Etape

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HarperSport

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First published by HarperSport 2014

FIRST EDITION

© Richard Moore 2014

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Source ISBN: 9780007500109

Ebook Edition © June 2014 ISBN: 9780007500123

Version: 2014-06-30

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Introduction

Chapter 1 The Outsider

Chris Boardman, 1994

Chapter 2 Beware of the Badger

Bernard Hinault, 1980

Chapter 3 The Bulldog

Wilfried Nelissen, 1994

Chapter 4 The Sculptor

Joël Pelier, 1989

Chapter 5 The Boy with Fire in His Eyes

Mark Cavendish, 2009

Chapter 6 For Fabio

Lance Armstrong, 1995

Chapter 7 Dutch Cold War

Marc Sergeant, Frans Maassen, 1992

Chapter 8 Trilogy

Eddy Merckx, 1971

Chapter 9 Guerrilla Warfare

Luis Herrera, Bernard Hinault, Laurent Fignon, 1984

Chapter 10 Anarchy

Stephen Roche, Jean-François Bernard, Andy Hampsten, 1987

Chapter 11 The Devil

Claudio Chiappucci, 1992

Chapter 12 Shock and Awe

Bobby Julich, Jörg Jaksche, Marco Pantani, Jan Ullrich, 1998

Chapter 13 What about Zimmy?

Urs Zimmermann, 1991

Chapter 14 The Unknown Warrior

José Luis Viejo, 1976

Chapter 15 Champagne Freddy

Freddy Maertens, 1981

Chapter 16 Honour Among Thieves

Lance Armstrong, Iban Mayo, 2003

Chapter 17 Untold Stories

Mark Cavendish, Bernhard Eisel, David Millar, 2010

Chapter 18 Playstation Cycling

Andy Schleck, 2011

Chapter 19 Redemption

David Millar, 2012

Chapter 20 La Résurrection

Greg LeMond, 1989

List of Searchable Terms

Acknowledgements

Also by Richard Moore ...

About the publisher

Étape is the result of a simple idea: to tell the stories of selected stages of the Tour de France through the recollections of the protagonists. I wanted to capture and convey the mystery, beauty and madness of the great race. But new interviews were key; I didn’t want to recycle already published and in some cases familiar stories. And so I sought out the heroes and villains, the stars, journeymen and one-hit wonders. I spoke to two five-time Tour winners, a three-time winner, a one-time winner, and a former seven-time winner.

On the following pages are the fruits of this labour: a collection of notable stages, some great, some obscure. They encompass extraordinary feats and diabolical deeds, heroism and deceit, farce and tragedy. Each chapter stands alone but they are interconnected since, inevitably, there are characters who reappear. One, Bernard Hinault, even manages to have a crucial influence on a stage, and a Tour, in which he wasn’t riding.

The featured stages are personal favourites, drawn mainly from the Tours I have watched since my first glimpse on television in 1984. But I couldn’t resist others that piqued my interest: a trilogy of remarkable stages involving Eddy Merckx and Luis Ocaña in 1971; a curious win by José Luis Viejo in 1976, which I had read about in an out-of-print cycling book; any one of the sixteen stages won by one of the sport’s most endearing figures, Freddy Maertens, in the course of his bizarre career.

There were mysteries to investigate and myths to debunk – the feud between two team directors that distorted the outcome of a stage in 1992; a rest day disqualification in 1991; the untold stories of the gruppetto; and some classics: l’Alpe d’Huez in 1984, Paris in 1989, Sestriere in 1992, Les Deux Alpes in 1998.

There are a number of premature deaths – Ocaña, Marco Pantani, Jose María Jiménez, Laurent Fignon – but only one occurred during the Tour. That was Fabio Casartelli in 1995 and I can vividly remember the room and sofa where I sat, and how I felt, when television pictures showed him curled up on the road, a pool of blood forming by his head. One chapter focuses on an emotionally charged stage three days later, won by Casartelli’s team-mate, a young American called Lance Armstrong.

The older Armstrong reappears in a later chapter, from 2003: a stage and a Tour that now have an asterisk against them and a line through the winner’s name. Despite his disgrace, I wanted to include Armstrong, partly because he is difficult to ignore, partly because nobody could argue that some of his Tours (the stage I chose in particular) were not dramatic. I didn’t know if he’d agree to an interview, but when I explained the project by email he responded within minutes: ‘You bet.’ Then I wasn’t sure what he wanted out of it, other than to talk about the 2003 stage to Luz Ardiden as though it was still in the record books; as though it still mattered. ‘Those Tours happened,’ he said, ‘despite what a bunch of dickheads say.’ Of course, you might disagree ...

