The man who turned up at training camp with us was only a distant relation of the champion who had hung his bike up in the garage three months earlier and who had grabbed every trophy yet again the previous season. As soon as we began to train as a group he adopted the expression he wore on his bad days. He suffered as soon as anyone pressed on the pedals. He sweated all over and swore at us. Sometimes he yelled that we were going too fast. And when he saw that one or two of us looked, if not actually annoyed then at least a bit surprised, he would shout: 'Go on, you clever d.i.c.ks. You'll see how good you are in a few months.' He could do anything he liked. Sure enough, less than a month later, he would win the first race he rode. When he had decided he was going to put his wheel in front of yours, a vital force would course through his veins, born of anger and pride. That was how Hinault was.

What can I say about my first races in the Renault jersey? Firstly, here is how we felt: Julot and I may have been young and impetuous, and even though we weren't easily impressed, we were proud to be members of this small, tight-knit elite group. Without making us docile little lambs, that calmed us down a bit. We had to look, learn and then become completely ourselves when the opportunity came our way. We would only swagger once we had earned our spurs.

We soon began to get to know the other riders and quickly built friendships in the team, then in the wider peloton. A lot of amateurs we knew had just turned pro as well and we were all happy to be among the 'big guys'. And now we were riding alongside some famous names, above all the Dutchmen: Jan Raas, another bespectacled bike rider, like his fellow countryman Gerrie Knetemann, who were the heads of the TI-Raleigh team directed by Peter Post. You have to remember that in those days the Dutch and Belgians won all the time, almost every race. Apart from the ones that went to Francesco Moser and Hinault.

I didn't change the way I rode. I kept faith in my philosophy of cycling. I still wanted to enjoy myself as much as before. I wanted to gamble. I wanted to feel happy with it. And one race followed another at breakneck speed. Cyrille Guimard put us in a huge amount of races but didn't ask us to do anything in particular. He was completely relaxed, totally confident in the ability of his team and that obviously meant he wasn't going to put pressure on us at the start of the season. We were there to progress better, to protect Hinault as much as we could, and that was all. Renault's real objectives were circled in the calendar, but came much later. Financially the stakes were still not that high even for a big team such as Renault, and there was no question of a team being hara.s.sed for any reasons other than the need to compete well. As far as I know, in this respect the directors of Renault were people of unimpeachable morality.

Because in Guimard's establishment the people were right and proper as well. They were looking to create complete human beings rather than merely manage sportsmen. No one came into cycling simply to make money; they wanted to win races and live their pa.s.sion to the full. I find it rather moving to think back to these carefree times, because the world has changed so much. Seeing how mindsets are today, I honestly wonder if the new generation has any idea how to distinguish a 'winner' from an 'earner'. We were winners. 'Earners' s...o...b..z types who monopolise prime-time television were to come a bit later on the coat-tails of Bernard Tapie.

All through my career I have hated cold weather: the wind and rain and low temperatures at the start of the season meant this was always a risky time for me physically. It was my main weakness: I kept getting colds, headaches, throat infections and so on. All the organs in my face were susceptible in wintry weather. I would often quit in races but Guimard would never bawl me out and kept his faith in all of us. We weren't skiving, quite the opposite. We worked like mad, although that didn't prevent us having a good time as soon as any opportunity arose. All Guimard wanted was to feel confident that we were obviously making progress, both on the bike and in the way we behaved within the team. We had to make our presence felt, make an effort and learn rapidly. He could tell if it was happening.

I was on the pace as early as February and March in the first races. The work I'd done in training paid off. At the Tour of the Mediterranean, where I won the best climber's prize, I was at the front all the time, bridging gaps, putting in attacks, looking for openings. A few guys complained and clearly wondered who this young upstart was. Michel Laurent and Raymond Martin, who were among the 'captains' of the bunch, felt they needed to point it out to me. Even the great Joop Zoetemelk, winner of the Tour in 1980, had a grumble or two. I must confess, my brake lever kept touching his a.r.s.e on the climbs. He didn't like me getting that close. As for me, I found all this educational. It was character building.

In those days cycling provided those riders who knew how to suffer of whom I was one with the opportunity to test themselves in much longer races than today. Even on an early season race like the Tour of the Mediterranean there were still stages of 180, 200 and 220 kilometres. Today people would say that was crazy, insanely hard. But no one actually understands what went on. The stages were not designed to be hard in order to torture the riders, but simply so that the best guys, who had the most endurance, would end up in front. The way it all unfolded was completely different. The early part of the stage would be taken at a steady pace. Then, when a break had gone away and it was pretty much obvious that it was the winning move there was no debate about what to do. Everyone would sit up and finish the stage at 30 or 35kph. Clearly, having this kind of racing would be 'scandalous' today, although I can't quite work out why.

