Sport, Drugs And Journalism

"It was a great stage. A fun stage. The triumphant ride into Paris. During the 252-kilometre ride to the capital a bottle of champagne was passed around the bunch. There was the singing of the Tour song 'Oh Champs Elysées' and spirits were high. I got more and more nervous as we approached Paris and the speed went up. I saw one of the lads taking his stuff. It was so simple. The metal tube was opened. The plastic cap, protecting the needle, was taken off and held between the teeth. The right sleeve of the jersey was rolled back and the needle was slipped into the skin of the shoulder and with a squeeze of the sawn-off piston the amphetamines were pushed in. The plastic cap was replaced on the needle, the syringe was put back in the tube and into the pocket. Beautifully done and terribly simple. One of the lads offered me a tablet, but I refused and lied that I was feeling fine.

"We could see the Eiffel Tower. What a wonderful sight. We raced along the bank of the Seine past the huge mass of metal and then swung left into Place de la Concorde and on to the Champs Elysées. The roar from the crowd sent goose pimples through my legs and though we raced up and down at over 60 kilometres an hour I felt no pain. I was so overjoyed at having made it, so overcome with the magnificence of it all that I didn't feel the pedals. The finish line was crossed and we ground to a halt. Bernard Vallet stopped beside me and embraced me. He had tears in his eyes. 'Now you know what it is to ride the Tour de France'. My father was standing just a little further on. He threw his arms around me. I was so pleased he was here to share my triumph. It was the happiest day of my life. Two hundred and ten riders had started. One hundred and thirty-two had finished. I was 131st. I had survived. I was a 'Giant of the Road'."

When Christy Kimmage, himself a former champion cyclist, rang his son 10 days before the final stage of the 1986 Tour de France to announce that he would be waiting to greet him in Paris at the race's conclusion, Paul Kimmage went apeshit. He was angry with his father for daring to presume that he would roll into Paris with the rest of the pelethon.

As it happened, he did finish the gruelling, three week long endurance test, 131st out of 132 finishers. His prize? The medal which is presented to all those who complete the Tour - certification that he was indeed a 'Giant of the Road'. To this day, that medal remains Paul Kimmage's most treasured possession. In his four years as a professional cyclist it was the only prize he ever won.

Three years later, 55 kilometres along the road between Toulouse and Montpelier, Paul Kimmage climbed off his bicycle, had his race number removed by a Tour official and clambered aboard the infamous broom wagon - the bus which collects the debris from the pelethon, the stragglers who have had enough and decided to call it a day. It wasn't the first time he had abandoned the world's most famous bicycle race. Grief-stricken, he'd also quit the 1987 Tour, but this time there were no tears. It was simply the last action of his career as a domestique, a poorly paid journeyman cyclist whose job is to fetch, carry, hustle and bustle for his team leader.

In 1990, Rough Ride earned Paul Kimmage another prize, The William Hill Sports Book Of The Year award. It is a powerful and frank account of his career as cyclist which chronicles a seemingly endless catalogue of gruelling defeats and finally broke the silence surrounding the issue of drugs in sport.

The book revealed that cyclists used drugs and that Paul Kimmage had used drugs, once, a syringe of amphetamines which he had taken before a post-Tour criterium, one of a number of exhibition races held annually in towns around France in which the Tour's top riders participate in order to showcase their talents. Needless to say, the results of criteriums are invariably fixed. After all, Pierre Public doesn't pay good money to watch lowly domestiques like Paul Kimmage win races.

The publication of Rough Ride ensured that Kimmage quickly became a pariah in domestic and international cycling circles. On The Late Late Show, Gay Byrne expressed his horror and enquired about "the lads": Stephen Roche and Sean Kelly, Ireland's most successful ever cyclists and Kimmage's friends. Kimmage stressed at length that his book was not about individuals but about the sport as a whole and the problems it faced. Stephen Roche, however, in a ghosted Irish Times column, dismissed Kimmage's literary endeavours as the hysterical ramblings of a failed sportsman with a chip on his shoulder. The column signalled the end of their friendship.

His former team-mates and close personal friends Jean-Claude Colotti and Thierry Claveyrolat accused Kimmage of whoring himself, and have not spoken to him since. Now, on the eve of the Tour de France's arrival in Ireland, Rough Ride is being relaunched. These days, of course, the author works as a sportswriter with the Sunday Independent

Barry Glendenning: It would appear that the publication of Rough Ride has caused you nothing but grief. Why is it being relaunched?

Paul Kimmage: Well, the perception is that the Tour is coming to Ireland and Kimmage is looking to make a few bob out of it.

That's certainly the impression I got.

Well, that's fair enough. The publisher is Yellow Jersey Press. They're a brand new department in Random House, who've relaunched their entire sports department. About 10 months ago they came to me and said - as part of the relaunch, we'd like to start with some of our old titles, would you be interested in having your book done again? It was due to happen before last Christmas but it was put back to the spring and now it's been postponed until this month, which just happens to be the time that the Tour is coming to Ireland. So yes, I'm a little bit embarrassed about it but it's back on the shelves now, which is the important thing for me.

