Read We Were Young and Carefree Online
Authors: Laurent Fignon
We Were Young and Carefree (3 page)
LeMond was now in yellow, a handful of seconds ahead of me, and there was no chance he would take the slightest risk: that was not his style. The first Pyrenean stage, from Pau to Cauterets, was as expected: he sucked the wheels as best he could and made it obvious he was just going to be a spectator. As I’ve already said, he didn’t have a strong team at his side but even so he had the physical ability to control a race on any terrain. But no: he was barely willing to defend his jersey. When Delgado’s Reynolds team sent their men on the attack, putting Delgado at the front and dispatching the young Miguel Indurain towards the stage win, LeMond didn’t blink. I was the one who was forced to keep them within reach. All he did was sit tight and take advantage of the work I put in. To be honest, it was extremely frustrating.
The tenth stage between Cauterets and the finish climb at Superbagnères, was a special day. The Tourmalet, Aspin and Peyresourde cols were on the menu: the stuff that epics are made of. While up ahead Charly Mottet was trying – vainly – to turn his race around by attacking a long way from the finish, taking with him the day’s winner, Robert Millar, I felt as if I was having a massive off-day, particularly on the Tourmalet where the attacking was brutal and I had no answer. Rather like the day before, for some reason I couldn’t work out, I was going nowhere. But as I put on a bit of a show as I went along, and didn’t give any sign that I was in trouble, my rivals didn’t notice my real state.
In any case, if I remained with Greg LeMond there wasn’t much to worry about. He was incapable of attacking, as the climb to Superbagnères proved. To this day I don’t know if he managed to come alongside me once, and that’s saying something. It wound me up. And when I got frustrated, when I began boiling inside, it had to come out somehow. A few kilometres from the finish Steven Rooks and Gert-Jan Theunisse attacked together. I looked at LeMond to see if he was going to react. I didn’t even try to follow them: physically I just couldn’t do it. But allowing LeMond to stay on my wheel all the way to the top would have driven me mad. In the final kilometre I did enough to get rid of him, pushing myself far beyond what I felt capable of at the time. I gained all of twelve seconds on him, in other words enough for me to take the yellow jersey by seven seconds: our hand-to-hand battle had begun.
In any case, I was happy to pull the
maillot jaune
over my shoulders; it had been so long since the last time in 1984. And I was happy to have officially taken over responsibility for controlling the race, and was ready to take it on: LeMond refused to do so. At least there was no question about it now. In front of the media that evening, I stuck to the way I liked to do things, and said openly how much LeMond’s behaviour annoyed me. ‘He complains that he had trouble with Hinault during the 1986 Tour, but he should take his share of blame. He was called a wheel-sucker at the time and the guys who said that weren’t wrong.’ Having said that, anyone can be on the receiving end. A spectator on the roadside yelled as I went past: ‘Less talk, more racing!’ and clearly he was right. That’s how I’ve always seen it.
maillot jaune
over my shoulders; it had been so long since the last time in 1984. And I was happy to have officially taken over responsibility for controlling the race, and was ready to take it on: LeMond refused to do so. At least there was no question about it now. In front of the media that evening, I stuck to the way I liked to do things, and said openly how much LeMond’s behaviour annoyed me. ‘He complains that he had trouble with Hinault during the 1986 Tour, but he should take his share of blame. He was called a wheel-sucker at the time and the guys who said that weren’t wrong.’ Having said that, anyone can be on the receiving end. A spectator on the roadside yelled as I went past: ‘Less talk, more racing!’ and clearly he was right. That’s how I’ve always seen it.
Of course, a few perceptive onlookers pointed out to me that LeMond had been clear that the weakness of his team prevented him from riding more ambitiously. There was no way he could dictate events. I had to go into some detail in my answer. ‘Perhaps his team isn’t up to the job, but the way he behaves is not acceptable for a
maillot jaune
. On the Col de Marie-Blanque, we were both on our own, without a teammate to help either of us, and he agreed that we would share the work. What happened? Nothing. He made the pace a bit on the Aubisque, but after that, it was all over. He didn’t ride on the front once. Today, he let me do all the work. When Rooks and Theunisse attacked at the bottom of Superbagnères – and they weren’t pushing too hard – he didn’t react. I had a go at him, and promised that I’d get him off my wheel.’
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. On the Col de Marie-Blanque, we were both on our own, without a teammate to help either of us, and he agreed that we would share the work. What happened? Nothing. He made the pace a bit on the Aubisque, but after that, it was all over. He didn’t ride on the front once. Today, he let me do all the work. When Rooks and Theunisse attacked at the bottom of Superbagnères – and they weren’t pushing too hard – he didn’t react. I had a go at him, and promised that I’d get him off my wheel.’
