couldn't have been feeling too good after all. Da drove behind the race carrying spare wheels, with my mother and Ann for company. With two miles to go he drove up alongside and reminded me of the rule forbidding the lifting of both hands from the handlebars in a victory salute. I thought, 'He's sure I will win. But what if I mess it up?' I became suddenly nervous. In the finishing sprint we both kicked at the same time and for a second I doubted but then I drew clear and won easily. Champion again.
I returned to Paris for the end-of-season classics and rode a stage race, the Tour of Seine-et-Marne. I was riding quite well, but in the time trial on the second day, Martin beat me by over two minutes and took the race lead. I made a big effort to win the last stage and thought I had it, but I was swallowed up within spitting distance of the line and finished sixth in a downpour. I remember lifting my head and seeing Martin raise his arms as the race winner; I felt ill. I rode the remaining classics with little motivation or conviction and left Paris with a vague promise from Escalon that I could return the following season. I agreed, but in reality I wasn't sure that I wanted to.
On returning home, the gravity of my situation hit me. Should I go back for another year? Earley had made it, but had taken two years. Why not try once more? Work was impossible to find in Dublin. Raphael was also out of a job and we both signed on for the dole for a few weeks. Then a friend of ours, Michael Collins, found us two places at the government training centre, ANCO in Finglas. Michael, who was cycling mad, seemed very keen that we try again. There was no way Raphael was going back to ACBB, but I couldn't make up my mind – at least they assured you a pro contract if you performed. A phone call from Sean Kelly made up my mind.
He was home for the winter and, besides keeping himself fit, spent his time entertaining the numerous journalists and businessmen who flocked to his door from the Continent in search of a story or a product endorsement. One of them was a man called Guy Mollet, who did PR for a French company, Reydel. Kelly had used Reydel saddles for two seasons and Mollet was over to negotiate a new deal. Mollet was also the president of CC Wasquehal and he wanted the Irish champion for his team for 1985. He had organised the Ostricourt race which I had won in May. At first I hesitated and told Kelly I would be going back to the ACBB. Kelly said he was coming to Dublin in the afternoon to leave Mollet at the airport, and arranged for us to meet and talk.
Chubby, curly-haired, with nine and a half fingers, Guy Mollet was a shark. He said he was great friends with Kelly's directeur sportif Jean de Gribaldy, and assured me a pro contract with him if I produced the goods. He also promised free lodgings, £150 a month to live on and attractive cash bonuses for winning. I did not have to reflect too long. ACBB had cost me £1,000 and I had never received a centime from them in prize money. Mollet was a rogue but he was a likeable rogue. We shook hands and the deal was done.
6
GLORY DAYS
January 1985 was like January 1984, a difficult month. I noticed the change in Ann a week before leaving. She became moody and less gay, and I would often catch her with a tear in her eye, which she would quickly brush away and refuse to talk about. I knew what was upsetting her: soon I would return to France and the long winter we had passed together would be just a memory to sustain her till God knew when. I felt the pain, too, but tried not to show it. Men are not supposed to cry. Our relationship was three years old and we were totally committed to each other, but my obsession with cycling made it impossible for us to plan anything.
Wasquehal would be my last chance. I decided to stay with the club for as long as my savings would support me. Raphael and I left for France at the end of January with about £500 between us, half of what we had taken
I returned to Paris for the end-of-season classics and rode a stage race, the Tour of Seine-et-Marne. I was riding quite well, but in the time trial on the second day, Martin beat me by over two minutes and took the race lead. I made a big effort to win the last stage and thought I had it, but I was swallowed up within spitting distance of the line and finished sixth in a downpour. I remember lifting my head and seeing Martin raise his arms as the race winner; I felt ill. I rode the remaining classics with little motivation or conviction and left Paris with a vague promise from Escalon that I could return the following season. I agreed, but in reality I wasn't sure that I wanted to.
On returning home, the gravity of my situation hit me. Should I go back for another year? Earley had made it, but had taken two years. Why not try once more? Work was impossible to find in Dublin. Raphael was also out of a job and we both signed on for the dole for a few weeks. Then a friend of ours, Michael Collins, found us two places at the government training centre, ANCO in Finglas. Michael, who was cycling mad, seemed very keen that we try again. There was no way Raphael was going back to ACBB, but I couldn't make up my mind – at least they assured you a pro contract if you performed. A phone call from Sean Kelly made up my mind.
He was home for the winter and, besides keeping himself fit, spent his time entertaining the numerous journalists and businessmen who flocked to his door from the Continent in search of a story or a product endorsement. One of them was a man called Guy Mollet, who did PR for a French company, Reydel. Kelly had used Reydel saddles for two seasons and Mollet was over to negotiate a new deal. Mollet was also the president of CC Wasquehal and he wanted the Irish champion for his team for 1985. He had organised the Ostricourt race which I had won in May. At first I hesitated and told Kelly I would be going back to the ACBB. Kelly said he was coming to Dublin in the afternoon to leave Mollet at the airport, and arranged for us to meet and talk.
Chubby, curly-haired, with nine and a half fingers, Guy Mollet was a shark. He said he was great friends with Kelly's directeur sportif Jean de Gribaldy, and assured me a pro contract with him if I produced the goods. He also promised free lodgings, £150 a month to live on and attractive cash bonuses for winning. I did not have to reflect too long. ACBB had cost me £1,000 and I had never received a centime from them in prize money. Mollet was a rogue but he was a likeable rogue. We shook hands and the deal was done.
6
GLORY DAYS
January 1985 was like January 1984, a difficult month. I noticed the change in Ann a week before leaving. She became moody and less gay, and I would often catch her with a tear in her eye, which she would quickly brush away and refuse to talk about. I knew what was upsetting her: soon I would return to France and the long winter we had passed together would be just a memory to sustain her till God knew when. I felt the pain, too, but tried not to show it. Men are not supposed to cry. Our relationship was three years old and we were totally committed to each other, but my obsession with cycling made it impossible for us to plan anything.
Wasquehal would be my last chance. I decided to stay with the club for as long as my savings would support me. Raphael and I left for France at the end of January with about £500 between us, half of what we had taken
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