The following tale demonstrates the relaxed approach Pascal Jules and I adopted, but also the way we would sometimes overestimate our own strength. In the first stage of that Tour of the Med, finishing in Port Leucate, along the coastal roads, Pascal said to me at the start, 'Cool, there's a h.e.l.l of a gale out here. No one's as good as us at riding in a crosswind, so we'll show the guys what we can do.' We had overlooked one minor detail: the Raleigh team were at full strength and if we were specialists at riding in sidewinds, the Dutch riders were the ones who had invented the technique.

How young and carefree we were. The Raleigh team knew that a move was about to go. In the first ten kilometres, with no warning they began riding in an echelon, a perfect diagonal line from one side of the road to the other. We didn't know it was going to happen and were too far back in the field. I said to Julot, 'No panic, we'll get up to them.' Ha b.l.o.o.d.y ha. How near did we get? Thirty metres behind the first group riding diagonally across the road, then twenty metres, then at last ten metres, but that was it. I could swear we were within touching distance, about to get up to them as we'd expected. I screamed, 'One last effort and we're there.' We never bridged those ten blasted metres in spite of everything we'd done, and even though we took two last ma.s.sive pulls at the front. It was unbelievable. We lost twenty metres, forty metres, and then we blew completely. We were in pieces, although we weren't the only ones. By the finish, we were twenty minutes behind. That evening, having been brought down to earth, dear Pascal and I looked at each other and guffawed. 'Well, we're with the big boys now.' We were good riders, in form, but we had been blown away like novices.

No matter, we weren't going to change our ways. That very evening we said: 'We're not going to get anywhere overall, but we can show what we are made of!' And we got in the front group every day. I decided to take the best climber's jersey, and held it to the finish. And even in the time trial up Mont Faron, the climb up above Toulon, I had the time of my life. I started just ahead of Joop Zoetemelk and I knew that he would catch me early on, because he was one of the better time triallists, and he'd be going flat out. That's precisely what happened, so I got in his slipstream, although just far enough away to avoid a talking to from the referees, and I stayed with him easily. And guess what? On the climb up to the finish, I caught up with him, overtook him and left him behind. The great Zoetemelk had been having a real go at me. 'Get out the way!' he kept shouting. And so when I went past him I said: 'Come on, then, get on my wheel.' He didn't like it all. But he was still second in the time trial and I was sixth, so we both got something out of it.

Let's be sensible here: I was a good new professional in 1982, but nothing out of the ordinary. Except that a few days later I won the Grand Prix de Cannes, only my sixth or seventh race with Renault. To tell the truth, I didn't expect to put my arms in the air so soon. It was a Sat.u.r.day, and the Monday afterwards it happened again, in La Fleche Azureenne, another one-day race which finished in Nice. And that was a bit special. I was at the front all day, getting in amongst the others as usual, attacking all the time. But, at a certain point, four riders just took off one after the other. As if he was laughing at me, or was simply surprised that I wasn't counter-attacking, Raymond Martin began teasing: 'Come on, Fignon, you star, this is the time to move, not all those other times.' I looked at him, stood on the pedals and said: 'Oh, all right, I'm off then.' And away I went. And suddenly thirty kilometres from the finish there were five of us in the front: Pascal Simon, Rene Bittinger, Charly Berard, Marc Madiot, and me. Berard and Madiot were Renault teammates of mine, so we were there in numbers. I expected Berard to be the one we worked for at the finish, because he was from Nice and was a decent sprinter, but, surprisingly, Guimard drove up alongside us and said, 'Laurent, you take it easy. You others, you ride for him.'

My blood froze. I was only a new pro. I heard myself saying: 'Non, Monsieur Guimard.'

It was too late. He retorted: 'That's how it is.' Guimard had spoken, he had made up his mind; there was no comeback. Madiot and Berard gave it big licks, and I sat in behind them. No kidding, I was shivering with fright, literally wobbling with the weight of responsibility. I was terrified I might let Guimard down. And the bunch was coming perilously close: a minute, 50sec, 35sec. But we held out.

By the time it came to the finish sprint, Madiot and Berard were wasted. We had to beat Bittinger and Simon, good strong riders who had been around the block. My legs died a kilometre from the finish with the fear of it all. It was the stress coming through. The feeling was shocking and completely new for me: I'd never felt like this before. And then, Simon launched the sprint, with Bittinger on his wheel. And then, I don't quite know how, I stamped on the pedals and found the mental strength and the speed I needed. The panic attack was over. I came up alongside them with no difficulty and left them standing. They were twenty metres behind as I crossed the line. It was a fine, decisive win; more importantly, it was probably then that I managed to channel the anguish you feel at a major event, to master the tension and turn it into an a.s.set.

Guimard, who barely ever expressed his feelings, came over to talk to me. He looked in my eyes and rather than congratulate me for the win, he explained: 'You were the rider in form. You needed to keep on winning.' He had made the correct decision and no one would have argued. What's more, I had won. I had shown that I could cope with responsibility when a decision was made.