Mention of Armstrong raises the spectre of doping, which, as Armstrong himself is quick to point out, he did not invent, even if he has done more damage to the sport’s reputation than any other rider. But doping, cheating, skulduggery: for better or worse, all are woven deeply into the fabric of the Tour.

I thought of doping in cycling as I read the American writer Roger Kahn’s book, The Boys of Summer, in which he recalls his early days as a cub reporter in New York. His first job was to cover high school sports at a time when the coaches were striking over pay. Consequently, there was little sport. ‘But if this mess doesn’t get settled, what will there be to write about?’ he asked his editor.

‘As you say, the mess.’

Perhaps in recent years ‘the mess’ of doping has overshadowed the sport to an unhealthy degree. Of course it is an important, dare I say interesting, subject. But there is so much more: the deeply fascinating – often fascinatingly deep – people who make up the peloton; the complexity of road racing, with its teamwork and tactics; the courage and skill of a stage winner, whether a journeyman like Joël Pelier, a winner in 1989 (and now a sculptor), or Mark Cavendish, arguably the greatest sprinter of all time. I hope that the following tales illustrate all of this, and do convey at least some of the mystery, the beauty and the madness.

Chris Boardman

2 July 1994. Prologue: Lille

7.2km. Flat

‘At the 1994 Tour, everybody went for a three-week race,’ says Chris Boardman. ‘I went for seven minutes.’

Chris Boardman was, and remains, unique. In the history of the Tour de France, at least since the prologue time trial was introduced in 1967, he is the only rider ever to go there specifically, and exclusively, targeting the hors d’œuvre to the race, the prologue.

Like some other hors d’œuvre, the prologue time trial is an acquired taste. ‘As pageantry goes in so beautiful a sport, ho hum,’ was the verdict of the American journalist Samuel Abt. ‘No long lines of riders flashing by, no desperate early breakaways, no sprinters tearing for the finish line, no climbers struggling to drop one another as the road rises.’

It isn’t even a proper stage – that is the whole point. The prologue was conceived as a way of adding an extra day to the Tour without falling foul of the regulations governing how many days the riders were allowed to race. And the motivation for its inclusion was financial. Don’t hold that against it, however, because in this it is no different to the race itself, set up to market the newspaper L’Auto. The Tour has always been nakedly commercial. But the commercial imperative intensified after 1962, when Félix Lévitan was appointed co-director, alongside Jacques Goddet. Goddet and Lévitan, both journalists, remained in charge until 1987, with Goddet looking after the sporting side, Lévitan responsible for the money. After Goddet and Lévitan, there were two short-term replacements, Jean-François Naquet-Radiguet, a cognac salesman, and Jean-Pierre Courcol, a former professional tennis player. Each lasted only one Tour before, in 1989, it passed once more into the safe hands of another journalist (and former professional rider), Jean-Marie Leblanc, who in turn handed it on to another ex-journalist, Christian Prudhomme, in 2005. In 110 years, the Tour de France has had only seven directors. And five of them have been journalists by profession.

The latest incumbent, Prudhomme, is no great fan of the prologue. For the first time since 1967, he opted not to include one in 2008 – then did the same in 2011, 2013 and 2014. It isn’t just a question of taste: this is also commercial. Prudhomme (formerly a television journalist) points to statistics that show the television audience is at its lowest when the Tour opens with a prologue time trial. It might be better for those who are there to watch – with the action spread over many hours, and the chance to see the riders individually and up close – but there is another and increasingly important audience to think of: TV. Like Sam Abt, and arguably most others, they prefer the spectacle of a road race.

Lévitan’s motivation for adding the prologue was to increase the Tour’s earning potential. Back then, the main source of income was the money paid by cities and towns along the route. They paid to host a start, even more to host a finish, and so Lévitan began to add what he called split-stages: more than one stage in a day. On occasion, he even managed to squeeze three stages into one day. The riders hated it.

The prologue time trial was a marginally more popular innovation than split-stages, and it was Lévitan’s way around the rule, from cycling’s world governing body the Union Cycliste Internationale (UCI), that stated a race could not last more than twenty-two days. Just as an hors d’œuvre is not considered a proper course in a meal, the prologue, which must be less than 8km, does not count as a proper stage. Thus it exploited a loophole in the UCI rules. And yet the first prologue, on a Thursday evening in Angers in 1967, was not actually called a prologue. It was called stage 1a (1b followed the next day). Two years later, the name ‘prologue’ was adopted.

