We Were Young And Carefree Part 1

We Were Young and Carefree.

by Laurent Fignon.

NOTE

I have a confession to make: a teenage crime against two-wheeled taste that haunts me when I look at old photographs. In the early 1980s I wore a sweatband when I rode my bike. At the time people may have thought it was inspired by John McEnroe, but the guilty party was Laurent Fignon. I wanted to look like Laurent but it didn't work out. His black, white and yellow Renault band looked fine against his sunbleached blond hair, thin-rimmed metal spectacles and scary blue eyes. Mine didn't have quite the same aura, but I was struggling through ten-mile time trials on a back road in North Devon rather than wearing the yellow jersey of the Tour de France on the Col du Galibier.

Like his contemporary Robert Millar they both rode their first Tours in 1983 and their last in 1993 Fignon came into my life twice in two completely different guises, first as a hero of my years as a teenage cyclist, then later as one of the more fascinating characters I worked with as a journalist. I spent the summer of 1984 with Fignon and Millar, glued to the daily Tour de France television coverage in the home of cycling-mad friends in Normandy. That was Fignon's finest July: the most dominant Tour win anyone had seen since the years of Eddy Merckx, his tally of five stage wins both mountain stages and time trials unmatched until Lance Armstrong arrived. By the end of the month, the roads of France were teeming with youngsters wearing sweatbands, Fignon-style.

Five years later, I had only recently begun working at Cycling Weekly Cycling Weekly, Britain's leading bike racing magazine, when the then editor, Martin Ayres, came to me with a dilemma. It was the Friday before the final weekend of the 1989 Tour de France and he had to make a call over the magazine's cover for the following week: Greg LeMond or Laurent Fignon. In essence, he had to decide which of the two would win the closest Tour de France in history. Fignon had a 50sec lead on LeMond, and jointly we calculated that this might well be enough to keep him in the yellow jersey through the final time trial. Knowing the cover picture couldn't be changed, there was consternation as we read the wire reports on the Sunday afternoon, when LeMond overturned Fignon's lead, achieving what had seemed impossible. We weren't the only ones to misread that particular epic, however.

A month later, Fignon was a key player in the first world championship road race I saw from the press box. On the rainsoaked Cote de la Montagnole at Chambery, he refought his duel of July with LeMond, the pair trading attack for counter-attack on the final lap. Inevitably it was LeMond who made the effort to bring Fignon back to the fold when he attempted one last move in the final kilometre. As at the Tour, LeMond got the jersey a rainbow-striped one to go with his yellow from July and Fignon was one of the also rans. He doesn't even mention his sixth place in this book, quite possibly because it wasn't something he wanted to remember. But watching him that day, it was impossible not to admire the man, the way he wanted to grab the race by the scruff of the neck and bend it to his will. That he couldn't manage it simply added to the fascination.

The first time I actually met Fignon was not auspicious: he was late and he didn't like answering questions. But his slightly curt manner was a front: he wanted to sort out the professional journalist sheep from the timewasting goats. He didn't suffer fools gladly, but he seemed to have a deeper view of his sport than most of his contemporaries. Talking to him was one of the more rewarding tasks when covering bike races. The nickname he was given briefly in the 1980s the Professor, on the strength of an abortive attempt at university seemed well merited. Together with photographer Phil O'Connor and Fignon's sidekick Alain Gallopin we enjoyed a day out in Paris in 1992, shooting a vast feature for Cycling Weekly Cycling Weekly. We began with an elaborate c.o.c.ktail at the Cafe de Flore, once the haunt of Jean-Paul Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir, followed that up with a browse in a fine antiquarian bookshop, and ended up on the Eiffel Tower. As he posed on the platform for a picture with his native Paris outlined behind him, I noticed how hard his hand was gripping the rail: he suffered from vertigo, he told me.

All this may begin to explain why I was determined, as translator, to help bring Fignon's story to an English-speaking audience. By the time I knew him, at the end of his career, Fignon was an elder statesman. His views on the way the sport should be run struck me as more considered than those of the guys who did run it. He was a rare beast among elite sportsmen in having feelings and ideas about his sport that went far beyond the next win and the next contract. Those facts alone should ensure this book an audience.