A few weeks later after my first ride in the Tour of Italy, Guimard, a man of knowledge and intuition, stated: 'Laurent Fignon? A very good stage race rider for the future. He's rock solid. He's surprised me with the stamina he shows when he has to ride day after day. He's quick enough, he knows where to ride in the bunch, and he can climb. When he attacks fifteen hundred metres from a race finish, he is fantastic at keeping going right to the line. He eats a lot, he sleeps well, he recovers quickly, he never complains and he fits in. He's a good team rider. We'll hear about him again, in the 1983 Tour de France.'

Although I was a first-year pro, I had finished fifteenth overall, totally devoting myself to Hinault. I'd become convinced that if I was to ride for myself I could easily finish in the top five of a major Tour. That was clear. A few days before the finish I said, with a smile on my face 'Hinault's lucky. If I hadn't been in his team, I'd have just kept attacking him.' A lot of people felt that was pretentious, but there was no doubt in my mind.

I was not the kind of person who let others say what I felt. I just put everything out there. This was a time when cycling could show us as we truly were. This sport could take off all the wraps and expose everything about us to the world.

CHAPTER 9.

BACCHUS RAISES HIS HEAD.

Getting to know what your body can do can be a joyous affair; nothing beats personal experience if you want to understand the deepest things. Sometimes you end up finding out just how complex your system is. In March 1982, at the Tour de l'Armor, I had my first taste of partying with the pros. There was nothing to brag about, but no reason to hang my head either.

Bernard Hinault was performing on home soil and was utterly determined to win this race in front of his fellow Bretons. We had an excellent working relationship: you could say I was a loyal, devoted teammate and the Badger never had any cause to complain about me. During this race, however, Hinault was so stressed out and so obsessed with winning that he was rarely his normal self. His eyes were so full of desire, popping out of their sockets; we ended up wondering if he was actually sleeping at night.

In the midst of it all, I did begin to sense something that felt like tension between Hinault and Guimard. Of course, we were kept well away when they had any disagreements, but we could feel it like gangrene, slowly letting its poison into the team day by day.

On the evening after the stage to Saint-Brieuc, Hinault had gone back to his house but told us all: 'After dinner I'll come back with a few bottles. We'll toast Brittany.' We were always up for a party so were overjoyed that our leader was pushing the boat out, given that he was usually fairly disciplined and austere. The Breton air was obviously doing him a world of good.

Night fell and Hinault kept his word. He came in with his arms loaded with cases of wine. The only problem was that most of the team staff had disappeared. Either they weren't up for a drinking session with the Badger, or perhaps they just had better things to do. Sometimes, back then, depending on how important a race was, people just melted away in the evening.

For the first time in my life I saw Hinault lose his temper. He was raging mad and yelled whatever came into his head. 'The b.a.s.t.a.r.ds, you can't rely on them for anything,' he shouted up and down the corridors, 'and that s.h.i.t Guimard, he's never around when he's meant to be.' When he was in a state like this, Hinault was terrifying: he exuded primeval anger and power. Then, still beside himself with rage, he added, 'What the h.e.l.l, we'll just knock them back ourselves.'

So we began drinking. A lot. Right away, Hinault calmed down and his anger metamorphosed into affable pleasure. It was a good night. I couldn't say how many bottles we pulled out of the cases: ten, twelve, more? The most surprising thing was that there were only a few of us. Jules, Philippe Chevalier, Hinault, me, maybe one or two more, but I can't remember. Chevalier was a sight: glued to a chair, unable to stand, eyes wandering, muttering incoherent phrases. We were pouring it down our throats.

Up we went to our bedrooms. Marc Madiot had had a crash during the stage and was lying in his bed like a mummy, bandages from head to foot, with road rash all over him. So we thought it would be a good idea to stand his bed on its end. He screamed like a stuck pig. Raging drunk, we chucked empty bottles out of the windows, rampaged up and down the corridors singing fit to bust. It was a riot.

As you might expect, the hotel manager poked his nose out of his bedroom to ask us to quieten down a bit, and threatened to report us to Renault. 'This is my turf,' the Badger replied and told him where to go in no uncertain terms. We fell about.

The trouble was that we weren't the only riders staying in that particular hotel. There were quite a few other teams spending the night there. We ended up in bed at 5 a.m. so we didn't get a lot of sleep, and neither did the others. They had all paid the price for the night's festivities and it barely needs saying that they were all h.e.l.l-bent on paying us back for the sleep they had lost.

Next morning, as soon as the start flag dropped, bang! Two or three teams had agreed that they would try to make us bring up everything we'd drunk, which was kind of them, as we were probably well over the limit. It was a rough old day. We had to keep Hinault in the race, although he was as hung-over as we were, and so we had to bring back every attack. Guimard hadn't said a word. But he had probably thought a thing or two. We had to prove to him that the night's activities hadn't made any difference to our willpower, or to our ability to control the race. Julot and I kept the flag flying. The winey vapours dissipated with the manic speed of the race and no one got away from us. And guess what: Bernard Hinault ended up winning that Tour de l'Armor, as he so wanted to do. We just celebrated his latest win a bit prematurely, that was all.