That first one was won by an unheralded Spaniard, José María Errandonea, who held the yellow jersey only until the next day. Including stage 1a, the 1967 Tour comprised twenty-five stages over twenty-three days and 4,780km (the 2013 race was 3,400km over twenty-one stages). But the 1967 Tour is mainly remembered for tragedy. This was the Tour that saw the introduction of a new, short stage to add another day’s racing to an already packed schedule, and which saw the death of a rider, Tom Simpson, on the barren slopes of Mont Ventoux. If the two events were linked, little heed was taken – the Tour was again run over twenty-three days and 4,684km in 1968.

* * *

There are fans of the prologue, too. Thierry Marie in the 1980s, Boardman in the ’90s, Fabian Cancellara in the 2000s. Its appeal lies in its simplicity: it’s as pure a test of speed as you can get in professional cycling.

The prologue to the 1994 Tour de France was a classic. Held in the centre of Lille over a pan-flat 7.2km course, with wide boulevards and only a few sweeping bends, it was the perfect test. It was perfect in other ways, too, since it served up a tantalising confrontation between two masters in quite different fields.

It pitched the three-time Tour winner, Miguel Indurain, against a novice, Chris Boardman, whose only experience of the Tour had been as a spectator twelve months earlier. In terms of their background, they couldn’t have been more different. Indurain was steeped in the traditions of road racing on the continent, slowly ascending the hierarchy of his team until emerging as leader in 1991, the year of his first Tour victory. The twenty-five-year-old Boardman had arrived on the continent fully formed, as the finished article – but a complete contrast to Indurain, given that he came from a very different tradition. His apprenticeship was served in the obscure backwater of British time trialling.

Boardman felt like a fraud. ‘I felt like I cheated my way into this game,’ he says.

The Indurain–Boardman match-up was a little like the annual shinty–hurling international between Scotland and Ireland. They are essentially the same sport, but they exist in isolation, one quite separate from the other. When one tradition takes on another, there is always fascination and intrigue, in the same way that there might be with twins who are separated at birth and brought up in different families, in different countries. What, if anything, do they have in common?

Continental road racing and British time trialling appeared to have nothing in common, other than that both involved people riding bikes. One took place on the closed roads of Europe, often against the backdrop of the Alps and Pyrenees, and involved tactics, teams, courage and panache. The other was held in the early morning on fast, busy roads, against a backdrop of speeding lorries and cars, and involved calculation and pacing.

The British scene had never produced a champion able to convert his talent to continental road racing. But by 1994 Boardman had showcased his talent in shop windows more glamorous than dual carriageways in Britain; at the 1992 Olympic Games in Barcelona, where he won the pursuit, and then a year later at the Bordeaux Velodrome, where he went for the ultimate time trial, arguably the only one that resonated on the continent: the world hour record.

It was in July 1993 that Boardman took on the hour record in Bordeaux, 24 hours before a stage of the Tour de France finished in the French city. The timing was both deliberate and ingenious, because it allowed for a kind of cross-pollination. ‘The Hour’, already a big deal in the cycling world, became even bigger: it was amplified by its proximity to the Tour, not least because so many journalists were able to attend. At least one team manager was able to take it in, too. Roger Legeay, who ran the French Gan team, was more open to Anglophones than most, since his team, previously sponsored by Peugeot Cycles, had a history of having English-speaking riders, from Tom Simpson and Shay Elliott, through Graham Jones, Robert Millar, Phil Anderson and Stephen Roche, to his current star (albeit a fading one), the American three-time Tour de France winner, Greg LeMond.

Boardman had gone as far as he could in Britain. The only place for him to go now was the continent’s professional scene. Yet it was a step he was reluctant to take. ‘I was an outsider,’ he says. ‘I was a time triallist from Britain. The Olympics were amateur, so you either wait for someone to knock you off the top step, or you turn pro.’

The hour record that Boardman set out to break was held by the Italian road racing star of the 1980s, Francesco Moser. But by the time he came to tackle it, it no longer belonged to Moser. A week before Boardman’s attempt it was beaten by his domestic rival, the Scotsman Graeme Obree, on a track in Norway. ‘I’m disappointed not to be breaking Moser’s record,’ said Boardman at the time. He feared that Obree’s astonishing feat might remove some of the gloss from the record. He needn’t have worried. If anything, it raised interest. It meant Boardman had much to gain, but perhaps even more to lose.

He beat Obree’s mark, and with that, as Ed Pickering notes in his book, The Race Against Time, ‘The first part of Boardman’s PR ambush on the Tour was complete.’ The Tour reciprocated, staging their own ‘ambush’ as they invited Boardman to the podium in Bordeaux at the end of the next day’s stage, to share the platform with the man in the yellow jersey, Miguel Indurain, on his way to his third successive overall victory.