The key events in We Were Young and Carefree We Were Young and Carefree take place between 1982 and 1989: a lifetime away for most of the cyclists now riding the Tour de France, and more for those who aspire to it. It's a truism, but the 1980s now seem like a different world, one of Simplex Retrofriction brake levers on thin, steel downtubes, flapping gear cables, bare heads without skid lids, and crochet-backed cycling gloves. This book matters, because it describes, from the inside, the dying gasps of a style of cycling that had changed relatively little since the 1960s: far less polished than today's sport, less predictable, less controlled, and more amateurish in every sense. take place between 1982 and 1989: a lifetime away for most of the cyclists now riding the Tour de France, and more for those who aspire to it. It's a truism, but the 1980s now seem like a different world, one of Simplex Retrofriction brake levers on thin, steel downtubes, flapping gear cables, bare heads without skid lids, and crochet-backed cycling gloves. This book matters, because it describes, from the inside, the dying gasps of a style of cycling that had changed relatively little since the 1960s: far less polished than today's sport, less predictable, less controlled, and more amateurish in every sense.

As he told me, and as he writes here, Fignon has gone down in cycling folklore as the man who lost the closest Tour ever, rather than a man who won it twice. His place in the pantheon should be among the few who won the Tour at their first attempt Bernard Hinault, Fausto Coppi, Eddy Merckx and the elite who have taken five stage wins en route to the overall t.i.tle. He is also one of the select group who have taken back to back victories in MilanSan Remo, one of the hardest Cla.s.sics to win. Others include Merckx, Coppi and Cla.s.sics non-pareil Roger de Vlaeminck.

Results only count for so much, however. The emotional impact a sports star makes on his chosen sphere matters far more, and that is why this biggest of characters will always be remembered for losing the Tour by eight seconds rather than for destroying Bernard Hinault in 1984. By 1989, Fignon had become an enigma. As he says in these pages, he had shut himself off from the press and his fans as he attempted to deal with the stress of coming back after countless setbacks, but on 23 July that year, he showed raw emotion in defeat. By then, it had become clear how complex his character was: what drew us to Fignon after that defeat was the brutal way in which that private man was stripped of his mask in public. It was so cruel, but so compelling.

What follows is a rare thing in a sports autobiography: the tale of the prodigy who was thrust to the top, brutally thrown down, and then spent the rest of his career trying to climb back. The true value in this book lies in the background to that great defeat: the complexity of the years that preceded the 'eight-second afternoon', as Fignon tried so hard to turn the clock back to 1984. Back then, we had little idea of the sheer desperation of that search: it's all in these pages. As on that July afternoon, the mask is removed again: this time it's voluntary, but it is no less compelling for that.

William Fotheringham, June 2010

WE WERE YOUNG AND CAREFREE AND CAREFREE THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF LAURENT FIGNON LAURENT FIGNON Translated from the French by Translated from the French by William Fotheringham William Fotheringham Laurent Fignon Laurent Fignon

CHAPTER 1.

EIGHT SECONDS.

'Ah, I remember you: you're the guy who lost the Tour de France by eight seconds!'

'No, monsieur, I'm the guy who won the Tour twice.'

We knew no fear.

Those four little words: blasphemous, outrageous, unreasonable? I chose this opening well in advance but when it came to putting those words on paper, I hesitated. I was not sure I wanted to let them out in public. Perhaps they will be seen as evidence for the prosecution rather than what they actually are: words that testify to how it was. How my time was. That's the truth: we weren't afraid of anything, but we didn't do just any old thing.

What follows is my personal story, but it also describes a wider world, a lost world which created complete men rather than just sportsmen: in me, the man has always had the upper hand over the sportsman. The l.u.s.t for excitement, tempests and battles has always been there. It springs from the tiniest inkling of an idea. It looks wide-eyed out at the world. I always wanted to grab life in both hands. Otherwise, what's the point of being on this earth? Is it pride when you prefer the surge of living things to slavish complacency? Is it vanity when you want to surprise yourself again and again? Is it a crime to have a compet.i.tive soul and a gambler's blood?

Cycling is a living, breathing art. Those cyclists who forget that are halfway to becoming sloths. Isn't it better to gamble on victory than to secure a comfortable defeat? I didn't want life to be somewhere else, some other time. I wanted life to be full, every instant of it, beginning again every day, I wanted it to be complete, and loaded with surprises.

You could call me a lucky man. Between the beginning and the end of the 1980s, on the cusp of two very different cycling worlds, my career saw the end of the last untroubled age of bike racing. The men of that era still looked each other in the eye. We didn't tiptoe away when the time came to light the fuse: we preferred rousing anthems to gentle lullabies. And we didn't mind getting burned if necessary. A true cyclist sometimes has to bite the dust before he can reach the stars.

Win.

Survive.

Hang in there.

It's a race against oblivion, a race against time, a race against yourself: a career, a life. Can a man's character be represented in the way he rides a bike? If so, has cycling said all it can say about me?