Let's think it through. However it might look, this little party wasn't alcoholics binging. We had had a fright because this sort of thing isn't good for your health but in this case it was a joyful one. The drinking session hadn't prevented us from doing our work, and it hadn't affected our desire to explore life's outer limits. On the contrary. The partying which fortunately didn't always have quite the same outcome strengthened the bonds between us and welded us into a solid unit. We were living through stuff together, and not just on our bikes. We got to know each other. We were willing to work for each other. And when we had to make a superhuman effort to bridge a gap in a race, we weren't just doing it for a leader or a teammate, but for a friend, a brother in arms, a fellow craftsman. Self-sacrifice made much more sense, and victories had more meaning for all of us.

That's not all. A character like Hinault never forgot anything: we had had a big evening together and together we had helped him to win; we had made ourselves hurt on his behalf and he was put in a situation where he could judge our abnegation and our friendship. Because on that stage you needed huge willpower to work your guts out like we did. Deep down inside I knew that Hinault was an honourable man, and indeed, five days later, he repaid me selflessly by helping me to win the two-day, three-stage Criterium International. I was up with the big names.

How many riders today would dare to have a party with no holds barred during a stage race? How many would take the risk of missing a night's sleep without paying the physical price? At least we had bodies to match our personalities.

You needed a strong mind. Because during that fairly epic Tour de l'Armor I learned something else: even though amphetamines were detectable in urine tests, they were still very common in the peloton. The older guys had become experts at using them and had changed their ways to fit the rules, which themselves have changed a great deal since then. You have to understand that on the last day of a stage race only the first two finishers on the stage and the first three in the overall standings would be tested. I won't say that this was a direct incentive to keep pockets full of speed as yet I hadn't heard about any other drugs but there was low risk and that was a factor. After taking a good look, I ended up being fairly sure that there were plenty of guys who saw it like that, without either aspiring to win races or become team leaders. In their dreams.

After a little pestering, other riders explained that it was possible to get round the controls. In spite of the scandal at l'Alpe d'Huez during the 1978 Tour de France when Michel Pollentier was expelled from the race for trying to cheat a control with a bulb of clean urine, there was still widespread use of the 'urine bags' he had unwittingly advertised. When I look back now I'm convinced that I've lost races to riders who were amphetamined up to the eyeb.a.l.l.s then managed to dodge the tests. Even so, I never once said to myself: 'That guy cheated and that's why I lost.' I never looked for excuses or culprits. If I didn't win a race, I was to blame, it wasn't down to someone else's (possible) use of some kind of drug. I didn't know what they did, I didn't want to know; I wasn't interested. Of course, you can claim that this means there was a measure of acceptance on my part. But that is how it was. You didn't say anything. You didn't complain about it. There was no reason to complain: up until then amphetamines and other drugs had not shaken up the natural order of things. That happy time wouldn't last, as everyone now knows.

At the start of the 1980s what is casually referred to as 'the doping system' looked rather like the process of doping did: it was limited and no one felt it was important. This has to be understood. A lot of people considered that all they were doing was following the rules of the profession, that this was a step that had to be taken to fit into the milieu. That is how it was. That context drew guys into crossing the threshold. It wasn't cheating for the sake of it, but cheating without the awareness that it was cheating. One thing has to be made clear: drugged up or not, a great champion in form was unbeatable. Drugged up or not, an average rider couldn't beat a champion. That was the law of cycling. That was the reality of doping at the time.

CHAPTER 10.

THE CODE OF HONOUR.

Cycling is timeless. Cycling has history. Sometimes, alas, the history isn't epic.

Let's not beat about the bush: the only reason criteriums exist is to create a spectacle. The organisers pay the riders to take part. The racing follows well-established 'rules', that have changed little in the past forty years. The best-known riders of the time have to be kept 'on show' all the time. The public isn't fooled. They come for that and they like the way the racing is simulated. It's not one hundred per cent arranged in advance but the conventions stipulate that the two or three big names in the bunch contest the win at the end.

At a criterium in 1982, shortly before the Tour of Italy, Bernard Hinault was absent because he had fallen out with the organiser. I'd won the Criterium International and was what amounted to the leader at Renault. Also, there was another leading French rider. He was a bit of a rare bird because he had been up and down the ranks: he'd turned pro, then gone back to being an amateur before coming back up to the elite. He'd had an up-and-down career. I'd met him when I was an amateur: he was welcoming, smiled a lot, he didn't keep anything from us and sometimes invited a young rider or two into the combines. And then, shortly after winning a major French professional race, he changed completely. He didn't merely keep himself to himself, but he adopted a completely different att.i.tude towards the younger riders.

For this criterium he had teamed up with another recent winner. You could say that they were the two 'stars' of the day. Anyway, that was clearly how he saw it. He came to see us and said in a tone that suggested there was no arguing about it: 'You Renault guys will ride behind us when we get away.'

Hinault wasn't there so I didn't want any trouble but Pascal Jules didn't like this guy's att.i.tude and muttered in my ear: 'Hey, you won the International, you deserve to show yourself out front as well.'

After some tense negotiation the 'boss' of the day finally made a concession: I was to be allowed to take sixth place, among the best. That was the best I could get out of him: it was not good enough.