Tellingly, Boardman stood on the lower step, grinning like a schoolboy as ‘Big Mig’, in the yellow jersey, waved at the crowds with the bearing of a member of the Spanish royal family. It should also be noted that, although Indurain himself was gracious and humble, Boardman’s achievement did not meet with universal respect in the professional peloton. Luc Leblanc, the leading French rider, expressed his view that, if they put their minds to it, most members of the Tour peloton could better Boardman’s distance.

Less than a year later, in Lille, Boardman and Indurain met again, this time on the road. Indurain had built the foundations of his three Tour de France wins on his domination of time trials. He then rode defensively in the mountains, rather than with the attacking flair and panache of some previous Tour winners. If that didn’t fire the passions of many fans, it was impossible not to admire his prowess against the clock. He was a machine, most obviously in Luxembourg in 1992, when he averaged 49kph (30mph) over 65km and finished three minutes ahead of his closest challenger. ‘I thought I was having a good day and I lost four minutes,’ said a bewildered LeMond at the finish. ‘I thought for a moment I must have taken the wrong course.’ LeMond’s last Tour win had come in 1990; the speed of his decline, or Indurain’s improvement, or both, was staggering.

Boardman, meanwhile, had indeed been able to use his hour record as a springboard into the professional ranks, joining Legeay’s Gan team. ‘Roger had come to see the hour record and Pete Woodworth [Boardman’s manager] had spoken to him,’ Boardman tells me. ‘I wasn’t super enthusiastic or excited at the idea of turning pro. I was more intimidated ... No, trepidation would be the right word. We went to see him at the Tour of Britain [in August] expecting him to say, “This is the pro team; this is where you’ll fit in,” but instead he asked me: “What do you want to do?”

‘It was bizarre,’ Boardman continues. ‘I said, “Well, I’d quite like to go to the Tour de France, but only to ride ten days.” Roger just laughed and said: “First-year pros don’t often get to ride the Tour. But we’ll see.”’

Boardman guested for Gan before the end of the 1993 season, in a time trial, the GP Eddy Merckx. ‘I wore one of Greg LeMond’s skinsuits,’ he says. He won it. ‘I had no idea what to expect because you were segregated. Although I’d won an Olympic gold medal, the fact was that if you asked any pro bike rider who had won the gold medal at the pursuit in the Olympics, they possibly wouldn’t have known.’

The GP Eddy Merckx really offered few clues to Boardman’s potential. Although he was surprised to win, he was operating safely in his comfort zone in a time trial. The real test came the following year, with his induction to the peloton. Not that there was any formal induction: he was expected to know how to ride in a bunch, where to position himself, and be familiar with the unwritten rules and etiquette. Most riders graduated from the European amateur peloton, which operated to similar rules – but of course Boardman was different. He might as well have come from Mars.

‘It was always about managing my nervousness,’ he says. ‘I really struggled at first. For three months I thought, I’m not going to cut it. I don’t like it. It’s scary. It’s painful. It’s highly stressful.

‘In the bunch I was at the pointy end or the blunt end’ – the front or the back. ‘The problem with this is that at both ends you end up fighting: at the front to stay there, at the back to move up. It was terrible. Greg helped a lot, he gave me tips. Things like, “All you can see is a mass of riders in front of you, but if you’re going round a right-hand bend there will always be a space that appears on the left; so you can accelerate into a space that isn’t there yet.” Or, “Overlap your bars with someone else’s in the middle of the bunch and they’ll automatically want to move away.” Greg gave me tonnes of little tips that really helped. But it was all cerebral consciousness stuff so it was hard, hard work.’

Boardman made a breakthrough at the Tour of Murcia in March. ‘It used to be that people who were unfit or sick went to Murcia, while everyone else went to Paris–Nice. I won the prologue there and it was my first time in a leader’s jersey.’ It meant more than his Olympic gold medal or hour record. ‘The jersey was a passport to the front. I hadn’t experienced that before. It was a pivotal moment. If you were a neo-pro you got battered: you’re the softest target, people just push you out the way. But when you’ve done something in the race, you’ve got a badge. Life gets a bit easier.’

What most troubled Boardman was that all his old certainties counted for little. Up to now, his career had been built on calculation and measurement – to the nth degree; all that had mattered, through training and aerodynamics and working with his coach, Peter Keen, was making himself fast. Adding another 150-plus riders to the equation complicated things.

* * *

Boardman’s place in the Gan team for the Tour was still undecided when he rode the Dauphiné Libéré, the week-long French stage race, in late May. He guaranteed his selection by winning three stages, the haul including the prologue, the time trial and, more surprisingly, a road stage, on a 157km loop around the Alpine town of Chambéry. For that one he broke away alone – and time trialled to the finish.