Free Rough Ride by Paul Kimmage Page A

hardest amateur stage race I ever rode. Conditions were horrible, the hotel food was tasteless – the bare minimum – and it was impossible to buy supplements. The racing was pretty savage and we took a hiding for the first couple of days. On the seventh stage I broke clear twenty kilometres from the finish with a Polish rider who left me with a kilometre to go and won the stage. I was really disappointed with second place, but I learned a month later that the Pole had tested positive in dope control after the stage and I had been awarded the victory. But it wasn't the same. It was a prestigious addition to my list of victories, but I had been robbed of the pleasure of winning. The Pole had raised his hands to the huge crowd, he had milked their applause and kissed the pretty girl with the flowers. No, it wasn't the same.
    From Poland I returned to France and raced the Tour of Normandy again with the national squad. Peter Crinnion was our manager. Peter was an ex-pro and had helped Stephen Roche to go to France. I respected him greatly. Before the race he pulled me aside from the others in our team group and told me I could win the Normandy. I looked at him as if he had two heads, but then asked myself: 'Why not?' It was one of the best weeks of my career. I won a stage and finished second in two others and finished fifth overall. I would undoubtedly have finished higher, but in the race's only time trial I had the incredible misfortune to puncture twice in ten kilometres. I was flying.
    I returned to Wasquehal and rode a small race that Mollet insisted I ride. A five-man Mafia, a mix of Poles and French who toured France and split all prize money between them, were riding. Near the end of the race I broke clear in a five-man group with two Mafia men. One of them approached me on the last lap and offered me £50 if I did not sprint. Surprised, I thought about it but said, 'No'. He increased the bid to £100. I had become a bit hungry for money, so I agreed – but it bothered me. So I thought about it: 'Mollet would probably give me a bonus if I won, and another win would do my chances of a contract no harm.' I went back to the Mafia man and told him there was no deal. He spat in disgust, and I immediately felt pressure. If I won, I would justify my argument. If I lost, I'd be £100 poorer and the laughing stock of the Mafia. The sprint to the line was a desperately close thing, but I managed to edge him out. Mollet was delighted. He announced to the crowd at the prize ceremony that Kimmage would be riding the World Championships for Ireland one week later in Italy. But he also announced that Kimmage would soon be turning professional. I laughed, very pleased with myself, I liked winning. I had no idea that it was the last race I would ever win.
    The World Amateur Championships were in Montello, Italy. Even though it was very hot, I managed to pick up a bad head cold two days before the race. We rode the circuit in training: it had a hard hill, and I liked it and felt optimistic about my chances. Poland and Normandy had given me a new confidence. On race day, I was given a great boost when a note scribbled on a piece of paper was handed to me. It said: 'Compared with all you went through in Bordeaux-Paris this will be nothing. Good luck. Raphael.' The note gave me great heart and I started the race, tense but incredibly determined. I was content to just follow the others for the first half of the race and didn't feel too good.
    To please the Irish supporters on the circuit, I attacked on the climb at half-way, but I didn't get very far and instantly regretted my foolishness. The World Championships were a gradual process of elimination. Over 200 had started, but with just one lap to go there were just twenty-six men in front and I was one of them. Just before we entered the finishing straight I noticed that my rear tyre was deflating ever so slowly. There was no question of changing a wheel so close to the finish, so I