A few weeks later the whole marching band got together again at another criterium. Whose home turf? The same opponent's, of course. A lovely lush place in the middle of the countryside. There was just one problem: it was in the ile-de-France, which was chez moi chez moi as well. This time, Hinault did turn up. My rival went and talked to him: 'I want to win'. The Badger said, 'OK.' as well. This time, Hinault did turn up. My rival went and talked to him: 'I want to win'. The Badger said, 'OK.'

'Not OK with me,' I said. 'It's my turn.'

My rival was livid: 'Don't f.u.c.k with me.'

I pointed out: 'Last time we went along with what you wanted. But this time, it's not your call.'

What was in it for me other than a bit of trouble? But I couldn't restrain myself. I didn't like unfairness and I felt that what went around should come around. I saw my boss Hinault draw in his chest: he didn't want to argue; deep down he found this deeply embarra.s.sing. I can still see the other cyclist trying to talk it through with Hinault but the Badger simply didn't want to get involved. Which meant that I had carte blanche. My rival was raging mad. All through the race he kept furiously doing deals left right and centre to convince most of the big names to ride with him. At one point he came alongside me and said: 'I'm winning, it's all sorted.' So I replied: 'No, you aren't winning.' I would remind you that I was still a new professional. Even Jan Raas came to ask what was going on. I told him to get stuffed: 'Nothing to do with you, this is a French thing.' So this rider and I spent as much of the race swapping insults as actually racing. As it reached its height, I told him what I really thought: 'What were you before you became a champion? Not a lot. So now you're going back to what you were before: not a lot.'

Hinault, Raas and the others ended up looking on with a certain degree of amus.e.m.e.nt as the duel was decided. It wasn't much of a match. There were a few attacks in the final kilometres but I kept a grip on things pretty easily. I wanted to remain in charge. It was my decision and I had to go through with it. I was the strongest rider there and, I learned later, my opponent wasn't very popular or well respected. So when I wanted to, I rode him off my wheel. Quite easily. I kept him chasing a hundred metres behind, so I could watch him getting wound up. I know it had a humiliating side, but I was having fun, playing, really enjoying it. I didn't realise it, but I had actually taken a huge risk by going against a decision that Hinault had taken. In a flash, that criterium almost became a real race, and it was won by the strongest rider, which was rare for those events.

The positive side of this little episode was that, obviously, it did the rounds of the peloton, throughout all the teams, and no doubt it was embellished. My reputation was established, for good. Everyone knew what they had to deal with. I wasn't merely a rider who wouldn't be messed about, I had the legs to retaliate if need be. I wanted people to remember my name, and I'd managed it, even more than I had hoped. In cycling the 'rules' which were established over time were the product of relationships based on physical strength, which were always in force. It was rare for a new order to overturn the old, but it happened. Even a team leader had to demonstrate to his teammates how and why he was worthy of leadership. Later on in my career I needed pride and physical superiority to hold off insolent youngsters. On training camps in the mountains, sometimes I had to blast my teammates away, simply to prove that I was in my proper place and they were in theirs. It was part of everyone's make-up: they wanted to mark out their territory.

Within every champion there is a streak of spite, brutality, violence, the urge to dominate. The weaker elements, on the other hand, make the mistake of being too pa.s.sive. But in cycling everyone, great and small, endures frequent torture, physical and psychological. Sometimes it's painfully unfair.

In BloisChaville, the first Cla.s.sic that I took part in, I was to have the toughest possible experience of that. Hinault had let it be known that he wasn't at all interested in winning in this latter part of the season. Guimard's a.s.sistant, Bernard Quilfen asked: 'Who wants to get up there?' I replied at once 'Me! I'll try to win.' Everyone smiled, but Julot and I knew the roads like the backs of our hands. It was our home turf. We had no fear of the echelons which formed on those roads when the wind blew, as it often did. So when we got to etampes, on top of a hill exposed to the autumn breeze, the whole Raleigh team took up a diagonal line across the road: an unforgettable fan-formation echelon. We fought for position, came round each other, then suddenly the whole group concertinaed. So suddenly that Jan Raas himself was taken by surprise, lost his balance and collided with my backside. My reflexes kicked in: I pushed him away. So he fell down. I didn't. I was the very last rider to get in the front group, by the skin of my teeth.

There were twelve of us in the hunt for the win. Thirty kilometres from the finish, in the heart of the Chevreuse valley, I attacked, hard. No one took my wheel and I carved out a lead of forty-five seconds. Fifteen kilometres from the finish I was going to turn into a tailwind: the race was almost won. I stood on the pedals to lift the pace and fell heavily on the ground, without any idea of what was happening. The impact was huge. I'd broken the axle of my bottom bracket. The race was lost. I was broken-hearted: I'd already fallen off in the Tour de l'Avenir and ParisBrussels. The explanation was a technical one: our t.i.tanium axles had turned out to be defective a few weeks earlier and the mechanics had changed them all. They had not done mine because I'd taken my bike with me on holiday. Jean-Luc Vandenbroucke of Belgium was the winner that day, but everyone had seen what I was capable of. No one looked at me in the same way after that.

