Read We Were Young and Carefree Online
Authors: Laurent Fignon
We Were Young and Carefree (8 page)
I was in great shape. I loved these races because you really learned how to compete there. There was no comparison with pro racing but it was serious enough. The guys knew how to hurt themselves, the bike handling was of a good standard and I always learned something by watching how they behaved in the race. The only thing was, when the combines between the ‘oldies’ began to function, the race was as good as over: you had to be extremely strong to prevent them from stitching up the whole event. But you have to understand: this is how amateur racers earned their living.
So on this day there were plenty of old pros. I can remember as if it were yesterday: they were all in it together. I was flying and was continually off the front, getting in among them, pushing the pace up, counter-attacking. I was getting in the way of what they had arranged beforehand.
After a little while they had worked out that I wasn’t going to burn myself out and that I might well win the race rather than one of them, and so the leader of the little band came up to see me and said: ‘You can be with us.’ I had worked out they were a combine and didn’t think twice before saying ‘OK, but I’m the one who wins.’ They suggested I put 3000 francs (about £300) in the kitty afterwards. That was a fair bit for me but it was the only way I could join them and seal the alliance. I had to learn, and so I said yes.
The race went as expected. Together we were unstoppable, and as if to prove that I was in my best form I ended up in front with the leader himself. We were working well together and when we fought out the finish there was no artifice. It wasn’t my day: on the little climb to the line my gears jumped and I could only get second. It was tough: I was annoyed to lose like that.
A little while after the race we met up to divide the loot as arranged. It was the first time I’d done this. And I couldn’t believe what happened. They formed a circle and stood there looking down their noses at me, sure of themselves, as if they owned me. The big chief looked at me scornfully and said: ‘Actually I’m only putting in 1500 francs.’
Not only had he won the race, but he was putting in half my contribution. It was completely out of order. Presumably he wanted to test a young guy like me, to see if I was going to take the bait and set me up to be a useful workhorse in future. They weren’t taking a risk, or so they thought: those guys had a stranglehold on all the races. But I wasn’t happy about it. My impulsive side got the better of me and I lost my temper. I wasn’t going to accept this injustice. We had agreed the principles according to which we would work and the cash to be paid. Why go back on it? I stood up in front of them and yelled: ‘Give me the money I’m owed and I’m out of here. And hear this: you won’t fuck with me again!’ They laughed. I went berserk: ‘You will never win another race if I’m in it. So go fuck yourselves.’
As I turned my back I could hear them taking the piss. They must have found me arrogant and ridiculous. But I was young and had it all to prove. They had been around the block and had years of painful experience behind them; they wanted to wear me down, humiliate me, and turn me into their servant. I could respect what they had been in the past. I couldn’t put up with what they wanted to force on me.
Some of them had not managed to keep their careers as pros going; others hoped to be pros some day. It would have been simple to find them a bit pathetic, poor bastards. But when I look back at it, I think that these guys were both freakish and noble in their way. The bizarre aspect was that they were trying to survive in cycling, pushing their bodies to the limit in a world of physical suffering rather than taking an easy route somewhere else. The noble side was that they loved bike racing so much that they had to impose their own rules on it, whatever you might think of them.
Well, they thought they could laugh at me, but they didn’t know quite what a pig-headed lad I was. Each time that happy little family turned up at a race where I was riding, I applied the same principle: either I won, or I raced to make them lose. I didn’t spare any effort in going through with the line I’d decided upon. There was only one occasion when they managed to catch me out, which was one day when I was completely on my own. Otherwise it worked out like ABC. I became their bête noire. They even tried to renegotiate a deal with me but I wasn’t swallowing that. They had wanted to humilate me so it was their tough luck.
Without being aware of it, by expressing my character in this way and imposing a kind of authority, I was showing signs of being a champion in the making. Behaving this way toughened me up and taught me to race.
