giupponi. That was dangerous.

The cold, rain and snow kept up. It did not suit me in the slightest and there was every chance that eventually I would pay the price. With that in mind, what could I say about the cancellation of the mountain stage from Trento to Santa Caterina which was supposed to go over two famous pa.s.ses, the Tonale and the Gavia? There was a danger of avalanches. It was a poisoned chalice because the Italian press accused Torriani of cheating my rivals. They had no idea who they were dealing with. Five years earlier he had removed the Stelvio from the route without any clear reason, which had prevented me from getting clear of Moser. So why would he have made it up to me when an Italian was clearly threatening me in the overall standings? Suspecting Torriani of favouring a foreign rider was ridiculous. Everything he had done in his life so far suggested the opposite and the evening before in private he had said he wanted Giupponi to win. And if he had known what my state of health really was he would not have hesitated for a single second before sending the entire peloton out to brave the snow and high alt.i.tude. Because that very morning I'd begun to suffer from an unbearable pain in my shoulder an old wound from a skiing accident ten years earlier. The calcified lump on the bone was so painful that I couldn't move my arm. If the stage had taken place, the pink jersey might well have ended up quitting, and wouldn't that have pleased Italy and my 'friend' Torriani?

It was about to get even grimmer, although the outcome wouldn't be particularly catastrophic. In the uphill time trial over 10.7km it was raining cats and dogs and the summit of Monte Generoso was dark, dank and chaotic as I found out the extent of the damage: I was seventeenth, 1min 45sec behind Herrera, and 34sec slower than Giupponi. The Italian press became hysterical as the journalists began to sense that their hero might turn the race around. The cold had almost got the better of me, and there were still two difficult stages in the Apennines to get through.

All these fine minds were caught napping, however, because a key ally came back on my side: fine weather. The sun shone throughout the last three days. It was like suddenly being dealt an ace as the twentieth stage into La Spezia proved. It was a tough old day for the team, who were in pieces by now, and it was the same for me, until the final six kilometres. At the summit of the final little mountain pa.s.s, which I had gone up with my jaws around the handlebars, my legs felt less painful all of a sudden. There were about ten of us ahead on the descent, with all the overall contenders in the group; I attacked and gained about forty metres before I went up the backside of a motorbike and had to hit the brakes. It all came back together: very annoying. Five hundred metres from the line, the sprint was still taking a while to get going: 'It's a bit slow,' I thought. Three hundred metres to go: still the same. So I went full gas and won the stage, which goes to show that a bike race holds plenty of surprises up its sleeve.

The day before the end I nearly lost the entire race on a harmless-looking descent: I was on Giupponi's wheel, lost my balance, went into a wall and made an easy target for Claude Criquielion. By the time I'd a.s.sessed the damage no physical problems straightened up my handlebars and got back in the saddle, Giupponi and Andrew Hampsten had taken advantage to sneak off. They were flying away. I had no teammates with me to help in the chase. That made it a very dangerous little attack. I pulled it all together in the next ten kilometres but I can hardly say how angry I was at being attacked while I was on the deck. I s.n.a.t.c.hed five time-bonus seconds at an intermediate sprint and another three-second bonus for finishing third on the stage, won by Gianni Bugno. All this meant that Giupponi was now 1min 31sec behind overall. Which wasn't bad before the final time-trial stage from Prato to Florence.

Guimard didn't conceal his worries from me but when it came to riding alone and unpaced, Giupponi was not Moser. And once I began riding there was no great emotion and no particular fear. Guimard gave me time checks constantly and I had only to control my pace so that I avoided going into the red, in spite of the rather annoying proximity of a low-flying helicopter.

I finished fifth, the Italian third, but he had regained less than twenty seconds. I had overcome everything: the cold, the pressure, the Italians and all the theatricals that go with the Giro. It's one great commedia dell'arte commedia dell'arte, where scandals blow up out of two words, a vague allusion, a simple gesture, or nothing at all. That was all smoke and mirrors. I was still a bike racer, and that was all I cared about.

Before uncorking the champagne and partying I thought very rapidly about what I had just achieved. I knew what I had been through in the last five interminable years. Until then the door leading to the Hall of Fame had been left ajar after my two Tour wins: now it had opened again. Along with Jacques Anquetil (1960 and 1964) and Bernard Hinault (1980, 1982, 1985) I was only the third Frenchman to win the Giro in cycling history only three! and I was the last to win it because none has managed it since. What I had done was to earn a little compensation for the unjust way in which I had been robbed of the 1984 race, although it wasn't consolation in any way. The ghosts of the black years were still gleefully resident in my mind, but with a smile on my lips and my old insouciance regained, I could make them dance for a while.

I had had to stand tall to have any chance of earning a defining place in cycling history, but an athlete with true talent can always come back, or so they say.

There was one small detail. On the evening after I had won the race in Florence, Guimard came to have a word with me: he looked even more worried than usual. He wanted to talk one-to-one and it was important, even though all I was thinking about was celebrating my triumph. He was already concerned about July and looked me straight in the eyes: 'LeMond will be up there at the Tour.' I didn't hide my amazement. LeMond had been nowhere for the three weeks of the Giro but had ended the race by taking second place in the final time trial.

We all know what happened in July 1989.

CHAPTER 27.

POKER FACE.

Monsieur 'Eight Seconds': just try to get your head around the weeks that followed my defeat in the 1989 Tour de France. Imagine the mocking remarks from the people who didn't like me. Think of all the shocking, over-the-top stuff that was said and written. Winning and losing are never easy, whatever the conditions, but it can be worst of all if you lose in certain circ.u.mstances. After the maelstrom of words and feelings died down, as the feeling of eternal injustice subsided a little, I had to get some distance and bring the 1989 season to a close: it had still been exceptional, and there were two more major wins to come, first the Tour of Holland and then the Baracchi Trophy with Thierry Marie. Back then this two-up time trial in Northern Italy was still a kind of inst.i.tution; Coppi, Merckx and Anquetil had all inscribed their names on its roll of honour and winning it had enhanced all their reputations. A victory there was another way of dragging a bit more respect out of people; winners of the Baracchi were following in a tradition that had been marked by all the greats. So that was done. And being outside France gave me the chance to get a bit of peace and quiet, away from the media, away from the fans.

I still approached cycling like a free spirit, carrying out my trade without any major constraints, biting into life with the same appet.i.te; sometimes gorging on it. When it came to the public and the press, I never sold my soul and never tried to be placatory. Some fans remonstrated with me for sometimes failing to sign enough autographs. But I would write them. I actually wrote rather a lot. But that was not the only thing in my day's work, as anyone should know. And there was no way I could sign them for everyone. So should I have worked harder at it? Obviously I should. But should I have been untrue to myself just to keep people happy? What would I have gained by that?