Read We Were Young and Carefree Online
Authors: Laurent Fignon
We Were Young and Carefree (17 page)
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, Menthéour, 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 rehearse 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
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.
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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
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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.
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.
The first real moment of truth was the time trial from Alençon 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 assure 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 Menthéour 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 Grenoble 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 Ruchère en Chartreuse: twenty-two kilometres, with the last ten at high altitude.
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 embarrassing 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 reassuring 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 Grenoble 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 Côte 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 attitude 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.
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