I'm not certain what my era stands for, but without knowing it I lived through a golden age. That sounds pretentious but here is how I define it: they were the last days when cycling was a dignified matter. You won't find any nostalgic sentences here; at most a hint of melancholy now and again. I may linger around feelings, facts and deeds as if to keep the highlights of my story intact. I must confess: I've never felt it was better in my day. It was just different, that's all, as all the various eras are. But even so I still feel that I lived through the cycling equivalent of the Swinging Sixties. I even believe I was one of the movers and shakers. Some compared me to 'the Leader of the Pack'. Some leader. Some pack.

At the very least we never compromised in our approach to life. Let's just say we were the rebellious element rather than yes-men. We were always alive, even if sometimes we weren't in the best of health: we were never robots. We were crazy, but had a certain dignity about us. We were very young in some ways, very mature in others. Sometimes I'm asked: 'In what way was it so very different?' And the same people often add: 'and when was the tipping point, when it all began to change?'

I have mixed feelings when I go through my memory bank for details and key scenes. But I can be fairly precise about when the change came: the turning point was the final day of the 1989 Tour de France. A day of insane sadness. A day of monstrous defeat. The only day in my whole life when a few seconds were an eternity. Many people feel that this is the day that divides two radically different kinds of cycling. Is it that surprising? The craftsmen were defeated by ma.s.s-production. Handmade goods were overwhelmed by factory-made stuff. Individuals were submerged in the anonymous ma.s.s. The people's heroes were strangled and the glory of the Giants of the Road trickled away.

There is a before and an after. It's 1989: the Tour de France. Eight seconds. The Champs-Elysees. A via dolorosa. h.e.l.l on the cobbles.

Come on, let's burst the abscess before we really get started. The wound has to be left open. Let it bleed away in silence. It will bleed a good while yet.

The Tour de France is a landmark in twentieth-century history, a microcosm that creates and displays characters as over the top as the event itself. Whether you win or lose, you cannot escape that. As the winner in 1983 and 1984 I'd already drunk that cup to the full. I knew how delicious every drop tasted. And I knew the price to pay if you missed out...

As far as I was concerned, there was plenty at stake in the 1989 Tour. A month earlier I'd won the Giro d'Italia. Not only had I gone back to being the racer I wanted to be, but at last I could see a chance to achieve the GiroTour double; a major achievement that had been s.n.a.t.c.hed from me in 1984. And even though I didn't need to win the Tour to know who I was and what I was capable of, winning it again would earn me a place in the very small group of triple winners, on the same standing as a rider like Louison Bobet, for example.

However, I remember that the day before the start I suddenly thought of a phrase I'd whispered a few months earlier in the ear of my ma.s.seur and confidant, Alain Gallopin: 'You know, 1989 will be the last year I'll be able to win the Tour.' I'd said it well before my win in the Giro, aware that I was nearly twenty-nine. Physically I was not over the hill let's not get carried away but I sensed this was the final flowering of my physical ability. It was as if I'd had an early warning that the swansong wasn't far off and that I had to use to the full what I had left before the swans tuned up in public. Saying that to Alain, I'd had a sudden flash of awareness.

After several years of structural crises, I knew that my team was completely behind me for the big test. With Cyrille Guimard as directeur sportif directeur sportif, the Super-U team could still be considered one of the best in the world and often was the best. Or at least I was convinced of that, deep inside. Even though I didn't know what actually went on in other teams, in spite of whatever the guys who had left us might say, I felt that Guimard was the best manager to work with. He had retained the capacity to adapt as new generations arrived, at a time of ma.s.sive upheavals within cycling, which we could all feel was mutating irrevocably into something else but what? Cyrille put together personal training plans and all he needed was to see a guy on his bike at a training camp or even just a simple training ride, to know what the rider's form was, how he had worked in the weeks before and what he needed to turn the pedals quicker. Guimard had that awareness in his eyes. He could a.n.a.lyse things rapidly, and if something had escaped him, he would rectify the situation.

This all meant that we could get going quickly at the start of the season, usually earlier than much of the opposition. And even though some of the guys in the team believed that we weren't as strong as before largely because they had heard themselves saying it our spring results in 1989 soothed any nerves. The team relied too much on me, but it was the collective effort that everyone looked at. That year, we were as good as we were held up to be. And as for me, I was still going strong after being given up for dead at least a hundred times.

