CONTENTSForeword by Roger St Pierre viiiIntroduction 13I The First Step 21II Budapest 31III Raymond 47IV France v. Italy 57V The Remington 67

Paris–Roubaix

74VI The Scene 79

Le manager

95VII The Rainbow 99

La volupté

113VIII The Ventoux 117IX The Gap 133X Loreto 141

Doping

155XI Last Embers 161

The frst death

174XII Tomorrow, we ride 179XIII Chiberta 189

La volupté

People ask me whether I actually enjoy cycling. This questionsurprises me, since the answer is so obvious. Yes, cycling isenjoyable, and one can even give enjoyment to others, at times, but all in all it’s a rather banal question.The divine surprise comes when you discover that beyondenjoyment lies the thrill of

la volupté

. The voluptuous pleasureyou get from cycling is something else. It does exist, becauseI have experienced it. Its magic lies in its unexpectedness, itsvalue in its rarity. It is more than a sensation because one’semotions are involved as well as one’s actions. At the risk of raising eyebrows, I would maintain that the delight of cyclingis not to be found in the arena of competition. In racing thethreat of failure or the excitement of success generates euphoriaat best, which seems vulgar in comparison with

la volupté

.The voluptuous pleasure that cycling can give you isdelicate, intimate and ephemeral. It arrives, it takes hold of you, sweeps you up and then leaves you again. It is for youalone. It is a combination of speed and ease, force and grace. Itis pure happiness.That day – a clear, crisp February day – I was riding aloneon the Côte d’Azur. Coming out of Lavandou, towards theMassif des Maures, the road leads uphill. The gradient was just right: not slowing me down too much, keeping me tunedinto the hill and the chain tension in harmony with the correctgear, which selected itself automatically. My hands, restingon the handlebars, were in full control. I could see my frontwheel taking on the road: black asphalt, white gravel. I felt the

strength owing from my kidneys, transferring to my thighs

and down to my pedals. Either I was part of the bike, or the bike was an extension of my body, but either way the bikeand I were at one. I wound up the slope to the rhythm of my breathing and perspiration: softly and smoothly. I was makingheadway, advancing, progressing more than I had done before.So much so that the summit of the Col de Gratteloup took me by complete surprise. The descent is so gentle that you do notstop pedalling. The gradient was just right to keep me tunedinto the long plateau. Then I unwound just as I took the bends:

effortlessly and uidly. The chestnut trees ickered past on

either side; the speed whistled in my ears, on the way to theCol de Babaou and then the ancient village of Collobrières,places that set you dreaming. I had everything: the image,the sound and the imagination… And then I felt thirsty andstopped for a drink. That was it, the enchantment had been broken, but 30 minutes of

volupté

is not to be sneezed at. Theproof was that when I got back and Louison asked me how it

had gone, I replied quite naturally: ‘I was ying today.’

Another time I was with Louison, in the run-up to the Tourof Lombardy. Both of us were in shape, taut and receptive. Wewere feeling fed up with the rain which had been frustrating

our training for two days when nally the weather brightened

up late on that Friday afternoon. We decided to go for aride. We were staying above Lake Como and, because of thehumidity, we sensibly slipped down towards the lake andfollowed the shore for a while. Then we headed back up thenarrow road which led to our hotel in Brunaute, less a villagethan a hamlet. Gradually the night enfolded us and, in thesweet mugginess of the air after the rain and of our perspiring bodies, we synchronised and settled into a faster tempo.Shoulder to shoulder, keeping pace exactly because we hadautomatically selected the same gear, we climbed the slope