All sports have been plagued by drug scandals, cheating, and misconduct. Bicycle racing is no exception. Tommy Simpson, the professional rider who died on the slopes of Mont Ventoux during the 1967 Tour de France, had “speed” coursing through his veins on a blistering hot day in that mountain stage.
“Put me back on my bike,” were Simpson’s final words. Supporters did just that, and the great English champion pedaled a few hundred meters, then fell over dead. A monument honoring his life now stands at that place on the Mont Ventoux climb.
More recently, Tour de France titles have been stripped from riders who tested positive for using performance-enhancing drugs. Many hid the truth for years – a code of secrecy exists in many sports, not just cycling.
Still, in my 12-years as a racing cyclist in both the United States and Europe, I saw most riders cross the finish line “clean.” The miracle chemicals the human body creates daily to fight disease, ease pain, and create euphoric feelings are always present. Everyone has a personal pharmacy of these chemicals constantly at work. For some, that personal pharmacy seems to work at an entirely more efficient level. Watching Greg LeMond in his first years racing, 1976-79, in California, it was clear a burning passion and love of sport are important pieces of the champion puzzle. However, some riders are gifted with a body that creates those miracle chemicals at a much higher level. In a pain game of a tough race, LeMond was often having fun, while his competitors suffered.
The Eroica in Paso Robles, California is an annual bike ride where vintage bikes of steel are ridden and displayed. Andy Hampsten was the featured guest and speaker in 2017. He took the stage after a day of riding on beautiful San Luis Obispo roads. As hundreds of tired cyclists ate, Hampsten spoke of his racing years. Andy won the 1988 Giro d’Italia – the only U.S. winner ever. His 7-11 team coach for the Tour of Italy, Mike Neel, was on the stage next to him. Andy credited Mike for insisting 7-11 team riders use just their own miracle chemicals and ride “clean.” Andy made a clear choice and there were no hidden secrets, just an honest win. Other riders have taken the same road, riding clean to the finish line.
In the riveting book A Dog in a Hat, Joe Parkin wrote about five years he spent as a pro in Europe. Regarding Belgian pro kermis races held around festivals (“kermis” is Flemish for “carnival”), he detailed the types of injections and drugs many pros used. Sitting in the living rooms, or garages, of residents who lived near the start/finish line of these races, riders would prepare for the race in many ways. Liniment on legs, small food packets in jersey pockets, full bottles of Coke for bike cages, and injections of amphetamines for veins.
I raced in Belgium for a total of five months in 1978 and 1979. I would prep for amateur races in garages and living rooms of Belgian bike race fans who lived near the start/finish line of a race. For these fans, it was an honor to have a few racers use their homes before and after the event. Having a U.S. rider was an extra special event. I witnessed not one single syringe used in the nearly 60 amateur races I rode in Belgium. After the race, a rider used a small bowl of hot water to wash legs, face, and arms. Small washcloths called nantouks were set next to the bowls. While I never won a race there, I had many podium and top ten finishes. Maybe some of the riders who beat me were “good” (i.e., drugged) for the day, but many of them were not. I know my top-three placings were fueled by sugar tablets, coffee, or Coke in a water bottle, luck, skill, fitness, and a desire to earn some Belgian francs! The pleasure of reading your name in the Het Volk (newspaper) the next day was another factor.
I did train with a Canadian amateur, who would tell me, “Man! You should see my doctor; he’ll get you the good stuff.” So, I suppose I benefited from training with a guy who used steroids. “I feel so strong every day,” the Canadian would tell me. But, come race day, I’d finish higher in the placings than he did. I am sure other amateurs had “a doctor” as well.
Lance Hayes, a rider from New Zealand, was another training buddy. He rode clean and had a desire to see how far he could go without succumbing to drug temptations. We struck a deal and stuck to it regarding drugs. We worked together in many races for places and primes.
So, after racing in the United States for the 1980 season, and winning eleven races with the aid of my personal pharmacy, excellent teamwork, and a burning passion, it was time to return to Europe and give it a final go.
My 1980 Coors Classic teammate Jacques Boyer suggested I try France the following season. He set me up to ride with US Creteil, one of the two largest amateur teams in Paris. Laurent Fignon was still an amateur that year raced for US Creteil. Fignon turned professional in 1982 and went on to win two Tour de France races.