Before the Tour's grand depart grand depart in Luxembourg, we all went through a fine training camp in the Pyrenees. I felt my form was great, and the rest of the team could see it. I was dying to get the kilometres in. And for the Tour, I had a well-knit, highly compet.i.tive team: Gerard Rue, Vincent Barteau, Thierry Marie, Pascal Simon, Dominique Garde, Christophe Lavainne, the Dane Bjarne Riis and the Swiss Heinz Imboden. in Luxembourg, we all went through a fine training camp in the Pyrenees. I felt my form was great, and the rest of the team could see it. I was dying to get the kilometres in. And for the Tour, I had a well-knit, highly compet.i.tive team: Gerard Rue, Vincent Barteau, Thierry Marie, Pascal Simon, Dominique Garde, Christophe Lavainne, the Dane Bjarne Riis and the Swiss Heinz Imboden.

First came the prologue, 7.8km and won by the Dutchman Erik Breukink. After going absolutely flat out, I came second in the same time as the American Greg LeMond, which suggested two things that would prove to be correct in the next three weeks. Firstly, my form was perfect. Secondly, the man to beat would probably be LeMond, who had shown very little since his serious gunshot wound during a hunting party in 1987. The man to beat would certainly not be the defending champion Pedro Delgado, who was the author of an unimaginable blunder before the race even began: he arrived at the start nearly three minutes late. Victory in the Tour was already a distant memory for him.

I can still remember it all. Before and after the prologue, the photographers were going berserk around me. I was still radiant with the reflected glory of the Giro's pink jersey, so I'd again become salesworthy in the eyes of the press. Pictures of the likely winner shift a newspaper or two, as we all know. It was quite a spectacle. There were dozens of them in a glutinous ma.s.s all round me, popping away like machine guns, elbows all over the place, shoving me if need be. I almost had trouble keeping my mind on the job in hand. As I usually did, I grumbled at them a bit. I can't have come across very well. What can you do? Not only do you have to concentrate on the day's work, you have to give them what they want and then they expect you to be happy with the pressure, do they?

In the second stage, a team time trial over forty-six kilometres around Luxembourg too short for my taste I was in sparkling form. Apart from a few fleeting moments, on the final part of the loop no one was able to share the pace making with me. I could feel the power inside me, the power that was there on my best days. I could simply pound the pedals without worrying about the consequences. It was almost ecstasy, knowing that I had come back to the level of the very best like this, knowing that I was (almost) back to what I had once been in the Tour. Even so, I didn't feel we were going that fast. Guimard had come up to tell us we were in the lead: not only did we win the stage but along the way we gained forty seconds on Greg LeMond's ADR team, who weren't exactly in sparkling form. As for Delgado, now more than seven minutes behind, from that day on we viewed him as being definitely out of the battle for overall victory, even if you took into account what he could do in the mountains.

There was only one name to reckon with: LeMond, winner in 1986. Since the Tour of Italy, Guimard had been very worried about him. After lurking deep down the overall standings for the whole Giro he had finally broken the surface by taking second place in the final time trial. In Guimard's eyes that was a sure sign. And LeMond was to prove him right in the fifth stage of the Tour, an individual time trial over a colossal seventy-three kilometres between Dinard and Rennes. Because of his lower overall placing, LeMond started about an hour before me and had more helpful weather; I had to contend with a few showers and a lot of headwind. The American won the stage from Delgado, who was 24sec back and I conceded 56sec in third. That might seem like a vast gap, but it needs a little explanation.

Firstly, as everyone knows, LeMond was unrivalled as a time triallist, much better than me when it came to riding alone and unpaced. In addition, he was using a very special bike equipped with handlebar extensions with elbow rests, giving him a far more aerodynamic position and four support points pedals, saddle, bars and elbow rests which was totally revolutionary but also strictly against the rules. Until then, the referees had only allowed three support points. For reasons that still elude me, Guimard and I didn't make a formal complaint... and the idle commissaries commissaries shut their eyes. The rules were being bent, and the consequences would be way beyond anything I could have imagined. shut their eyes. The rules were being bent, and the consequences would be way beyond anything I could have imagined.

LeMond was now in yellow, a handful of seconds ahead of me, and there was no chance he would take the slightest risk: that was not his style. The first Pyrenean stage, from Pau to Cauterets, was as expected: he sucked the wheels as best he could and made it obvious he was just going to be a spectator. As I've already said, he didn't have a strong team at his side but even so he had the physical ability to control a race on any terrain. But no: he was barely willing to defend his jersey. When Delgado's Reynolds team sent their men on the attack, putting Delgado at the front and dispatching the young Miguel Indurain towards the stage win, LeMond didn't blink. I was the one who was forced to keep them within reach. All he did was sit tight and take advantage of the work I put in. To be honest, it was extremely frustrating.

