to ACBB. This time it was make it or bust. A weird twist of fate turned us once more into the hands of Monsieur Wiegant. He had been overthrown at ACBB by a coup d'état. Escalon was now in full control of the team. Mollet phoned Wiegant and asked him to look after the Wasquehal riders for the month's pre-season training on the Cote d'Azur, and so, for the second year on the trot, we found ourselves at the Hotel La Quietude under the spell of the old sorcerer. He was a bit of a swine, but I respected him and felt almost sorry for him as he pined over his downfall. My form on the Cote was dismal and I didn't get one decent placing. Mollet was getting a little impatient with us, but I promised him I would get better once I was back in the north.
We rode our first northern classic, Amiens-Beaurains, a week after returning from the training camp. With twenty kilometres to go I broke away with three others, and in the finishing sprint was narrowly beaten to the line by my Wasquehal team-mate Jean-François Laffile. Mollet was delighted and kissed and hugged me in gratitude. I was pleased, he was pleased, I liked him.
The competition up north was not quite as tough as in Paris and we raced regularly, which was the big advantage. I won my first big race, the Tour of Cambresis, by out-sprinting a seven-man group in a fierce downpour. Mollet paid us regularly, and as the club won most of the races we always had a share of the prize money, so we made enough to live on. Raphael, too, was riding better. In May he won his first French race in the coastal town of Boulogne – I was second, and the bitter memories of Paris were effaced for us both.
I had good form in May and was probably the club's best rider for the month. Half-way through the month I was third in a Paris-Roubaix-style classic over the worst cobblestones of northern France. The morning after the race I got a phone call from Mollet.
'Bonjour Paul, c'est Guy. You are riding Bordeaux-Paris this weekend.'
(Bordeaux-Paris is 575 kilometres long, and the longest professional race in the world. Because of its savage distance, only a dozen or so professionals started the race. They lined up in Bordeaux before midnight, cycled 250 kilometres to Poitiers, were given twenty minutes for a change of clothes, and then rode the rest of the way with each rider individually paced behind a motorbike.)
'What? You must be joking.'
'No, no, it's no joke. The race organisers contacted Monsieur de Gribaldy and they want one amateur in the race, so I suggested you.'
I was taken aback and unsure how to respond. The race was just five days away. The pros riding would have more than a month's preparation in their legs. I had five days and would be on a hiding to nothing. Mollet and de Gribaldy could hardly criticise me if I refused to ride, but perhaps they would perceive this as a sign of weakness. And this would be a factor against me when I asked them later about a contract. I needed something to throw me into the national limelight; perhaps this was my chance. I agreed.
I trained twice behind a motorbike that week or rather, I had two four-hour sessions behind Guy Mollet's daughter's scooter. On Friday I flew to Bordeaux, with a change of aircraft at Lyon. There I recognised de Gribaldy and two of his riders, Dominique Garde and Eric Guyot, going through the departures hall. I was shy and preferred not to introduce myself. I let them board the aircraft before me. Monsieur de Gribaldy sat in a front row, but Garde and Guyot sat at the back. There was a place vacant beside them so I sat there. It was fun to study them close up. The next day we would be racing back to Paris together, but they hadn't a clue who I was. They read motor-car magazines and half-way through the flight Garde opened a packet of chocolate biscuits which they shared. As they munched, they peered over the top of the seats at de Gribaldy's head and giggled like school kids. I found it all very bewildering, but later, at
We rode our first northern classic, Amiens-Beaurains, a week after returning from the training camp. With twenty kilometres to go I broke away with three others, and in the finishing sprint was narrowly beaten to the line by my Wasquehal team-mate Jean-François Laffile. Mollet was delighted and kissed and hugged me in gratitude. I was pleased, he was pleased, I liked him.
The competition up north was not quite as tough as in Paris and we raced regularly, which was the big advantage. I won my first big race, the Tour of Cambresis, by out-sprinting a seven-man group in a fierce downpour. Mollet paid us regularly, and as the club won most of the races we always had a share of the prize money, so we made enough to live on. Raphael, too, was riding better. In May he won his first French race in the coastal town of Boulogne – I was second, and the bitter memories of Paris were effaced for us both.
I had good form in May and was probably the club's best rider for the month. Half-way through the month I was third in a Paris-Roubaix-style classic over the worst cobblestones of northern France. The morning after the race I got a phone call from Mollet.
'Bonjour Paul, c'est Guy. You are riding Bordeaux-Paris this weekend.'
(Bordeaux-Paris is 575 kilometres long, and the longest professional race in the world. Because of its savage distance, only a dozen or so professionals started the race. They lined up in Bordeaux before midnight, cycled 250 kilometres to Poitiers, were given twenty minutes for a change of clothes, and then rode the rest of the way with each rider individually paced behind a motorbike.)
'What? You must be joking.'
'No, no, it's no joke. The race organisers contacted Monsieur de Gribaldy and they want one amateur in the race, so I suggested you.'
I was taken aback and unsure how to respond. The race was just five days away. The pros riding would have more than a month's preparation in their legs. I had five days and would be on a hiding to nothing. Mollet and de Gribaldy could hardly criticise me if I refused to ride, but perhaps they would perceive this as a sign of weakness. And this would be a factor against me when I asked them later about a contract. I needed something to throw me into the national limelight; perhaps this was my chance. I agreed.
I trained twice behind a motorbike that week or rather, I had two four-hour sessions behind Guy Mollet's daughter's scooter. On Friday I flew to Bordeaux, with a change of aircraft at Lyon. There I recognised de Gribaldy and two of his riders, Dominique Garde and Eric Guyot, going through the departures hall. I was shy and preferred not to introduce myself. I let them board the aircraft before me. Monsieur de Gribaldy sat in a front row, but Garde and Guyot sat at the back. There was a place vacant beside them so I sat there. It was fun to study them close up. The next day we would be racing back to Paris together, but they hadn't a clue who I was. They read motor-car magazines and half-way through the flight Garde opened a packet of chocolate biscuits which they shared. As they munched, they peered over the top of the seats at de Gribaldy's head and giggled like school kids. I found it all very bewildering, but later, at
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