Read Online We Were Young and Carefree by Laurent Fignon - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Laurent Fignon
Ads: Link
bizarre aspect was that they were trying to survive in cycling, pushing their bodies to the limit in a world of physical suffering rather than taking an easy route somewhere else. The noble side was that they loved bike racing so much that they had to impose their own rules on it, whatever you might think of them.
Well, they thought they could laugh at me, but they didn’t know quite what a pig-headed lad I was. Each time that happy little family turned up at a race where I was riding, I applied the same principle: either I won, or I raced to make them lose. I didn’t spare any effort in going through with the line I’d decided upon. There was only one occasion when they managed to catch me out, which was one day when I was completely on my own. Otherwise it worked out like ABC. I became their bête noire. They even tried to renegotiate a deal with me but I wasn’t swallowing that. They had wanted to humilate me so it was their tough luck.
Without being aware of it, by expressing my character in this way and imposing a kind of authority, I was showing signs of being a champion in the making. Behaving this way toughened me up and taught me to race.
It was May 1981. While France lived through the frenetic hope that followed the political upheaval after the election of the left-wing president François Miterrand, my personal destiny was changed overnight. It took a single telephone call. Cyrille Guimard was on the line. It was very early in the season for this, but I distinctly heard him say: ‘I’ll take you next year. You’ll sign for me.’ A funny shiver went right through me; I believe I may have had furtive little tears in my eyes. I’d done it. As I came to terms with it, I called Pascal Jules. I was twice as happy. Guimard had just called him as well. We shouted in delight – a shared battle cry that is etched on my mind.
The boss of the Renault team had arranged a meeting with us in July, early on the morning after the final stage of the Tour de France, in the Sofitel at Porte de Sèvres. We got there early, our hearts pounding. Time passed by, but there was no sign of Guimard. Julot and I looked at each other. Then he turned up, very late, in a tracksuit, with a hazy look about him. He seemed a bit washed out: the Tour was over, and there’s always a party. He didn’t say a lot; then he got out the contracts. Of course neither of us took a second glance at what was written on them. We knew the key thing: our new professionals’ salary, 4500 francs a month at the time. Anyway, we weren’t going to argue with Guimard: he could have stipulated that we had to sleep in handcuffs and we’d still have signed.
We used our best joined-up handwriting and handed back the contracts, very pleased with ourselves. And he said emphatically: ‘Well, you’ve just got your first thing wrong.’ What on earth was he saying? He just amused himself by letting time tick on, keeping the suspense mounting. After a few lengthy minutes he explained: ‘You’ve signed the contracts and handed them back but you haven’t kept one. That’s not how it’s done.’ He sounded as if he meant it but I gave as good as I got. ‘But Monsieur Guimard, we gave them back because you haven’t signed them yet. What’s the point of us having a contract that hasn’t got your signature on it?’ He looked at me, amazed that I was so quick. All he could say was: ‘Well, anyway . . .’ The exchange sums up Guimard; he always felt he had to prove he knew best, make an impression; he wanted to show he was boss.
Well, we were on cloud nine. Not only was I going to turn professional, but Julot, who had been approached by the Peugeot team, would be at my side after all. At Créteil I was now seen as the little local celebrity, like any amateur who has just got a deal with the pros. The final phase of my amateur career was going to be good. Guimard, who already had a moral claim on what we did, wanted us to take part in the Tour de
Well, they thought they could laugh at me, but they didn’t know quite what a pig-headed lad I was. Each time that happy little family turned up at a race where I was riding, I applied the same principle: either I won, or I raced to make them lose. I didn’t spare any effort in going through with the line I’d decided upon. There was only one occasion when they managed to catch me out, which was one day when I was completely on my own. Otherwise it worked out like ABC. I became their bête noire. They even tried to renegotiate a deal with me but I wasn’t swallowing that. They had wanted to humilate me so it was their tough luck.
Without being aware of it, by expressing my character in this way and imposing a kind of authority, I was showing signs of being a champion in the making. Behaving this way toughened me up and taught me to race.
It was May 1981. While France lived through the frenetic hope that followed the political upheaval after the election of the left-wing president François Miterrand, my personal destiny was changed overnight. It took a single telephone call. Cyrille Guimard was on the line. It was very early in the season for this, but I distinctly heard him say: ‘I’ll take you next year. You’ll sign for me.’ A funny shiver went right through me; I believe I may have had furtive little tears in my eyes. I’d done it. As I came to terms with it, I called Pascal Jules. I was twice as happy. Guimard had just called him as well. We shouted in delight – a shared battle cry that is etched on my mind.
The boss of the Renault team had arranged a meeting with us in July, early on the morning after the final stage of the Tour de France, in the Sofitel at Porte de Sèvres. We got there early, our hearts pounding. Time passed by, but there was no sign of Guimard. Julot and I looked at each other. Then he turned up, very late, in a tracksuit, with a hazy look about him. He seemed a bit washed out: the Tour was over, and there’s always a party. He didn’t say a lot; then he got out the contracts. Of course neither of us took a second glance at what was written on them. We knew the key thing: our new professionals’ salary, 4500 francs a month at the time. Anyway, we weren’t going to argue with Guimard: he could have stipulated that we had to sleep in handcuffs and we’d still have signed.
We used our best joined-up handwriting and handed back the contracts, very pleased with ourselves. And he said emphatically: ‘Well, you’ve just got your first thing wrong.’ What on earth was he saying? He just amused himself by letting time tick on, keeping the suspense mounting. After a few lengthy minutes he explained: ‘You’ve signed the contracts and handed them back but you haven’t kept one. That’s not how it’s done.’ He sounded as if he meant it but I gave as good as I got. ‘But Monsieur Guimard, we gave them back because you haven’t signed them yet. What’s the point of us having a contract that hasn’t got your signature on it?’ He looked at me, amazed that I was so quick. All he could say was: ‘Well, anyway . . .’ The exchange sums up Guimard; he always felt he had to prove he knew best, make an impression; he wanted to show he was boss.
Well, we were on cloud nine. Not only was I going to turn professional, but Julot, who had been approached by the Peugeot team, would be at my side after all. At Créteil I was now seen as the little local celebrity, like any amateur who has just got a deal with the pros. The final phase of my amateur career was going to be good. Guimard, who already had a moral claim on what we did, wanted us to take part in the Tour de
Similar Books