The tenth stage between Cauterets and the finish climb at Superbagneres, was a special day. The Tourmalet, Aspin and Peyresourde cols were on the menu: the stuff that epics are made of. While up ahead Charly Mottet was trying vainly to turn his race around by attacking a long way from the finish, taking with him the day's winner, Robert Millar, I felt as if I was having a ma.s.sive off-day, particularly on the Tourmalet where the attacking was brutal and I had no answer. Rather like the day before, for some reason I couldn't work out, I was going nowhere. But as I put on a bit of a show as I went along, and didn't give any sign that I was in trouble, my rivals didn't notice my real state.

In any case, if I remained with Greg LeMond there wasn't much to worry about. He was incapable of attacking, as the climb to Superbagneres proved. To this day I don't know if he managed to come alongside me once, and that's saying something. It wound me up. And when I got frustrated, when I began boiling inside, it had to come out somehow. A few kilometres from the finish Steven Rooks and Gert-Jan Theunisse attacked together. I looked at LeMond to see if he was going to react. I didn't even try to follow them: physically I just couldn't do it. But allowing LeMond to stay on my wheel all the way to the top would have driven me mad. In the final kilometre I did enough to get rid of him, pushing myself far beyond what I felt capable of at the time. I gained all of twelve seconds on him, in other words enough for me to take the yellow jersey by seven seconds: our hand-to-hand battle had begun.

In any case, I was happy to pull the maillot jaune maillot jaune over my shoulders; it had been so long since the last time in 1984. And I was happy to have officially taken over responsibility for controlling the race, and was ready to take it on: LeMond refused to do so. At least there was no question about it now. In front of the media that evening, I stuck to the way I liked to do things, and said openly how much LeMond's behaviour annoyed me. 'He complains that he had trouble with Hinault during the 1986 Tour, but he should take his share of blame. He was called a wheel-sucker at the time and the guys who said that weren't wrong.' Having said that, anyone can be on the receiving end. A spectator on the roadside yelled as I went past: 'Less talk, more racing!' and clearly he was right. That's how I've always seen it. over my shoulders; it had been so long since the last time in 1984. And I was happy to have officially taken over responsibility for controlling the race, and was ready to take it on: LeMond refused to do so. At least there was no question about it now. In front of the media that evening, I stuck to the way I liked to do things, and said openly how much LeMond's behaviour annoyed me. 'He complains that he had trouble with Hinault during the 1986 Tour, but he should take his share of blame. He was called a wheel-sucker at the time and the guys who said that weren't wrong.' Having said that, anyone can be on the receiving end. A spectator on the roadside yelled as I went past: 'Less talk, more racing!' and clearly he was right. That's how I've always seen it.

Of course, a few perceptive onlookers pointed out to me that LeMond had been clear that the weakness of his team prevented him from riding more ambitiously. There was no way he could dictate events. I had to go into some detail in my answer. 'Perhaps his team isn't up to the job, but the way he behaves is not acceptable for a maillot jaune maillot jaune. On the Col de Marie-Blanque, we were both on our own, without a teammate to help either of us, and he agreed that we would share the work. What happened? Nothing. He made the pace a bit on the Aubisque, but after that, it was all over. He didn't ride on the front once. Today, he let me do all the work. When Rooks and Theunisse attacked at the bottom of Superbagneres and they weren't pushing too hard he didn't react. I had a go at him, and promised that I'd get him off my wheel.'

The morning after I'd said all this, LeMond came to see me in the village-depart village-depart. Now it was his turn to have a go: 'You shouldn't say that stuff!' His image had been tarnished, and he didn't like that. LeMond is someone who has always paid attention to his popularity with the public and the press. He always rubbed along with them quite well, and his relations with journalists and fans were as chummy as could be, permanently flirting with them. I've never been able to do that. What's the interest in it? What's the point? I've always preferred to be myself. I'd rather shut up than just tell them what they want to hear.

Relatively speaking, the race quietened down briefly as far as the Alps. We watched each other for every single minute of the race. From the team's point of view, the stage to Ma.r.s.eille was a joyful high point. I was still in yellow but on 14 July 1989, the day of the bicentenary of the French revolution, Vincent Barteau won a prestigious stage that would stick in everyone's minds. Red, white and blue; champagne.

On the fifteenth stage, an individual time trial from Gap to Orcieres-Merlette, Rooks led the way and we both lost time: LeMond was fifth, I was tenth. That round went to the American. Over the thirty-nine kilometres I was fifty seconds slower; he had an overall lead of forty seconds. It was not over, but I knew that I had to go on the attack in the Alps or defeat was inevitable. That turned a war of attrition into an epic battle. He was climbing less well than I was, but was time trialling more strongly. It was a simple equation, and it would be valid all the way to Paris.