For this trip to Europe in March 1981, I made a five-month commitment to race in Europe. When I arrived at the “City de Bluets” apartment complex in northern Paris, four foreign riders already lived there, racing for the US Creteil team. There were two Steves and a Perry from England, who were not far from home. Perry’s girlfriend would take trains and a ferry over to Paris with homemade cookies for us every month.
The other rider was Czeslaw, a Pole. He got one of the apartment bedrooms, as no one was about to contest him for it. His temper, along with a twitchy and fighting nature, were not to be denied. The two Steves shared the second bedroom. I got to sleep on a mattress on the living room floor. I was the new guy. Perry slept on the couch in the small living room, he was at the bottom of the pecking order. He was the only one who had a visiting girlfriend too, maybe the others were just jealous. Girlfriendless Czeslaw liked to frequent the red light districts of Paris and regale us with stories of his manhood…but he never returned with any cookies.
Only one of the Steves had won a race yet in 1981. Steve Poulter had won two actually, and it was still a cold, wet March in France. Our early season training rides were brisk just to keep warm and my teammates showed me around local favorite roads. I didn’t learn as much French as I might have since we spoke a lot of English on rides and in the apartment. Czeslaw just knew the “colorful” English words, and made sure we all learned the most “colorful” ones in French too, not words I’d learned in Berkeley High School! Still, to survive in the peloton, these words were essential to know. In my BHS French class, they wouldn’t have helped at all.
After a month and a few top ten places in races around Isle de France, I was getting a bit frustrated. The Paris style of racing was quite different from races near Ghent, Belgium. Steve Poulter won another race, so the teammates that shared our team apartment knew it could be done. Czeslaw had a sixth-place finish, but had no podium results by mid-April. What Czeslaw lacked in race results he made up for with wild and animated antics in apartment life. His raw and rambunctious style was most entertaining, as were his weak attempts to learn English.
The Paris-Roubaix classic race for professionals probably the most famous one-day bike race in the world. There is also an amateur Paris-Roubaix. Of course, I had hoped to be picked for the race, but my results did not merit the selection. Laurent Fignon got picked to ride of course, along with teammates with race wins like Steve Poulter. Somehow, maybe because of his domestique (team helper) skills, Czeslaw got chosen as well.
So, I was left to pick a race near the Creteil apartment. I picked a 120-kilometer race in Mahon, just north of Paris. One might think other races on the day of a big classic would be easy. All the big-name riders were off at the Paris-Roubaix. Well, think again! Everyone who showed up to the start line in Mahon was thinking the same thing: “The big dogs are gone, so it’s my day!” The racing was very animated and fast!
The April morning dawned and Czeslaw was up early, restless for the big classic race. As we were both getting ready for our respective races, he motioned for me to come into his room. He wanted to introduce his USA buddy on how to be “good” for a race. Six little white pills lay in his hand, and he placed them in a small plastic container and passed them to me.
“Quantente (40) kilometers,” Czeslaw grunted, “un, deux!” His hand tossed two invisible pills into his mouth. A water bottle in the other hand went to his lips, the invisible water washed the two imaginary pills down his throat. “Ugh, ugh, ugh, plus vite, plus vite, plus vite,” he laughed! With a tightly clenched fist, he repeatedly punched my chest, with a big smile and a howling laugh!
“Soixante (60) kilometers,” Czeslaw panted, “un, deux!” He repeated the same gestures as for the first two invisible pills. At 60 kilometers into my Mahon race, I was to take two more little white pills and wash them down with water/Coke. This time the exclamations were more animated. Cezlaf jumped up and down, “Allez, allez, allez, allez!” he howled, nearly breaking a sweat.
“Quatre-vingt (80) kilometers,” Czeslaw exclaimed, he was getting really excited now. A jumble of Polish, French, and English words exploded from his mouth, effectively translated as, “Today is your day, you beast, you stud, go out and really kick some butt!” Or, it might have been, “Bring home the bouquet, hammer those wankers into the ground, you got the stuff now boy!”
With a final hardy shoulder shove and a head-jab to the chest, Czeslaw concluded his lesson titled, “Amphetamines for Bike Racers 101”. A bit aghast and amused by his effort to show his love, I took the six little white pills in their container and added them to my race bag. If ever there was a time to see what the big deal about “speed” was, maybe it was today?