CHAPTER 11.

PIG HEADED.

'All you have to do is train, mate, you'll find it a lot easier.'

I can still hear myself saying these words with an impudence that cannot be excused in any way. The words were directed at Bernard Hinault. Yes, I did say Bernard Hinault, no less.

We were in Italy at the start of the 1983 season and our Breton was really struggling: yet again his winter training had clearly left a bit to be desired. So one evening at the dinner table after he had harangued us for going too hard during a team time trial, I couldn't resist the urge to say what I thought. Out came this slightly aggressive sentence. It came out of my mouth without any forethought. My choice of words caused a collective shiver to go around the dinner table. And something amazing happened. I was expecting a violent reaction from the four-times winner of the Tour de France, but instead he simply looked at his plate.

Guimard told me a long time after this episode occurred that from that moment he was convinced that there would be trouble between me and Hinault. There never was. Fate would soon send the Badger and me down different paths, but neither of us knew that was coming yet. Today, it's hard to put into words quite how foolhardy I was that evening. At Renault, no one dared to say anything to Hinault. He was the most powerful cyclist in the world. Falling out with him was pure sporting suicide. But I didn't have any hidden motives. I didn't say to myself before I spoke: what is the risk? Or 'I'll show him who I am, just a little bit.' Not at all. I had simply said what I thought at the moment that I thought it. More to the point, I was telling the truth, as I would have done with Pascal Jules. There were plenty of things that needed saying to Julot, and there was never any holding back. Whether or not I was talking to Hinault, I had spoken those words to a comrade, nothing more, nothing less. I had not targeted Hinault personally, rather the opposite.

Even so, several of the guys in the team told me later that something changed after this little event. It was clearly a turning point even though I hadn't noticed. A moment that indirectly symbolised the tension that could be felt between Guimard and Hinault. It was as if their disagreement had got under my skin and led me to lose my inhibitions, as if it had befallen to me to state in front of everyone and before anyone else did that Hinault was no longer the untouchable G.o.d-like figure in the team.

It was true: Guimard and Hinault had really fallen out. I had put these issues to the back of my mind because I wanted to pay attention to my bike riding, my personal fitness. But it was clear that something worrying was brewing behind the scenes between the two towering figures of world cycling. Up until this little incident when he kept quiet, the Badger had been very irritable, more so than the year before. Guimard had always bossed him around but Hinault always bounced back in the same way. He gained strength from Guimard's provocations. They were a source of motivation. When he was p.r.i.c.ked, his pride always reacted and usually someone got hurt. But times were changing: on the one hand, perhaps Hinault was getting fed-up with Guimard's ways and was pondering a change of scene; on the other, Guimard might well have decided that Hinault wasn't going to regain the thirst he had had at twenty and perhaps it was time to think of the future.

The almost tangible disagreement between them calmed down during the 1983 Tour of Spain, where Hinault was the favourite. His knee problems had not begun yet, but my relationship with him took an unexpected turn. During the fourth stage, while I had remained strictly in a protective role thus far, I saw the Spaniard Antonio Coll making a break. What was I to do? I jumped on his wheel, but I took with me Marino Lejarreta, one of our main rivals for the overall win. The problem was that the peloton never caught up with us and Hinault lost seventeen seconds to Lejarreta. He was not happy, not happy at all. But I had won the stage.

As a devoted teammate I hadn't contributed in any way to the success of the escape; on the contrary, I had lit the touchpaper only at the end to make sure I won the stage. How could I be at fault? I didn't answer any of the reproachful comments which shows I didn't feel good about it, even if today Hinault would testify that he had few teammates who were as selfless as I was. But I still wonder why he reacted that way. When your name is Hinault you congratulate your teammate on taking a good stage win and above all you don't waste energy worrying about seventeen unlucky seconds, do you?

But he wasn't relaxed at all on the Vuelta, I could tell. In the early mountain stages he didn't behave as he usually did. I had the feeling he wasn't putting out the same power as before. I was well placed to judge: on the climbs I was one of the few riders from Renault who could stay with him and since the episode on the fourth stage I hadn't left his wheel.

Everyone has forgotten what it was like back then. Spain had only just emerged from the Franco era. It was like the third world; anyone who went over there at the start of the 1980s would know what I mean. For cyclists like us, the accommodation and the way we were looked after were not easy to deal with. Sometimes it was barely acceptable. Professional cyclists of today cannot imagine what it was like in the 1980s in a hotel at the backside of beyond in Asturias or the Pyrenees. The food was rubbish and sometimes there was no hot water, morning or evening.

My morale wasn't exactly bright. Then one day there was a worrying development: Hinault clearly had a painful knee. Nothing was said officially. Right up until he wanted to abandon the race. We were all concerned; he had lost time on the Panticosa mountain-top finish, where Lejarreta, Alberto Fernandez Blanco and Julian Gorospe all got the better of him. The overall win looked to be slipping away. But our Hinault was clinging on through the pain, sc.r.a.ping down his last bits of strength to the very bone, every day. To see him suffering like this because it was obvious when you rode alongside him forced everyone to give him respect, beginning with me.