The next day took us to Briancon, over the Col d'Izoard. At the summit, the 'roof' of the Tour, I couldn't hold the wheels and was trailing behind Theunisse, Mottet, Delgado and LeMond. I threw myself headlong down the descent towards Briancon but it was a forlorn hope and I crossed the line fourteen seconds behind. Now both LeMond and I vaguely understood that every second had to be contested with no quarter given. As far as the fans and press were concerned at the time, the fourteen seconds didn't seem a great deal given that we had been racing for nearly three weeks. If only they had known.

On the morning of the seveteenth stage between Briancon and l'Alpe d'Huez Cyrille Guimard and I talked it all over, without keeping anything back. We both knew we wouldn't have many more chances to turn the race round. So I came up with a plan: wait for the start of the climb to l'Alpe d'Huez and put in the most vicious attack I could, at the very first hairpin. That meant really attacking, as if the finish was only 100 metres away. I had no option, but I was happy with it; I wanted to do battle, no matter what the price might be.

The gap between us was so tiny that there was no point in making a move on the Galibier or the Croix de Fer where LeMond and I would simply cancel each other out. Once we got to the Alp, I could set the fires of h.e.l.l ablaze.

On the first hairpin bend, as I'd decided, I attacked. LeMond stuck to me. I went for it again, at once. He came back, faster than before. He had hardly even got to me before I put in another one, even more brutal than before. Bent over his bike, he ripped himself to bits to get back to me again. Then it was his turn to attack, churning a ma.s.sive gear. I managed to squirm up to him, but my legs were on fire, and I went again, full bore, finding strength from I don't know where. But a few seconds later, he was back up at my side. It was a draw. And we were both unable to take another breath or put any weight on the pedals.

It was life or death.

For anyone who witnessed it close to, it must have been an amazing spectacle, but to our great surprise live television showed barely any of the cut and thrust, blow and counter-blow. There was no one near us. The only thing was that after all our efforts neither of us was going anywhere. Neither of us had given way, but I couldn't have any regrets: it was this, or nothing. To overcome LeMond, one of the world's great followers, you had to hara.s.s him mercilessly, force him over his limit as quickly as possible so that later you could start again if you could.

So now neither of us had any strength left. Our lungs were hanging out, and we watched each other, almost at a standstill, gasping like a pair of crazy young puppies. So obviously, a few riders came back from behind us: Rondon, Delgado, Lejarreta, Rooks.

Then, about six kilometres from the top, Guimard drove up alongside me in the team car to tell me: 'Attack, he's dying.' For the first time since we had set out to seek our fortune together, Guimard wanted me to attack on l'Alpe d'Huez. And of course, there was no way I could. I had to mutter to him 'Can't, I'm wasted.' That was the way Guimard could see a race: the eye of the master. Remember he had nurtured LeMond when he was young, and knew him by heart.

I went on as best I could. But Guimard's words stuck in my mind. Once we'd got past the five kilometres to go sign, the speed lowered and I felt a bit better. Like the old diesel I was, I was getting on top of it again. I decided to give it another go four kilometres out. One acceleration, and LeMond, flattened over his bike, couldn't come with me. In less than four kilometres I took 1min 19sec out of him, and that's bearing in mind that the last bit of l'Alpe d'Huez is by far the least difficult part. Guimard had called a race right, yet again, and it should be noted for posterity: if I'd gone for LeMond at the moment when he had told me to, the Tour would have been won. No question. Because LeMond was completely blasted. I was putting about twenty seconds per kilometre into him.

How could Guimard have realised that LeMond was out for the count? I've never known for sure. But I believe he noticed that he was showing his physical exhaustion by riding in a lopsided way. When he was suffering LeMond certainly used to sit strangely in the saddle.

On the evening of the finish at the Alpe, I regained the yellow jersey with a twenty-six second lead. I knew that this wasn't enough to guarantee the win in Paris, with a final time trial still to come over 24.5km for a unique finish, on the final day, on the Champs-Elysees. So I wanted to strike while I had the psychological upper hand and next day I didn't let LeMond get a grip on the race between Bourg d'Oisans and Villard de Lans. My legs had suddenly begun to feel like they used to when I was younger, and on the Vercors plateau, I attacked three kilometres from the top of the Cote de Saint-Nizier while Rooks and Theunisse and the PDM team were setting a searing pace, with no idea that I was about to be the beneficiary. I caught everyone napping and although LeMond and Delgado worked together they couldn't keep up. It was an example of my favourite tactic: use a situation in the race to take my opponents by surprise.