Off went Czeslaw to his race in the official team cars, and off I went with a US Creteil team support member to Mahon, and the 120-kilometer race.
Looking around at more than one hundred “It’s my day” wanna-be-winners lined up at the start, I figured a top ten place would be just fine. The six little white pills were safely at the bottom of my jersey pocket. A couple of small sugary treats were in a paper bag above them. In true U.S.-guy style, a banana or two filled the middle back pocket. My water bottles were full of water and Coke. It was cool, dry, and sunny, so a perfect day for a race in Paris.
Often my style was to be aggressive at the start, but today the plan was to lay back and see how the race unfolded. Before I was even five-years-old my mother would let me walk on big rocks near beaches, or even on railroad tracks, to get balance skills set in my bones. Today, balance skills would mean ride smart and careful in the big peloton, and save my energy. It was a flat 12-lap circuit race of 10-kilometer course.
In the first half of the race various breakaway groups would form, but none would last too long. Everyone thought “It’s my day!” Small breaks got chased down with a collective “Where do they think they’re going?” vibe in the peloton.
At about sixty kilometers, a breakaway of twelve riders got away, way away. Soon the gap between the front group and the peloton had grown to four minutes. The passenger on the race official motorcycle wrote the time gap on a chalkboard, holding it up for the chasing riders to see, “4:00.”
As planned, I had kept cool doing the balancing act of riding behind the best wheels and saving my energy for the race’s end. After more than 100 kilometers, the lead group of twelve was still a few minutes ahead. Rumor in the peloton was that a home-town boy really wanted to win and he might be “dans la coup,” or paying for other riders to help him win.
Suddenly, I found myself in a chase group of three. The other two riders were flying, and I did my pulls at the front smoothly and efficiently. The saved-energy plan seemed to have worked and I felt good. With just ten kilometers left in the race, as we rolled through downtown with many fans cheering, my chase group of three caught the lead group of twelve. Just one lap to go!
I rolled off the front of the group of 15 riders, not even attacking. No one jumped on my wheel, and soon, much to my surprise, I had a good lead. I was riding solo off the front, with just the lead motorcycle for company. The chalkboard said “:15” or 15 seconds ahead.
No one in the 14-rider chase group took me as a real threat, I was just some unknown US Creteil guy who would probably fade and die off the front soon. However, I felt strong and rolled along in a big, 52×14” gear.
As I came to the one-kilometer to go flag, it was just me and the lead motorcycle by my side. I took a glance back and realized my gap was big, and I might win my first race in France. The chalkboard said “:25” or 25 seconds ahead. I crossed the finish line alone, arms raised high, delight on my face with my US. Creteil – Credit Lyonnais/Lejeune jersey glowing in the afternoon sun! I bet the 14 faces of those I beat were full of surprise, as they sprinted for second place.
On the podium, I did my best to reply in French to the questions. Many of the questions were about Greg LeMond, as we both were from California/Nevada and by 1981 Greg was well known in France. I got a huge bouquet of flowers, and a big payday in French francs (about $140 in US money).
After the race, I left my winner’s bouquet at the home of the US Creteil team secretary. I got back to our apartment before all the other riders. None of them had ridden the race I picked that day.
Before Czeslaw returned to the apartment, he had stopped off at the home of the club secretary and seen the bouquet and heard about my win. He had not finished the Paris-Roubaix race.
Arriving home, Czeslaw was keyed up and ready to celebrate my win. He bulldozed through the front door! First came the celebratory punches to the chest and arms, next came the head butts to the stomach, and finally the tossing of the winner to the couch to wrestle the champ. Yet again, I was treated to the Polish, French, English, grunt sounds that might have translated to, “Homeboy, look what you did, you pulverized those punks…and all because of the six little white pills!!!”
As Czeslaw finally eased into the chair nearby, I pulled out the small plastic container. All six little white pills remained inside it, and they rolled out onto my hand.
Rendered speechless, Czeslaw’s face said, “Incroyable, mais vrai! Ca ou ce n’est pas possible!” Czeslaw was incredulous that someone could win a race with no extra boost, he sat there stunned and bewildered.
Of many satisfying experiences in my racing years, this was one! It took passion, luck, skill, great training, good timing, patience, and a little sugar and caffeine to spice up my personal pharmacy to cross that French finish line first.