There was only one major mountain stage in which he could turn the race around, from Salamanca to Avila. Guimard put together a tactical plan. A real trap for the opposition. Some people said it was a masterpiece. We had three pa.s.ses to cross including the Puerto de Serranillos; Gorospe was the race leader. Guimard selected me to be the final stage in the rocket that was to propel Hinault to victory, so I was one of the fortunate partic.i.p.ants in a legendary showdown.

My task was to burn off the opposition on the lower slopes of the Serranillos. I had to go absolutely flat out. It was simple: I hit the climb as if there was no tomorrow, on the big ring for five or six kilometres, with Hinault on my wheel. The Vuelta was won and lost here; the final act of the drama was about to unfold. Lejarreta was struggling; Gorospe was hanging on. But soon, I could see that, overwhelmed by the speed, Gorospe was completely in the red. The fateful moment had come. I was about to witness close-up what the astonishing Breton was capable of, and I saw the final flourish on the masterpiece. Hinault dealt the coup de grace coup de grace and it was as if, suddenly, he had forgotten everything. He seemed oblivious to the pain, the injury that was affecting a little more of his flesh each day, his adversaries, and even his doubts. All that remained was a man in his prime who was unleashed by the strength of his character. He was such a proud devil. He epitomised the way in which the rebelliousness of an exceptional champion could become a sublime display of raw emotion. Hinault went away with no teammates, with Vicente Belda on his wheel, in an epic, unreal attack over the last eighty kilometres. We had turned the Vuelta upside down and cast a spell on everyone. and it was as if, suddenly, he had forgotten everything. He seemed oblivious to the pain, the injury that was affecting a little more of his flesh each day, his adversaries, and even his doubts. All that remained was a man in his prime who was unleashed by the strength of his character. He was such a proud devil. He epitomised the way in which the rebelliousness of an exceptional champion could become a sublime display of raw emotion. Hinault went away with no teammates, with Vicente Belda on his wheel, in an epic, unreal attack over the last eighty kilometres. We had turned the Vuelta upside down and cast a spell on everyone.

Our delight was short-lived. The bad news came through soon enough. Hinault had a serious knee injury. Among those close to Guimard the talk was that 'it was over'. What was 'over'? Hinault's season? His career? We were instructed not to say a word to anyone and for weeks there was a ridiculous game of cat and mouse with the journalists who wrote whatever they could dream up. Guimard put his head in the sand. Hinault played the fool. Neither of them was speaking to the other at all any more. And we just observed the bizarre show without being able to get involved. One day, I was told: 'His tendon is damaged. He will have to be operated on.'

I had just realised that he would not be riding the Tour.

CHAPTER 12.

CYCLING'S BRIGHTEST AND BEST I've never been one to follow the crowd, but I've always found it curious that some people don't appreciate how strong public feeling can be. These fine minds won't accept that a huge percentage of the French population gathers on the roadside each year to watch the greatest sports event in the world. When July comes round, it provides France with its fete. The festivities have a name: the Tour.

In 1983 I couldn't wait to experience it, even though deep inside I hadn't set myself any outrageous objectives. Within Renault, the dominant feeling was a ma.s.sive sense of uncertainty. Bernard Hinault had to sit out the race which meant that this was the first time since 1978 that La Regie La Regie had started in the had started in the Grande Boucle Grande Boucle without its undisputed leader, without any guarantee that it would play a lead role. without its undisputed leader, without any guarantee that it would play a lead role.

I believed that first and foremost I had to learn and I knew that I could get enough experience from a first outing to serve me well in the future. My goals? They seemed reasonable enough: a stage win, wear the white jersey of best young rider to Paris, and finish in the top ten overall. The Vuelta had strengthened what I already believed: I had no reason to envy the top Tour riders such as Lucien Van Impe, Johan Van der Velde, Peter Winnen, Joaquim Agostinho and even the ageing Joop Zoetemelk, who topped the bill among the foreign entry. And I wasn't overawed by Pascal Simon, the Peugeot leader who had just won the Dauphine Libere (he would be disqualified a few months later after a positive drugs test).

During the week before the race, Cyrille Guimard spoke to us a great deal, as if he wanted to protect us, to strengthen our self-belief and to make sure that we got to the start in as confident a frame of mind as he could give us. No doubt he was worried that collectively we might react to Hinault's absence in a way that didn't sit well with the reputation we'd built up to now. In his head, Marc Madiot and I were more or less the leaders, at any rate the protected riders. As well as Madiot, the rest of the team was: Julot, obviously, Bernard Becaas, Charly Berard, Philippe Chevalier, Dominique Gaigne, Pascal Poisson, Alain Vigneron and Lucien Didier. I remember one thing that Guimard told us: 'Put the Tour of Spain out of your minds. The Tour de France is ten times more difficult to deal with. The course is harder, the pace is higher, the pressure is greater: everything is multiplied.'