The morning after I’d said all this, LeMond came to see me in the
village-départ
. Now it was his turn to have a go: ‘You shouldn’t say that stuff!’ His image had been tarnished, and he didn’t like that. LeMond is someone who has always paid attention to his popularity with the public and the press. He always rubbed along with them quite well, and his relations with journalists and fans were as chummy as could be, permanently flirting with them. I’ve never been able to do that. What’s the interest in it? What’s the point? I’ve always preferred to be myself. I’d rather shut up than just tell them what they want to hear.
village-départ
. Now it was his turn to have a go: ‘You shouldn’t say that stuff!’ His image had been tarnished, and he didn’t like that. LeMond is someone who has always paid attention to his popularity with the public and the press. He always rubbed along with them quite well, and his relations with journalists and fans were as chummy as could be, permanently flirting with them. I’ve never been able to do that. What’s the interest in it? What’s the point? I’ve always preferred to be myself. I’d rather shut up than just tell them what they want to hear.
Relatively speaking, the race quietened down briefly as far as the Alps. We watched each other for every single minute of the race. From the team’s point of view, the stage to Marseille was a joyful high point. I was still in yellow but on 14 July 1989, the day of the bicentenary of the French revolution, Vincent Barteau won a prestigious stage that would stick in everyone’s minds. Red, white and blue; champagne.
On the fifteenth stage, an individual time trial from Gap to Orcières-Merlette, Rooks led the way and we both lost time: LeMond was fifth, I was tenth. That round went to the American. Over the thirty-nine kilometres I was fifty seconds slower; he had an overall lead of forty seconds. It was not over, but I knew that I had to go on the attack in the Alps or defeat was inevitable. That turned a war of attrition into an epic battle. He was climbing less well than I was, but was time trialling more strongly. It was a simple equation, and it would be valid all the way to Paris.
The next day took us to Briançon, over the Col d’Izoard. At the summit, the ‘roof’ of the Tour, I couldn’t hold the wheels and was trailing behind Theunisse, Mottet, Delgado – and LeMond. I threw myself headlong down the descent towards Briançon but it was a forlorn hope and I crossed the line fourteen seconds behind. Now both LeMond and I vaguely understood that every second had to be contested with no quarter given. As far as the fans and press were concerned at the time, the fourteen seconds didn’t seem a great deal given that we had been racing for nearly three weeks. If only they had known.
On the morning of the seveteenth stage between Briançon and l’Alpe d’Huez Cyrille Guimard and I talked it all over, without keeping anything back. We both knew we wouldn’t have many more chances to turn the race round. So I came up with a plan: wait for the start of the climb to l’Alpe d’Huez and put in the most vicious attack I could, at the very first hairpin. That meant really attacking, as if the finish was only 100 metres away. I had no option, but I was happy with it; I wanted to do battle, no matter what the price might be.
The gap between us was so tiny that there was no point in making a move on the Galibier or the Croix de Fer where LeMond and I would simply cancel each other out. Once we got to the Alp, I could set the fires of hell ablaze.
On the first hairpin bend, as I’d decided, I attacked. LeMond stuck to me. I went for it again, at once. He came back, faster than before. He had hardly even got to me before I put in another one, even more brutal than before. Bent over his bike, he ripped himself to bits to get back to me again. Then it was his turn to attack, churning a massive gear. I managed to squirm up to him, but my legs were on fire, and I went again, full bore, finding strength from I don’t know where. But a few seconds later, he was back up at my side. It was a draw. And we were both unable to take another breath or put any weight on the pedals.
It was life or death.
For anyone who witnessed it close to, it must have been an amazing spectacle, but to our great surprise live television showed barely any of the cut and thrust, blow and counter-blow. There was no one near us. The only thing was that after all our efforts neither of us was going anywhere. Neither of us had given way, but I couldn’t have any regrets: it was this, or nothing. To overcome LeMond, one of the world’s great followers, you had to harass him mercilessly, force him over his limit as quickly as possible so that later you could start again if you could.
So now neither of us had any strength left. Our lungs were hanging out, and we watched each other, almost at a standstill, gasping like a pair of crazy young puppies. So obviously, a few riders came back from behind us: Rondón, Delgado, Lejarreta, Rooks.
Then, about six kilometres from the top, Guimard drove up alongside me in the team car to tell me: ‘Attack, he’s dying.’ For the first time since we had set out to seek our fortune together, Guimard wanted me to attack on l’Alpe d’Huez. And of course, there was no way I could. I had to mutter to him ‘Can’t, I’m wasted.’ That was the way Guimard could see a race: the eye of the master. Remember he had nurtured LeMond when he was young, and knew him by heart.