It was May 1981. While France lived through the frenetic hope that followed the political upheaval after the election of the left-wing president François Miterrand, my personal destiny was changed overnight. It took a single telephone call. Cyrille Guimard was on the line. It was very early in the season for this, but I distinctly heard him say: ‘I’ll take you next year. You’ll sign for me.’ A funny shiver went right through me; I believe I may have had furtive little tears in my eyes. I’d done it. As I came to terms with it, I called Pascal Jules. I was twice as happy. Guimard had just called him as well. We shouted in delight – a shared battle cry that is etched on my mind.
The boss of the Renault team had arranged a meeting with us in July, early on the morning after the final stage of the Tour de France, in the Sofitel at Porte de Sèvres. We got there early, our hearts pounding. Time passed by, but there was no sign of Guimard. Julot and I looked at each other. Then he turned up, very late, in a tracksuit, with a hazy look about him. He seemed a bit washed out: the Tour was over, and there’s always a party. He didn’t say a lot; then he got out the contracts. Of course neither of us took a second glance at what was written on them. We knew the key thing: our new professionals’ salary, 4500 francs a month at the time. Anyway, we weren’t going to argue with Guimard: he could have stipulated that we had to sleep in handcuffs and we’d still have signed.
We used our best joined-up handwriting and handed back the contracts, very pleased with ourselves. And he said emphatically: ‘Well, you’ve just got your first thing wrong.’ What on earth was he saying? He just amused himself by letting time tick on, keeping the suspense mounting. After a few lengthy minutes he explained: ‘You’ve signed the contracts and handed them back but you haven’t kept one. That’s not how it’s done.’ He sounded as if he meant it but I gave as good as I got. ‘But Monsieur Guimard, we gave them back because you haven’t signed them yet. What’s the point of us having a contract that hasn’t got your signature on it?’ He looked at me, amazed that I was so quick. All he could say was: ‘Well, anyway . . .’ The exchange sums up Guimard; he always felt he had to prove he knew best, make an impression; he wanted to show he was boss.
Well, we were on cloud nine. Not only was I going to turn professional, but Julot, who had been approached by the Peugeot team, would be at my side after all. At Créteil I was now seen as the little local celebrity, like any amateur who has just got a deal with the pros. The final phase of my amateur career was going to be good. Guimard, who already had a moral claim on what we did, wanted us to take part in the Tour de l’Avenir, come what may. Julot and I felt we would rather go to the Tour de Nouvelle Calédonie. We wanted to go into the professional world without letting anyone be our master. That’s how we were. That’s how we would remain.
CHAPTER 6
FLYING WITH RENAULT
‘Where the risks are greatest, that is the area I aim for.’ I’ve often thought of this phrase of Jacques Anquetil’s. Anquetil: the giant, the magnificent, the reprobate. The man who wanted to knock history out for the count, in a quiet way at first, then by beating the door down.
I knew where I had landed by signing for Renault. This was a turning point in my story, which was flying high, in club class. I was going to Guimard’s. I had ended up with Hinault. It was the cycling equivalent of taking a degree at Oxford or Cambridge.
Pascal Jules and I were living the dream that forms in the minds of all French cyclists when they embark on their careers. It was the plushest passport you could carry when you had begun working with Cyrille Guimard, but also when you rode in the colours of Renault, owned by the state and often just known as
La Régie
– the company. I am not sure that today people are still aware of precisely how much Renault had come to mean back then;
La Régie
was part of the flesh and blood of French life.
La Régie
– the company. I am not sure that today people are still aware of precisely how much Renault had come to mean back then;
La Régie
was part of the flesh and blood of French life.
In the cycling world, the company’s status as a national institution further enhanced Hinault’s exploits and made Guimard’s aura even more magisterial. The wasp-striped jerseys which could be picked out anywhere in the peloton were awe-inspiring. In a few seasons, Hinault and Guimard had ticked off everything on the wish list: the great Tours, the biggest Classics, the world championship. The fans loved Hinault because he was the equal of the greats of the past. As far as we youngsters were concerned, the slightest look from him meant recognition, even though we weren’t overawed. Still, we kept our sights low. For the time being.