You lost three good friends as a result of writing it. Was it worth it?

Was it worth it? Well, I'm saddened by it.

Was it simply a case that they weren't quite the good friends you thought they were?

Well, that's the bottom line, isn't it? It's only at a time like that you realise who your friends are. The really disappointing part was the way that Clavyrolat and Colotti turned on me. The book was never published in French so they just heard titbits and formed an opinion on that basis. If they were true friends they would have listened to my explanation. That never happened.

What about Stephen Roche?

I am really disappointed about Stephen. I am hugely disappointed in him . . . (long pause) . . . hugely disappointed. He believes I do the sport a disservice by talking about the drugs question and I believe he does the sport a disservice by being dishonest about it. That's effectively why we're never going to sit down and have a cup of tea together.

What did your father think of it?

It was tough for him, very tough. I think he would have been a little bit shocked by what was in it. Because of it, I'm a pariah in Irish cycling and he became a little bit tarnished as a result of that, when in fact he was one of the great Irish cyclists. But I think he wouldn't have wanted me to do anything else and he's very pleased and proud that I wrote it.

Why did you write it?

I believed it would achieve something. I thought it would open the eyes of any kids going into the sport and shake the authorities into doing something about it. I had everything to lose. I was going into a great career in journalism so I could just as easily have said 'Right, cycling, there's a problem there . . . forget about it'. I could have stayed pals with everyone in the sport and had great crack any time I met up with them again and lived happily ever after. The hard decision was to write the book. Sadly, though, they did nothing, and because they did nothing the book achieved nothing. Guys have died since.

Hasn't anything changed?

Well because of the crisis, with the guys dying, the director of the Tour de France wrote to the cycling federation saying "This can't go on. The sport is in crisis and it's up to us to do something about it." Now, this is the director of the Tour de France that was saying this, not some two-bit bike rider with a chip on his shoulder. So, that, for me, was the ultimate vindication for writing the book. Since then they've introduced blood controls, so now they're effectively the only sports body that take blood controls from their athletes.

Do you think the Tour de France coming to Ireland is a good idea?

Well, let me tell you a funny story. About three weeks ago I was contacted by RTE and they said to me "Well, basically we've been going out interviewing Stephen and Sean and we've been doing snippets for the news about why it's a good idea that the Tour should come to Ireland. Now we want to talk to you about why it shouldn't come. So I said "Hold on. What makes you think that I think the Tour shouldn't come? What makes you think I'm anti-Tour." Has it occurred to you that it is possible for someone to be anti-drugs and pro-sport?" That's what I am.

So you're for the Tour coming to Ireland?

I'm absolutely and totally for the Tour de France coming to Ireland. I think that it'll be wonderful and I think that once it comes the Irish people will recognise it for the event that it is. Now I'm not going to deny that the sport has fuckin' huge problems, and always has. I'm a firm believer that once you recognise a problem then you set about solving it. That doesn't mean that I'm not going to enjoy the race when it comes. It is a fantastic, phenomenal event and I'm going to get as great a kick out of it as anybody.

Is it not a case of Ireland embracing a sport that is at the very least corrupt and at worst, rotten to the core, for the sake of making a few quid?

Well, by corrupt I presume you're talking about drugs. Name me a sport that isn't "corrupt".

Hurling.

(laughs) Fair enough, good example, but I mean an international sport. Y'see, the very nature of the Tour de France is what has given it it's drug problem. Name me another sport where you're put on a bike for seven hours a day every single day for three weeks. So from day one you're always more likely to have problems with cycling. But if you bring the World Athletics Championships here - is that going to be any different from the tour? Not at all.

When you took amphetamines, you did it before a criterium, which is essentially an exhibition race where the result is fixed. Why?

It was a moment of weakness. I felt under so much pressure and felt so bad that I felt I needed it. In these criteriums everyone is given a contract and people pay three or four quid to watch the star guys of the Tour perform. They want to watch them whizzing around at 35 miles per hour and I was physically on a low and I didn't think I'd be able to finish the race, so the amphetamines made it easier. It did convince me that they work, they work well.

But it was a strange context to use drugs.

Most people take drugs to give themselves an edge, to help them win. Why did I do it? I did it because I knew I wasn't going to win. I could never justify to myself winning a race if I'd taken something. It's a conscience thing, it's the way I was brought up. I could justify it in a situation where the race is fixed and I'm only in it to earn some money to pay me wife and to survive. I could never do it for a real race because I just wasn't prepared to go that extra step.

With hindsight, after being off the bike nine years, if you could go back and do it all again would you?

Everything I have now is because of the path I chose in life: the bike. I would never have been a sportswriter had I not chosen that path. I wouldn't change a thing, not a single day, and that's great to be able to say. Of course I'd tinker around with a couple of the details (smiles): I'd want to finish my last tour in 1989. I was physically very capable of it but mentally I'd given up. I actually quit on the 13th stage of the tour. I just got of the bike and said "that's it, I'm giving up." I never raced again after that. It would have been nicer, maybe, to go on to the Champs Elysée. But that's a minor detail and I have no regrets.