I went on as best I could. But Guimard’s words stuck in my mind. Once we’d got past the five kilometres to go sign, the speed lowered and I felt a bit better. Like the old diesel I was, I was getting on top of it again. I decided to give it another go four kilometres out. One acceleration, and LeMond, flattened over his bike, couldn’t come with me. In less than four kilometres I took 1min 19sec out of him, and that’s bearing in mind that the last bit of l’Alpe d’Huez is by far the least difficult part. Guimard had called a race right, yet again, and it should be noted for posterity: if I’d gone for LeMond at the moment when he had told me to, the Tour would have been won. No question. Because LeMond was completely blasted. I was putting about twenty seconds per kilometre into him.
How could Guimard have realised that LeMond was out for the count? I’ve never known for sure. But I believe he noticed that he was showing his physical exhaustion by riding in a lopsided way. When he was suffering LeMond certainly used to sit strangely in the saddle.
On the evening of the finish at the Alpe, I regained the yellow jersey with a twenty-six second lead. I knew that this wasn’t enough to guarantee the win in Paris, with a final time trial still to come over 24.5km for a unique finish, on the final day, on the Champs-Elysées. So I wanted to strike while I had the psychological upper hand and next day I didn’t let LeMond get a grip on the race between Bourg d’Oisans and Villard de Lans. My legs had suddenly begun to feel like they used to when I was younger, and on the Vercors plateau, I attacked three kilometres from the top of the Côte de Saint-Nizier while Rooks and Theunisse and the PDM team were setting a searing pace, with no idea that I was about to be the beneficiary. I caught everyone napping and although LeMond and Delgado worked together they couldn’t keep up. It was an example of my favourite tactic: use a situation in the race to take my opponents by surprise.
My lead climbed to fifty-two seconds on the descent: I was putting in every ounce of talent I had. But an unpleasant surprise was waiting once I got over the hill 26km from Villard de Lans: a blasted headwind. There was a new twist every day in the plot of this race; every last line would count when the tale was finally told. Behind, there were four or five chasing: LeMond, Delgado, Theunisse, Rooks. It was these last two who did the work for LeMond. Yet again he was unwilling to push the pedals any harder than necessary.
I weakened slightly as the finish approached, losing half my lead, but I ended up with the stage win and a twenty-four second lead at the finish line. That made fifty seconds in hand in the overall standings. That evening at the hotel there was a feeling of euphoria. I was sure I had won the Tour.
The next day, en route to Aix-les-Bains, going over lesser climbs such as the Granier and the Col de Porte, I felt as if I had wings on my feet. On the Col de Porte, each time I led the string of riders round a hairpin I gained ten metres. At one point I barely seemed to accelerate but no one managed to follow. I kept going, and was away. After a few hundred metres, I sat up and waited. Guimard wasted no time in driving up to talk to me. ‘What are you up to?’
‘I’m flying, Cyrille, that’s all.’
‘Then go for it!’
It was a tough one. After a few days of intense attacking racing the risk of hitting the wall is huge. There were seventy kilometres to the finish with three
cols
to cross and a section in the valley with a headwind to get to Aix-les-Bains. I ended up saying to Guimard: ‘I’ve got enough of a lead to win the Tour. I’m afraid I’ll blow. It’s a pointless risk. I’ll sit up.’
cols
to cross and a section in the valley with a headwind to get to Aix-les-Bains. I ended up saying to Guimard: ‘I’ve got enough of a lead to win the Tour. I’m afraid I’ll blow. It’s a pointless risk. I’ll sit up.’
Unfortunately, he said, ‘OK,’ and didn’t attempt to make me believe I could do it, even though we knew full well that if you have a rival on the ropes you have to take advantage and crush him without any second thoughts. But when you look at it with hindsight, what could have happened? At the summit of the Col de Porte I might have had about three minutes’ lead, but what then? Who could predict anything whatsoever? But in Aix-les-Bains, it was a small select group that fought out the finish: five of us, the best five in the Tour. On the banks of the beautiful Lac du Bourget, LeMond was by far the best in the sprint as he so often was in a situation like that. Just for the record, after we crossed the line that evening I went over to him and tapped him on the shoulder to congratulate him on the stage win. I meant it. I said to him: ‘It’s been a good fight.’ In my mind, it was all over. I’d won my third Tour de France.
There was just one thing. During that stage I’d felt a fairly sharp pain between my legs. That evening, it was clear. I had a sore spot in a very inconvenient place: just below the buttock, right where the saddle rubs on the shorts. There were only two stages left. One that would be for the sprinters, finishing at l’Isle d’Abeau and relatively short at 130 kilometres. And then there was Sunday’s time trial. Nothing much to worry about. And I wasn’t worrying. I should have been. The evening before the final road race stage it hurt so much that I couldn’t go and urinate at the dope control. Just moving was a penance. Sitting down was horrendous. In extremis, because the entire caravan had to catch the TGV that evening to get up to Paris, the drug testers were kind enough to wait until we were in the train before collecting the sample.
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