Free Rough Ride by Paul Kimmage

the dinner table, when I had introduced myself and been accepted into the group, I understood. De Gribaldy surveyed everything we ate. Portions of everything were small, and we were given miserable sweets. Monsieur de Gribaldy frowned at my waistline and said I would ride much better if I lost a couple of kilos. This was news to me. I had always worked on the principle that it was OK to stuff your face as long as you trained hard. But de Gribaldy's method was to train hard and starve. He had extraordinary presence and I didn't dare argue with him.
    We went out for a light spin on Saturday morning. After lunch we were ordered to bed from two in the afternoon until eight in the evening. Lunch had been extremely light, but I had brought a bit of my mother's fruit cake. I made sure the door was locked before I cut it. I shared my room with a pro, Guy Galopin, who couldn't believe I had been told just five days earlier I was riding. He took a great liking to my mother's fruit cake.
    We left Bordeaux at midnight, riding as a group through the blackness until we came to a small village just before Poitiers. Here, we changed into fresh gear, ate a little (a bit of chicken), used the toilet and then jumped back on the bikes. During the stop-over Guy took out some pills and offered me one. I looked at him suspiciously. He said they were for 'le froid'. My French had improved and I knew that 'froid' meant 'cold'. But it was really warm outside. Why the hell was he giving me tablets for cold when it was thirty degrees? I took the pill and pretended to swallow it as I did not want to offend him, but secretly I threw it in the bin.
    Looking back, I realise that Guy was trying to help me. He had not in fact offered me anything for 'le froid', but rather something for 'le foie' (the liver). When you ride a bike race that lasts more than seventeen hours, the digestive system gets completely screwed up from eating sweet things. Guy had offered me a tablet to help digestion, but naively I had thought he was trying to give me a charge. In my suspicious mind all pills were drugs and I would never take drugs.
    I was left behind with about 200 kilometres to go to Paris. Mollet followed in the team car, and each time he was sure that the race commissar was out of sight he instructed my pacer to push me. I freaked out when the pacer put his hand on my back. I told Mollet I was either getting to Paris under my own steam or getting off- a question of honour. I was a sorry sight at the finish and had to be lifted from my bike. Three pros had abandoned and I had beaten one, finishing ninth out of thirteen starters. I had proved my point. This was a test of courage and I passed. But the price was high. That night I hadn't the strength to walk up the stairs to my bedroom – I crawled on my hands and knees. The mental strain of the week was over and I felt I had made a giant step towards my contract.
    In July a stage of the Tour de France finished near Wasquehal. I went to the stage start the next day with the intention of talking to Kelly and Roche but instead ended up spending all my time with Martin Earley. He was riding in his first Tour and looked splendid in his Fagor jersey. He looked the real pro, quite unlike the scrawny amateur I had grown up with. I envied him as he rode off on the stage to Rheims. It was the first time in my life that I actually admired him for something.
    Later in the month I had my first bad argument with Guy Mollet. I had taken a complete nine days' break from competition but on the tenth day, a Sunday morning, he stormed into the house and demanded that I ride the race later that day. I shouted back at him, replying that the professional contract he had been promising me since Bordeaux-Paris was long overdue. He assured me that he would fulfil his promise, but only on condition that I raced immediately. I raced and he was happy.
    At the end of July I rode the Tour of Poland for the Irish national team. It was probably the