At the first training camp with the Renault-Elf-Gitane team at Rambouillet, any worries cleared. The atmosphere was good-humoured, open-minded, honest. It suited us because we were never slow to laugh ourselves or to set other people laughing. We blended in and our sense of humour – a very Parisian one – stood out. The friendship between Pascal and I was obvious and clearly smoothed our way. Any fears we might have had were a distant memory.
There were a lot of other young riders around us. At the start of the previous season, Pascal Poisson and Marc Madiot had turned pro. And that year as well as Pascal Jules and I, Martial Gayant, Philippe Chevalier and Philippe Salomon were among the new intake. There were about twenty of us all told. We didn’t know anyone else, and we had to understand where we stood in the hierarchy, although it was all informal enough. I know that even back then, in spite of my intensity as a youngster, I had a strange character. A lot of people must have soon pigeonholed me as a cheeky so and so, a pain in the neck, a guy who simply wasn’t all that nice to know.
It was during a training camp in the south of France, at Opio in the Alpes-Maritimes that we really got to know each other, that we began talking to each other and finding out what we thought. But not all of us. Our communication with Hinault never went very far at this point. In the evening at the dinner table the Badger liked to behave like our big brother, and that was pleasant enough. He would recount his exploits, tell us of the way he liked to behave in the bunch when he was going well. During these meals together Julot and I would often make a daft comment or two and one day, Hinault said something, in his usual way, calm yet firm, with the implication that if we didn’t agree, we’d sort it out between us on the bike tomorrow. ‘Well, guys, just remind me how many races you’ve won?’
We had a good laugh. And Guimard quickly put our training programmes together. It was no-nonsense stuff. He was right up-to-date. He had files for everything. He was interested in all the latest training methods. Where his protégés were concerned, he would look at the very last detail and even the slightest defect would be corrected. He knew how to ensure everyone had the very best equipment that was on the market: made-to-measure bikes, the newest gadgets. As early as 1982 he was trying to become a specialist in biorhythms. It was his latest big thing, but a passing fancy as we later found out.
Julot and I knew what to expect. Generally speaking when young riders arrive in a major team, they come in to work for two or three leaders, depending on the big objectives of the season. At least it was straightforward at Renault. There was Hinault and no one else. We were all Bernard Hinault’s teammates. And that’s how it would be for the biggest events in the season.
Cycling fans who discover the sport in the twenty-first century through television and the values of today probably do not know that in the 1980s the big teams and the great champions did not prioritise one single race in the entire year, the Tour de France. When Hinault was on song he could obliterate everyone and so he would win everything he could from the start of the season to the end, whether it was March or November. Back then, cycling champions didn’t do things in a small way. They weren’t restrained. When the Badger won, he won big-time.
So we were just team riders, but ambitious ones. Because Pascal and I were sure of one thing: we knew we were going to win races. We just didn’t know which ones. We had shown what we could do as amateurs. We had no inhibitions and knew how good we were, but if we were going to win, it was on one condition. Hinault would have to decide he didn’t want to put his arms in the air that day, because if he was going for the victory, we would be nowhere.
When Hinault was at his height, he soared to altitudes that only eagles could aspire to. But even so, not all the eagles could soar there.
CHAPTER 7
DOING THE JOB RIGHT
I don’t know where I first heard this saying: ‘Understand before you pass judgement. But how do you pass judgement once you have understood?’ It may have been from a lawyer. Or a solicitor. In any case, it must have been someone who had thought about how complex life can be.
In the early months at Renault one thing in particular struck me. The ‘old guys’ didn’t want to reveal everything to the young ones. There were mysteries, bizarre rituals, things that had to be kept hidden. It was all pretty vague, never something that was clear, but it quickly became obvious that the young riders were steered away from certain topics. I could see why that might be, but I didn’t think it was fair. There was a ‘traditional’ side to it that was all too obvious: things that had been handed down and were repeated simply because they had to be repeated, because that was how it was.
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