My lead climbed to fifty-two seconds on the descent: I was putting in every ounce of talent I had. But an unpleasant surprise was waiting once I got over the hill 26km from Villard de Lans: a blasted headwind. There was a new twist every day in the plot of this race; every last line would count when the tale was finally told. Behind, there were four or five chasing: LeMond, Delgado, Theunisse, Rooks. It was these last two who did the work for LeMond. Yet again he was unwilling to push the pedals any harder than necessary.

I weakened slightly as the finish approached, losing half my lead, but I ended up with the stage win and a twenty-four second lead at the finish line. That made fifty seconds in hand in the overall standings. That evening at the hotel there was a feeling of euphoria. I was sure I had won the Tour.

The next day, en route to Aix-les-Bains, going over lesser climbs such as the Granier and the Col de Porte, I felt as if I had wings on my feet. On the Col de Porte, each time I led the string of riders round a hairpin I gained ten metres. At one point I barely seemed to accelerate but no one managed to follow. I kept going, and was away. After a few hundred metres, I sat up and waited. Guimard wasted no time in driving up to talk to me. 'What are you up to?'

'I'm flying, Cyrille, that's all.'

'Then go for it!'

It was a tough one. After a few days of intense attacking racing the risk of hitting the wall is huge. There were seventy kilometres to the finish with three cols cols to cross and a section in the valley with a headwind to get to Aix-les-Bains. I ended up saying to Guimard: 'I've got enough of a lead to win the Tour. I'm afraid I'll blow. It's a pointless risk. I'll sit up.' to cross and a section in the valley with a headwind to get to Aix-les-Bains. I ended up saying to Guimard: 'I've got enough of a lead to win the Tour. I'm afraid I'll blow. It's a pointless risk. I'll sit up.'

Unfortunately, he said, 'OK,' and didn't attempt to make me believe I could do it, even though we knew full well that if you have a rival on the ropes you have to take advantage and crush him without any second thoughts. But when you look at it with hindsight, what could have happened? At the summit of the Col de Porte I might have had about three minutes' lead, but what then? Who could predict anything whatsoever? But in Aix-les-Bains, it was a small select group that fought out the finish: five of us, the best five in the Tour. On the banks of the beautiful Lac du Bourget, LeMond was by far the best in the sprint as he so often was in a situation like that. Just for the record, after we crossed the line that evening I went over to him and tapped him on the shoulder to congratulate him on the stage win. I meant it. I said to him: 'It's been a good fight.' In my mind, it was all over. I'd won my third Tour de France.

There was just one thing. During that stage I'd felt a fairly sharp pain between my legs. That evening, it was clear. I had a sore spot in a very inconvenient place: just below the b.u.t.tock, right where the saddle rubs on the shorts. There were only two stages left. One that would be for the sprinters, finishing at l'Isle d'Abeau and relatively short at 130 kilometres. And then there was Sunday's time trial. Nothing much to worry about. And I wasn't worrying. I should have been. The evening before the final road race stage it hurt so much that I couldn't go and urinate at the dope control. Just moving was a penance. Sitting down was horrendous. In extremis, because the entire caravan had to catch the TGV that evening to get up to Paris, the drug testers were kind enough to wait until we were in the train before collecting the sample.

Apart from Cyrille Guimard and the team doctor Armand Megret, few people were in on the secret. During the journey I didn't show my worries, although I was getting more and more concerned. And when we got off the train, there's no point pretending what kind of mood I was in. When we arrived at Gare de Lyon, we were mobbed. There were dozens of photographers and dozens of cameramen: it was mind-bending. A Frenchman was on the point of winning the Tour the first since Hinault in 1985 and the day before the finish, which meant they all came mob-handed. We had hardly begun to move along the platform before someone bunged the usual camera under my nose and began throwing aggressive questions at me. It was Channel 5, who never ignored a possible scandal. I heard the words: 'Why did you refuse to take the drugs test?' As you can imagine, I didn't want to answer such a dumb question. The test had taken place in the way it was meant to. I wasn't happy about the allegation, but kept going along the platform in spite of the crush.

The journalist from Channel 5 kept on. Rather too much in my book. Worn out by the stressful ambience, I spat at a camera crew who were in the way. Just my luck: they were from a Spanish channel against whom I had no grievance at all. Afterwards, as soon as any news story about my arrival at the station was run, the images were played again and again. It wasn't the best publicity.

At one point there was a scrum and a cameraman from Channel 5 knocked over Jerome Simon, who happened to be next to me. I didn't even think about what I was doing and shoved the cameraman. At the end of the year he filed suit against me for injuring him. Actually, he wanted to negotiate a settlement with my lawyer: I refused. In court, he claimed I'd hit him in the genitals and caused a hernia in the groin; he lost the case.

