CONTENTS

Foreword by Roger St Pierre viii

Introduction 13
I The First Step 21
II Budapest 31
III Raymond 47
IV France v. Italy 57
V The Remington 67
Paris–Roubaix 74
VI The Scene 79
Le manager 95
VII The Rainbow 99
La volupté 113
VIII The Ventoux 117
IX The Gap 133
X Loreto 141
Doping 155
XI Last Embers 161
The first death 174
XII Tomorrow, we ride 179
XIII Chiberta 189

 La volupté

People ask me whether I actually enjoy cycling. This question

surprises me, since the answer is so obvious. Yes, cycling is
enjoyable, 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 beyond
enjoyment lies the thrill of la volupté. The voluptuous pleasure
you get from cycling is something else. It does exist, because
I have experienced it. Its magic lies in its unexpectedness, its
value in its rarity. It is more than a sensation because one’s
emotions are involved as well as one’s actions. At the risk of
raising eyebrows, I would maintain that the delight of cycling
is not to be found in the arena of competition. In racing the
threat of failure or the excitement of success generates euphoria
at best, which seems vulgar in comparison with la volupté.
The voluptuous pleasure that cycling can give you is
delicate, intimate and ephemeral. It arrives, it takes hold of
you, sweeps you up and then leaves you again. It is for you
alone. It is a combination of speed and ease, force and grace. It
is pure happiness.

That day – a clear, crisp February day – I was riding alone

on the Côte d’Azur. Coming out of Lavandou, towards the
Massif des Maures, the road leads uphill. The gradient was
just right: not slowing me down too much, keeping me tuned
into the hill and the chain tension in harmony with the correct
gear, which selected itself automatically. My hands, resting
on the handlebars, were in full control. I could see my front
wheel taking on the road: black asphalt, white gravel. I felt the
strength flowing 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 bike
and I were at one. I wound up the slope to the rhythm of my
breathing and perspiration: softly and smoothly. I was making
headway, 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 not
stop pedalling. The gradient was just right to keep me tuned
into the long plateau. Then I unwound just as I took the bends:
effortlessly and fluidly. The chestnut trees flickered past on
either side; the speed whistled in my ears, on the way to the
Col 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 and
stopped for a drink. That was it, the enchantment had been
broken, but 30 minutes of volupté is not to be sneezed at. The
proof was that when I got back and Louison asked me how it
had gone, I replied quite naturally: ‘I was flying today.’
Another time I was with Louison, in the run-up to the Tour
of Lombardy. Both of us were in shape, taut and receptive. We
were feeling fed up with the rain which had been frustrating
our training for two days when finally the weather brightened
up late on that Friday afternoon. We decided to go for a
ride. We were staying above Lake Como and, because of the
humidity, we sensibly slipped down towards the lake and
followed the shore for a while. Then we headed back up the
narrow road which led to our hotel in Brunaute, less a village
than a hamlet. Gradually the night enfolded us and, in the
sweet 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 had
automatically selected the same gear, we climbed the slope
at a speed that amplified the darkness. Images and sounds
receded, apart from the lights of a few isolated houses and the
barks of a few dogs, surprised by the passing of this yoked
pair. United, side by side, we were at one with the rhythm of
the perpetual motion we had engaged. It was magical. But the
headlamps of an enraged car woke us with a start. It was over.
The magic had evaporated, but it still comes back to me now,
50 years later. I remember: we were not touching the ground;
we were flying.

When I think about it, there is flight (vol) in volupté.

5.Jean leading the winning break in the 1955 Paris–Nice. Brian Robinson
(2nd in line) was the last to be dropped. The third rider is Roger Chupin.

6. Louison and Jean on

the finish line.
7. Paris–Nice 1955.
8. Signing an autograph before the start of the 1955 Tour in Le Havre.
 10. The early slopes of Mont Ventoux. Louison in his rainbow jersey
leads with Charly Gaul (on his right shoulder).

11. Louison, higher up Mont Ventoux.