Read Online We Were Young and Carefree by Laurent Fignon - Free Book Online
Authors: Laurent Fignon
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bizarre way to behave: I believe he actually couldn’t think of anything else to say to me. But I didn’t dare laugh. One hour later in the midst of all these pros, I found out where I stood: fifteenth. Promising.
After four days I had really acclimatised well to the whole environment, to the ambience of the professional cycling world, to their way of doing things, of which I could only get glimpses of the most obvious parts, their self-discipline, their obvious seriousness. More than anything else, the style of racing suited me. The early kilometres of each stage slipped gently by at low average speeds which allowed me enough time to get my engine warmed up and then, with no warning, the pace would be raised abruptly and it was eyeballs out all of a sudden. It was ideal for me. I was in my element. I was an attacking rider, able to go time and again, and quick enough when I needed to be. Above all, I could keep up with the sustained, high speeds. Professional racing was made for me.
On the last day, Guimard came and saw me. Pascal Jules had also been riding superbly all week and was there as well. Guimard had asked for the meeting; we couldn’t say no. We got there early. ‘Do you want me to keep an eye on you this year . . .’ he said. We were frozen with desire. After a brief pause, he continued ‘. . . with an eye to having you as pros one day?’
There was no reply we could give Cyrille Guimard. He would speak, do as he wished and arrange it all. We must have just muttered a vague, meaningless ‘Of course, Monsieur Guimard.’ He presumably wanted to impress us and he had managed it.
During that Tour of Corsica he was the only directeur sportif from a French team who came to talk to us. Was that a coincidence? Clearly not. We were hotheaded young amateurs riding for the first time with the pros and anyone could see we didn’t lack courage. But only Guimard felt the need to come and make our acquaintance.
What he had said to us – not to mention the fact that he had wanted to have some involvement in what we did – was as good as a contract. At the very least, it felt like a moral contract. Guimard had spoken. There was nothing more to say. It was now up to us to prove that he had not made a mistake. We were honour-bound to try, in whatever way we could.
A lot of things have been said about the closed little world of amateur racing. There is a lot of fantasising. Some of the stories are true, of course, but they need to be clarified, situated in their time and their context. A lot of the old wives’ tales need to be refuted.
What I saw in amateur cycling – I’m talking only of the time when I raced – bears no resemblance to a world of ‘shameless cheats’ who would ‘sell their grandmother’ to earn a few francs. At that time, everything followed unwritten rules laid down by the ‘old guys’, often former pros who were ending their careers as amateurs. They had a code of conduct but no one was obliged to follow it. However if you wanted to really get involved in the races, to be at the front and have a chance to win, sometimes you had no choice but to accept their little set-ups and play the game. For them it wasn’t a matter of bending moral rules; it was simply like that and not any other way, just as the Earth happened to go round the Sun.
I’m not talking about doping. Obviously I’m not saying that there were no cheats in the amateur races. I’m certain that there were and when I think back, I’m sure a lot of guys were using amphetamines because back then drug tests were only carried out in professional events. But I was young and had no awareness of any of that and to tell the truth I wasn’t interested. I cycled because I wanted to have a whale of a time; I wanted to compete, I wanted to progress on my own terms, and I wanted to win. What I did know, however, was that to have a chance of winning it was worth cultivating allies. That would be done either at the start or
After four days I had really acclimatised well to the whole environment, to the ambience of the professional cycling world, to their way of doing things, of which I could only get glimpses of the most obvious parts, their self-discipline, their obvious seriousness. More than anything else, the style of racing suited me. The early kilometres of each stage slipped gently by at low average speeds which allowed me enough time to get my engine warmed up and then, with no warning, the pace would be raised abruptly and it was eyeballs out all of a sudden. It was ideal for me. I was in my element. I was an attacking rider, able to go time and again, and quick enough when I needed to be. Above all, I could keep up with the sustained, high speeds. Professional racing was made for me.
On the last day, Guimard came and saw me. Pascal Jules had also been riding superbly all week and was there as well. Guimard had asked for the meeting; we couldn’t say no. We got there early. ‘Do you want me to keep an eye on you this year . . .’ he said. We were frozen with desire. After a brief pause, he continued ‘. . . with an eye to having you as pros one day?’
There was no reply we could give Cyrille Guimard. He would speak, do as he wished and arrange it all. We must have just muttered a vague, meaningless ‘Of course, Monsieur Guimard.’ He presumably wanted to impress us and he had managed it.
During that Tour of Corsica he was the only directeur sportif from a French team who came to talk to us. Was that a coincidence? Clearly not. We were hotheaded young amateurs riding for the first time with the pros and anyone could see we didn’t lack courage. But only Guimard felt the need to come and make our acquaintance.
What he had said to us – not to mention the fact that he had wanted to have some involvement in what we did – was as good as a contract. At the very least, it felt like a moral contract. Guimard had spoken. There was nothing more to say. It was now up to us to prove that he had not made a mistake. We were honour-bound to try, in whatever way we could.
A lot of things have been said about the closed little world of amateur racing. There is a lot of fantasising. Some of the stories are true, of course, but they need to be clarified, situated in their time and their context. A lot of the old wives’ tales need to be refuted.
What I saw in amateur cycling – I’m talking only of the time when I raced – bears no resemblance to a world of ‘shameless cheats’ who would ‘sell their grandmother’ to earn a few francs. At that time, everything followed unwritten rules laid down by the ‘old guys’, often former pros who were ending their careers as amateurs. They had a code of conduct but no one was obliged to follow it. However if you wanted to really get involved in the races, to be at the front and have a chance to win, sometimes you had no choice but to accept their little set-ups and play the game. For them it wasn’t a matter of bending moral rules; it was simply like that and not any other way, just as the Earth happened to go round the Sun.
I’m not talking about doping. Obviously I’m not saying that there were no cheats in the amateur races. I’m certain that there were and when I think back, I’m sure a lot of guys were using amphetamines because back then drug tests were only carried out in professional events. But I was young and had no awareness of any of that and to tell the truth I wasn’t interested. I cycled because I wanted to have a whale of a time; I wanted to compete, I wanted to progress on my own terms, and I wanted to win. What I did know, however, was that to have a chance of winning it was worth cultivating allies. That would be done either at the start or
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