When I arrived at the hotel the night before the final stage I had just one thought: thank G.o.d there was only the time trial left. One more stage, and after that I would be completely unable to get on the bike. The injury was worse than we had thought. The pain was unbearable. The doctor kept putting on cream, then coming back and putting on some more: it achieved nothing. There wasn't time. And no one suspected a thing, because we had imposed a media blackout.

That night, I barely slept. I felt sore even though I wasn't moving. I was tired out, worried; I didn't look my best the next morning. But that was kid's stuff compared to the warm-up session: I got on the bike and did a U-turn straight away. I just couldn't turn the pedals. It was completely impossible. Even so, I didn't panic. I remember as if it were yesterday how I told myself: 'Look, it's not as bad as all that. All that's left is a time trial. I've only got to do what I have to. I'll hurt like h.e.l.l but afterwards I'll forget it.'

How could I ever forget what was about to happen?

How could I ever forget something that will last for ever in every cycling fan's memory?

I had to force myself to be cheerful even though I wasn't exactly in the finest fettle. But I did have something on my side: the fifty-second gap on LeMond. I was convinced deep inside that I could not lose. According to my calculations, I knew that it should take the American about 50km to regain more than a minute on me, not the 24.5km between Versailles and the Champs-Elysees.

I could not see how it could happen. It was not feasible. It wasn't just me who thought this way: many of the journalists on the race had already typed up their final pieces, I learned later. It was written that I would win.

This time I had to get on the bike. For real. For the final spell on the rack. But the end of the agony, which was ferocious from the moment I began to spin the pedals, would set me free from it all; I would be a proud man, a winner at last on the roads of France after five lean years. The pain didn't have any meaning: it was nothing more than a normal hurt which would have its way.

It was down to LeMond and me. We pedalled slowly round the start area, fully kitted out, warming up in the closed s.p.a.ce. He had no idea that I was under the weather. He didn't look at me once. The suspense reached a climax.

The American was definitely stretching the rules by using his celebrated triathlon handlebars, which gave him quite an advantage. I shouldn't have lost two seconds per kilometre to him. But as soon as Guimard began to give me time checks, that was exactly what I was losing: two seconds per kilometre. I put all my strength into it, gritting my teeth, trying everything I could to concentrate on the effort I had to make and forget that pain shooting through me. But it was like being stabbed with a knife; every part of my body felt it, even my brain.

After a little while, Guimard stopped telling me anything. I had no idea what was happening, no time checks. It was a bad sign. But the race took over everything, and I put that to one side. All I did was go flat out, but flat out as I was, I could go no faster. I don't know what my pulse rate was, but my lungs, on the other hand, were beyond my control and were doing their own thing as best they could. I was asphyxiating.

Everyone has seen the pictures at least once in their lives. I cross the finish line and collapse. Simply to get my breath back. A bit of air, please. Just a bit of air, if I may. At that precise moment, I don't know what is going on. I'm gasping 'Well?' again and again, to the people who flutter around me. There's no answer. I ask again. Still no answer. No one dares to look me in the eye and show me reality. The reality of which everyone is now aware apart from me: I've lost. By eight seconds. Eight seconds in h.e.l.l. The American has taken fifty-eight seconds out of me in 24.5km. In the chaos, someone finally brings me up to date by admitting: 'You've lost Laurent.' I can't get a grip on what he is saying. I don't believe it. More precisely, I can't manage to believe it. I hadn't believed it could happen.

'It's not true,' I tell myself inside.

It's as if the information simply can't get through the door to be let into my imagination.

For a long time, the defeat remains external.

It can't get inside me.

I go into shock.

I walk like a boxer who's concussed, in an improbable world of furious noise. The steps I take are robotic and aren't directed at anything. I've no idea where I am going and who is making me go there. I feel arms supporting me, helping me to stand up. People make noise around me. Some shout. Some look haggard, groggy, wiped out. Others are celebrating. That's it, they're celebrating. It's easier to make out now, they are looking at me with a kind of happy hatred, as if it's a pleasure to see me lose. What's so good about it? I can't get a grip on it. I've lost. They've won. But who are they?

I wandered for a while. I don't remember quite how I behaved. I had no idea about anything, who I was or where I was. Then the shock began to take shape, to become real, to get some kind of direction in my brain. When I came out of the coma, I was already on my way to the anti-doping control. There, I recognised my teammate Thierry Marie. Without thinking, he threw himself at me and burst into tears.

In those welcoming arms I wailed like a child. Long, long sobs. It had never happened in public before.