Rough Ride by Paul Kimmage Page A

on the trot, but I felt sure the run was at an end. For finishing forty-eighth I managed to get my name in L'Equipe. This may seem trivial, but it was quite important. Monsieur Braillon would buy the sports daily every morning and scrutinise the results to find where his men had finished. By having my name in print, I proved to him that I was earning my keep, which would make it easier for him to sign my pay cheque at the end of each month.
    Grenoble was sunny, bright and beautiful. From the first glimpse of the city I knew I had made the right decision. Things would now get better and I felt a page had turned.

9
GRENOBLE
    I like to think that I am a survivor. I've always had good survival instincts. Moving from Lille to Grenoble was not just a matter of a change of scenery: it was essential. The two months spent at Wasquehal had given me time to analyse my situation. Because I lived so close to Belgium, they thought I liked racing there. I hated it. By living so close to Vallaeys, I was under his thumb, one of his boys. I didn't like him; and, worse, he knew I disliked him, so it seemed to me he was never going to do me any favours. I had to get out. 'Go south, young man.'
    Grenoble was the hub of the team. The firm's headquarters, the team's headquarters, the decision-making, all were here. France is a huge country. The flight time from Lille to Grenoble is the same as between Paris and Dublin. So to Thevenet it was all the same if I lived in Dublin or Lille; either way, I was a foreigner. Now, if I were a foreigner like Stephen Roche or Sean Kelly and could pedal my bike faster than anyone else in the world, then my sponsor and directeur would bend over backwards to please me, no matter where I lived. But being Paul Kimmage was different. I knew that once my two-year contract was terminated they would look at me and say, 'Well, Kimmage is Irish but he's not Roche or Kelly; he's an ordinary solid pro but why bother hiring a foreigner when we can hire a hundred Frenchmen with the same ability?' I knew this would happen, so I had to get close to them. Living in Grenoble would enable me to keep my finger on the pulse of all that was happening in the team. I had to integrate as much as possible, make them forget that I was Irish. I told them I loved France and especially Grenoble and that I was going to remain here long after my career was finished.
    This wasn't a complete lie. I did like the region, and as I knew that there would be very few job opportunities in Ireland for a not too famous ex-professional cyclist, there was a good chance that I would stay on. But still, I must admit to playing the role of Uriah Heep quite well. I should have been given an Oscar.
    It worked. I had only spent two days in the city when a man from the company invited me to dinner at his house. Marc Mingat worked in the firm's public relations department and was ideally placed to fill me in on Marc Braillon's moods and humours. Mingat would give me the feedback on Braillon's meetings with Thevenet, so that I always knew the temperature of the water before taking a bath. I was invited to assist at the openings of any new company offices in the area. Braillon would be present at these, and I always made sure I was well dressed without being flashy. Braillon didn't like anyone toot flashy. It was rumoured that one day Braillon was looking out the window of his office and saw one of his employees arrive in a huge, flashy car. He fired him. Braillon himself drove a Mercedes 300 but it was a drab mustard colour; it was classy but not extravagant, and he expected his employees to follow suit. There was one golden rule never to be broken: in our interviews with the press we were to talk not so much of the company but of the company chief. We were to talk not of RMO but of Marc Braillon.
    I shared a room at the football club with the Brazilian Mauro Ribeiro. Like me, he was a new professional. He spoke excellent French but with a very heavy Latin American