Read We Were Young and Carefree Online
Authors: Laurent Fignon
We Were Young and Carefree (16 page)
A few weeks earlier, I’d only lacked a tiny fraction of the strength I needed to win Liège–Bastogne–Liège. Without a chronic sinusitis which had nailed me to my bed for a few days during the build-up, I wouldn’t have been caught five kilometres from the finish as I flew away with Phil Anderson.
So I had only one objective when I started the sixty-seventh Giro d’Italia: overall victory. Nothing less. To achieve our goal, Guimard and I had carefully composed a team of attacking racers, all good mates, all devoted to duty. I had complete confidence in a group of riders who were as young and ambitious as I was: Gaigne, Menthéour, Corre, Salomon, Saudé, Wojtinek, Mottet.
The background to the race is still clear in my mind. The ‘threat from Fignon’ was a big worry for the Italians, who had done everything they could to ensure that their idol Francesco Moser could at last win ‘his’ Giro. There was one small thing they had overlooked: the new, young Frenchman who, following Bernard Hinault, had come over the Alps to challenge the nation of Fausto Coppi and Gino Bartali. The Italian riders had never been happy to have foreigners turning up and winning on their home turf, and had no second thoughts about joining forces against the common enemy. In some seasons, defying the alliances and winning in spite of everything had a miraculous quality.
Moser had noticed the way I had improved and knew what was heading his way. He said, the day before the start: ‘For Fignon, what is at stake in Italy is decisive: he has to prove that his win in the Tour de France did not happen by accident. We will find out very soon whether he can adapt completely to being a team leader, because what’s obvious is that this time round he does not have the advantage of surprise.’
He was right. Guimard and I wanted to impose ourselves on the race. We decided to adopt a strategy in which the team would be a daily, constant presence at the head of the race – which suited me just fine – by trying to take the maximum advantage of the unique geography of Italy. In contrast to the Tour de France, where the make-up of the country means that there is usually a long breathing space between the race start and the Pyrenees or the Alps, the Giro had a strategically important stage every two or three days. I knew I was stronger than Moser or Saronni in the highest mountains, and it was up to me to live up to my reputation.
Oh dear, it all got off to a bad start: the first important stage at the end of the first week was a minor setback which would have major consequences three weeks later. During the fifth stage, a mountain top finish at the Majella fortress, I had a lightning attack of hunger knock. I gave away ninety seconds to Moser, who was flying, to the great delight of the
tifosi
, who already had me dead and buried. Yet again, big doses of glucose were behind the problem: it was a hypoglycaemic attack triggered by an overproduction of insulin. It was only on that day that we detected this anomaly and the problem never happened again. But the damage had been done in this Giro at least.
tifosi
, who already had me dead and buried. Yet again, big doses of glucose were behind the problem: it was a hypoglycaemic attack triggered by an overproduction of insulin. It was only on that day that we detected this anomaly and the problem never happened again. But the damage had been done in this Giro at least.
Guimard, a disappointed man, began to talk to me a great deal. Every evening we looked at the upcoming stages to devise a strategy for guerrilla warfare. I took to this game. I liked the idea of being at action stations every day, particularly because during the second week Moser just kept on getting better. He was brimming with confidence like all the Italian riders, who had declared their loyalty to His Majesty and were doing the spadework for him at every opportunity. As soon as a gap opened, an Italian would jump forwards to lend him a hand, whether or not he was in Moser’s team. The Renault team were taking on an entire nation. I’m only exaggerating slightly. The breaches in the rules were obvious and that fact says a good deal about the late race director Vicenzo Torriani, who had made it clear which side he was on. I don’t know if it’s something that could happen today, but there were stages where the fans spat at me and sprayed me with vinegar and other delicacies.
Planning the race, I knew I would lose about another three minutes in the two final time trials. As I expected, I gave away exactly 1min 28sec over the thirty-eight kilometres between Certosa and Milan. Moser was an unusually good time triallist who flirted with techniques that pushed the rules to the limit. Partly on the technical side, because he was reaping the benefit of aerodynamic research and was riding the bikes that had taken him to the hour record, but also on the physical side, because everyone knew he had been working with a doctor who wasn’t particularly ethical.
On the morning of the eighteenth stage, which I had highlighted in the race manual, and where Guimard and I had carefully examined the smallest details – I knew exactly where the big attack was going to be made – something scandalous suddenly happened. This epic mountain stage included the crossing of the mythical Stelvio Pass (2757m) which was the scene for one of the great Coppi’s greatest feats. The Italians, true worshippers of cycling, are convinced that no one except the
campionissimo
is capable of such sumptuous deeds. But the organisers, with the support of the local authorities, took advantage of the cold weather and the high altitude of the pass to give the impression that taking the race over might be dangerous. The national roads authority spoke of ‘a risk of snow’ and even ‘avalanches’. They had already done similar things two or three times with less celebrated cols: the stages were modified on the day according to what they wanted. It was surreal.
campionissimo
is capable of such sumptuous deeds. But the organisers, with the support of the local authorities, took advantage of the cold weather and the high altitude of the pass to give the impression that taking the race over might be dangerous. The national roads authority spoke of ‘a risk of snow’ and even ‘avalanches’. They had already done similar things two or three times with less celebrated cols: the stages were modified on the day according to what they wanted. It was surreal.
Guimard protested as strongly as he could, in vain. Torriani erased the Stelvio from the stage and dreamed up a replacement route which was unworthy of the race’s reputation. At the finish at Val Gardena I was second and regained a little time on Moser, who was delighted with the results of what had transpired. Our plan for a huge offensive had been wrecked by the duplicity of the organisers, who had little regard for the rules of sport.
That evening, Guimard and I were downcast, but we dreamed up our ultimate gamble. The mountainous route of the stage the next day between Val Gardena and Arabba might give us a chance or two. There were a few cols: the Campolongo, the Pordoi, the Sella, Gardena and the return over the Campolongo. I was itching to gamble everything on one single attack. And the next day, at the precise point we had decided upon, fifty-five kilometres from the finish, I attacked on my own in the cold and the fog, which I hated so much. By winning the stage, I turned the race around and took the pink jersey. But Moser, who was now 1min 30sec behind me, was not entirely sunk, as he might well have been on the Stelvio, which went over 2000m above sea level. The whole peloton had got together to prevent him from losing too much time. Chains of
tifosi
had lined the cols to push him up. The referees helped as well by fining me twenty seconds for taking a feed outside the permitted area. Moser simply had to win.
tifosi
had lined the cols to push him up. The referees helped as well by fining me twenty seconds for taking a feed outside the permitted area. Moser simply had to win.
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 circumstances, 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 passed 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 analysing my racing and I was sure that if Hinault had been there in 1983 I certainly wouldn’t have won the
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 asset. 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.
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 asset. 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 Thévenet 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, Raphaël Géminiani, 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
, 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.
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.
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