One hundred and forty riders started that Tour and the prologue was pretty much on my front door: at Fontenaysous-Bois. I can't say I was my normal self. I was nervous, tense. Paradoxically I felt I was too close to home: the air felt too familiar. I wasn't used to having people near me and being asked to do interviews. Making my legs hurt, taking on a task and following through, that's what I was good at. Playing at being something that I wasn't was rather more complex. That's why I had no delusions of grandeur and why my poor result in the prologue was in the order of things. Even though I had slipped several books by Robert Merle into my suitcase, everyone had forgotten that I was only twenty-two years old.

Not one journalist imagined that Renault could win the Tour. And when we came to the first team time trial, over one hundred kilometres, our fourth place was seen as quite promising with our best rider absent. As for me, I was close to the condemned cell. Very soon, after about twenty kilometres, there was nothing in my legs. It was genuine hunger knock, which can put you out in just a few minutes. And there were eighty kilometres to the finish. I was barely moving, and Guimard had to tell the team to slow down and wait for me while I recovered. I'd already eaten what food I had with me, and it had had no effect; luckily, Bernard Becaas came to my aid and gave me everything he still had in his pockets. Gradually I got better, but this little misadventure had almost cost me dearly; I owed my survival to the few bits of food that Bernard had given me. He paid in my place; shortly afterwards he fell victim to hunger knock as well and it was partly my fault. He couldn't keep up with us and was left behind with no chance of regaining contact. I will never forget what he did.

What had happened? The explanation was simple but the consequences were potentially dire. Back then, before a race as intense as a team time trial, we would consume artificial foods consisting essentially of glucose. My body couldn't stand them and would produce an overload of insulin in the hour that followed in order to burn up the excess sugar in the blood. As a result, I would get hypoglycaemia. But my inexperience didn't stop there. The third stage, between Valenciennes and Roubaix, left a lasting mark on me. We went over some stretches of the cobbled roads used in Paris...o...b..ix; it was the first time I'd seen the 'h.e.l.l of the North', even if this was merely a miniature version. The trouble was that I had absolutely no idea how to ride on the cobbles. No one told me one elementary principle: you must never grip the handlebars with all your strength. That was what I did and it was perfectly understandable, because of the fear of losing control and falling off. In fact, you keep the bike stable not by the tightness of your hold on the bars but from general balance and natural pedalling rhythm. But I was in good form and I got through the day in the front of the race, without any major problems until I got a nasty surprise when I took my gloves off after the stage. I had vast blisters on both hands because of the battering they had taken over the cobbles. I couldn't close either fist. The next day was horrendous. Three hundred kilometres were on the menu and more cobbles to end the stage into Le Havre. It was purgatory. I couldn't bend my fingers and it was all I could do to put my hands on the bars.

My sufferings didn't end there. The day before the first long time trial for some reason or other I came down with a pretty vicious conjunctivitis, so severe that I could only see out of one eye. The emergency medical help on the Tour, during the stages, was not as good as it is today, and if it had been any other race, I would have abandoned. I couldn't see a thing when my team mate Dominique Gaigne attacked six kilometres from the finish to win the stage. It was more than we had hoped for, and was a good reason to have a little impromptu party in the hotel. I wasn't feeling great when it came to the time trial, sixty kilometres, which was a distance I'd never raced over alone. It was uncharted terrain for me and apparently my nervousness was tangible. The result was that I placed sixteenth, three minutes behind the Dutchman Bert Oosterbosch, but less than two minutes behind Sean Kelly, which was actually quite encouraging for a man with one eye closed who was expecting nothing. I hadn't pushed myself too hard and having no previous experience in this sort of stage, I hadn't taken any risks at all, apart from in the final fifteen kilometres where I decided to dig deep and noticed that I had plenty of strength left. Better still, I finished the time trial without even feeling out of breath.

My enthusiasm didn't last long. The very next day en route to l'ile d'Oleron, I was struggling with a bizarre internal problem which I never really got to the bottom of. It was torture. My hands were fine and my eyes were healing but I had nothing left in my legs. I couldn't push myself at all. If there had been the slightest split in the bunch or a single serious increase in speed at any time during the stage, it could have wrecked my chances. But the way the race panned out worked in my favour: it was a decent speed, but constant enough to avoid any sudden jumps in the pace. Hiding in the heart of the peloton, I made it home in a trance, my stomach empty and my legs like jelly. It was the second time I'd been on the edge. Cycling is a capricious mistress: so close to you and sometimes so distant.

At the end of the great Pyrenean stage from Pau to Luchon over the Aubisque, Tourmalet, Aspin and Peyresourde I was completely confident that I was in the race. Guimard had given me some sensible advice: 'Don't try to stay with the best guys in the final kilometres of the cols. The Colombians will speed up to take the best climbers' awards and you won't be able to respond. Don't panic. It's not important. You'll get them back on the descents. But try to slip into a break which is bound to form on one of the valley roads somewhere.'