Read Online We Were Young and Carefree by Laurent Fignon - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Laurent Fignon
Ads: Link
during the race.
Not long after the Tour of Corsica I was racing one Sunday at Châteaudun in Central France. There were young seniors like me and old guys from the past, in a fairly friendly atmosphere. I remember that the wind was so strong you could hardly stay upright on the bike. The wind: a cyclist’s worst enemy.
I was in great shape. I loved these races because you really learned how to compete there. There was no comparison with pro racing but it was serious enough. The guys knew how to hurt themselves, the bike handling was of a good standard and I always learned something by watching how they behaved in the race. The only thing was, when the combines between the ‘oldies’ began to function, the race was as good as over: you had to be extremely strong to prevent them from stitching up the whole event. But you have to understand: this is how amateur racers earned their living.
So on this day there were plenty of old pros. I can remember as if it were yesterday: they were all in it together. I was flying and was continually off the front, getting in among them, pushing the pace up, counter-attacking. I was getting in the way of what they had arranged beforehand.
After a little while they had worked out that I wasn’t going to burn myself out and that I might well win the race rather than one of them, and so the leader of the little band came up to see me and said: ‘You can be with us.’ I had worked out they were a combine and didn’t think twice before saying ‘OK, but I’m the one who wins.’ They suggested I put 3000 francs (about £300) in the kitty afterwards. That was a fair bit for me but it was the only way I could join them and seal the alliance. I had to learn, and so I said yes.
The race went as expected. Together we were unstoppable, and as if to prove that I was in my best form I ended up in front with the leader himself. We were working well together and when we fought out the finish there was no artifice. It wasn’t my day: on the little climb to the line my gears jumped and I could only get second. It was tough: I was annoyed to lose like that.
A little while after the race we met up to divide the loot as arranged. It was the first time I’d done this. And I couldn’t believe what happened. They formed a circle and stood there looking down their noses at me, sure of themselves, as if they owned me. The big chief looked at me scornfully and said: ‘Actually I’m only putting in 1500 francs.’
Not only had he won the race, but he was putting in half my contribution. It was completely out of order. Presumably he wanted to test a young guy like me, to see if I was going to take the bait and set me up to be a useful workhorse in future. They weren’t taking a risk, or so they thought: those guys had a stranglehold on all the races. But I wasn’t happy about it. My impulsive side got the better of me and I lost my temper. I wasn’t going to accept this injustice. We had agreed the principles according to which we would work and the cash to be paid. Why go back on it? I stood up in front of them and yelled: ‘Give me the money I’m owed and I’m out of here. And hear this: you won’t fuck with me again!’ They laughed. I went berserk: ‘You will never win another race if I’m in it. So go fuck yourselves.’
As I turned my back I could hear them taking the piss. They must have found me arrogant and ridiculous. But I was young and had it all to prove. They had been around the block and had years of painful experience behind them; they wanted to wear me down, humiliate me, and turn me into their servant. I could respect what they had been in the past. I couldn’t put up with what they wanted to force on me.
Some of them had not managed to keep their careers as pros going; others hoped to be pros some day. It would have been simple to find them a bit pathetic, poor bastards. But when I look back at it, I think that these guys were both freakish and noble in their way. The
Not long after the Tour of Corsica I was racing one Sunday at Châteaudun in Central France. There were young seniors like me and old guys from the past, in a fairly friendly atmosphere. I remember that the wind was so strong you could hardly stay upright on the bike. The wind: a cyclist’s worst enemy.
I was in great shape. I loved these races because you really learned how to compete there. There was no comparison with pro racing but it was serious enough. The guys knew how to hurt themselves, the bike handling was of a good standard and I always learned something by watching how they behaved in the race. The only thing was, when the combines between the ‘oldies’ began to function, the race was as good as over: you had to be extremely strong to prevent them from stitching up the whole event. But you have to understand: this is how amateur racers earned their living.
So on this day there were plenty of old pros. I can remember as if it were yesterday: they were all in it together. I was flying and was continually off the front, getting in among them, pushing the pace up, counter-attacking. I was getting in the way of what they had arranged beforehand.
After a little while they had worked out that I wasn’t going to burn myself out and that I might well win the race rather than one of them, and so the leader of the little band came up to see me and said: ‘You can be with us.’ I had worked out they were a combine and didn’t think twice before saying ‘OK, but I’m the one who wins.’ They suggested I put 3000 francs (about £300) in the kitty afterwards. That was a fair bit for me but it was the only way I could join them and seal the alliance. I had to learn, and so I said yes.
The race went as expected. Together we were unstoppable, and as if to prove that I was in my best form I ended up in front with the leader himself. We were working well together and when we fought out the finish there was no artifice. It wasn’t my day: on the little climb to the line my gears jumped and I could only get second. It was tough: I was annoyed to lose like that.
A little while after the race we met up to divide the loot as arranged. It was the first time I’d done this. And I couldn’t believe what happened. They formed a circle and stood there looking down their noses at me, sure of themselves, as if they owned me. The big chief looked at me scornfully and said: ‘Actually I’m only putting in 1500 francs.’
Not only had he won the race, but he was putting in half my contribution. It was completely out of order. Presumably he wanted to test a young guy like me, to see if I was going to take the bait and set me up to be a useful workhorse in future. They weren’t taking a risk, or so they thought: those guys had a stranglehold on all the races. But I wasn’t happy about it. My impulsive side got the better of me and I lost my temper. I wasn’t going to accept this injustice. We had agreed the principles according to which we would work and the cash to be paid. Why go back on it? I stood up in front of them and yelled: ‘Give me the money I’m owed and I’m out of here. And hear this: you won’t fuck with me again!’ They laughed. I went berserk: ‘You will never win another race if I’m in it. So go fuck yourselves.’
As I turned my back I could hear them taking the piss. They must have found me arrogant and ridiculous. But I was young and had it all to prove. They had been around the block and had years of painful experience behind them; they wanted to wear me down, humiliate me, and turn me into their servant. I could respect what they had been in the past. I couldn’t put up with what they wanted to force on me.
Some of them had not managed to keep their careers as pros going; others hoped to be pros some day. It would have been simple to find them a bit pathetic, poor bastards. But when I look back at it, I think that these guys were both freakish and noble in their way. The
Similar Books