Is it possible for a professional cyclist to enjoy his work?

It's a difficult one, y'know. You could sit Kelly down after a tour and ask him if he enjoyed it and he'd probably say that he did. I mean if you asked him now if he misses the Tour he'll say "Yeah, yeah, I really do, I wish I was there": but deep down he doesn't. When he looks at it he sees a completely different picture than you do. He sees that bunch strung out in a big long line and he knows what it feels like to be stuck at the end of it. Well maybe he doesn't so much but I certainly fucking do (laughs)! But there were good days. And there were some fantastic days. I remember in 1986, one time, I got away with Indurain and we were racing to win the stage. That was a phenomenal buzz.

Talk us through it, Paul!

He was the young up-and-coming Spanish star and it was his first Tour. He was the first to go and I closed the gap to him. I remember seeing him go so I stuck me head down to get after him. I was fuckin' breaking my teeth just to try and get to him - the power of the guy was something else. Then we were joined by a couple of others and suddenly there was just that handful of us, clear. And you had the helicopter overhead, cameras all around and at that moment, my childhood dream was realised. This was what I'd expected as a kid, this is what I perceived it would be like every day. Not just one day, every day. For me it was one day, but at least I got to feel what it was like from the front end, as against being the last man, trailing behind. It's a completely different feeling; you're hurting, sure, but the pain isn't as bad as it is when you're struggling just to keep up the pace at the back.

The 1987 Tour seems to have been the lowest point of your career.

Well that's the contrast. You try as hard as you can, you put yourself through incredible pain, you can't go on - so you stop. There's nothing to be ashamed of and yet you are ashamed. I hadn't recovered from the day before, we started really fast, so I was in trouble. I can still feel the shock I felt sitting in that fucking broom wagon realising that I'd pulled out of the race. It was absolutely devastating.

If Hugh McIllvanny is wearing the race leader's yellow jersey and Cathal Dervan is sitting in the broom wagon, where do you see yourself in the sportswriting pelethon?

(laughs) That's a pretty accurate description. I think I'm doing pretty good. I'm working for a good paper, they're paying me well so they obviously think I'm doing well and I'm happy with that. In a way, things haven't changed for me because I always want to write better pieces than the guy in the rival paper. I look at a guy like Tom Humphries and his talent is just depressing for everybody. It is absolutely sickening, but I've got to compete with that. I'm telling you, if there were some literary amphetamines I could take to help me then I'd be tempted (laughs). I think the standard of writing is pretty good, and I'm happy to be part of the pelethon at the moment.

Is it fair to say that you, along with Tom Humphries and other sports journalists, think that Michelle Smith has a case to answer?

That's very fair. Totally accurate, yeah.

Why?

Michelle Smith's sport doesn't believe her. Her sport hasn't believed her since way before the Atlanta games. So when her sport started asking questions, Tom Humphries, David Walsh, Paul Howard and Paul Kimmage, we were their voice. The doubts that we raised were the doubts that they were expressing. So it's not a case of whether Paul Kimmage believed her - Paul Kimmage doesn't know one end of a fuckin' swimming pool from the other, y'know. Paul Kimmage simply went along and listened to what people in swimming were saying and said 'Yeah, there are questions to be answered here'.

What do you think she should do?

What can I say about that? (long pause) I think in a couple of weeks time, the international board are going to meet and they're going to decide that either she has broken rules or she hasn't and they're either going to effectively suspend her or let her continue. I believe they're going to suspend her.

In the introduction to your Rough Ride, you said "The reason I will not get into discussions about individuals is that, in what I am saying, it is not individuals who matter . . . " There are those, however, who believe that Michelle Smith, an individual, is being hounded by you. Does that make you a hypocrite?

That's a very valid question and I hope I can give you a valid answer. At the time I wrote the book I'd just finished four years as a professional cyclist. If I'd wanted to write a book saying who's doing drugs, well for starters I wouldn't have been able to publish it. But it would have filled about two chapters and achieved nothing. What I wanted to do was to explain the depth of the problem to people and it was only through my own experiences that I could do that. I wanted to say, 'Look, this is what's going on, this is why it's going on, this is what needs to be done about it'.

The difference between my position now and my position then is that I'm a sportswriter now and I wasn't then. Back then I was writing as someone who wanted to see changes made in a particular sport. So now you're asking why I've 'gone after' Michelle Smith with the vigour I have. Well, the way I see it is that her sport decided that there were questions to be asked about her achievements. I was in a position where I couldn't ignore those questions and I had to write about it.

Is there a case for legalising drugs in sport?

Yeah, there is, but that'll be the end of sport when that happens. It's a valid argument, "Let them kill themselves" - but I'm not going to let my kids do sport if that's the case. Because they will kill themselves, believe me.

A recent article in the Sunday Tribune stated that cycling was one of the main causes of impotency in men. Would you care to comment on that?

(laughs) All I can say is I stopped cycling in 1989 and my daughter was born in 1991, and not out of a test tube I might add. I have never masturbated into an egg cup in my life, so I guess I'm one of the lucky ones who escaped.

• Rough Ride is published by Yellow Jersey Press at £8.