Rough Ride (4 page)

In 1981 I was nineteen and raced my first season as a senior rider. Adapting to the longer races was difficult initially; I was often the victim of my own enthusiasm, attacking too early and exploding before the end. But it didn't take long to adapt and, once I did, I never doubted I would reach the top in Irish cycling. Most of the young guys I had started with had given up, victims of love, alcohol and pop music. I had been in love, tried alcohol and was a great music fan. Love had left me frustrated and unhappy, alcohol happy but unconscious. I liked music because it was the only thing that didn't interfere with cycling, and I was a regular visitor to the record shops. In 1981 Stephen Roche made his professional debut with Peugeot in France. Ireland now had two professionals, Kelly and Roche. Their exploits inspired me and I wanted to be a pro. But all that was further down the road. First, I had to prove I was good enough, which took five years.

In June I represented my country for the first time in the Manx International on the Isle of Man, a 100-mile baptism of fire around the TT course. Pulling on the green jersey should have been a proud moment – it wasn't. The jerseys were faded and torn. They had been used six months previously in the Tour of Ireland and hadn't been washed properly. The washer had forgotten to remove race food from the pockets and I had to pick rotten Mars bars and other stinking remnants out of them. So much for the honour of representing your country.

Martin Earley made his international debut in the same race. We were both in the front group approaching Snaefell mountain for the last time and going really well. But I was stronger on the seven-mile climb and finished tenth, very pleased with myself.

The Irish championships were held a week later in Waterford. One of my Da's greatest fears when riding a championship was to miss the winning breakaway through tactical error. At Waterford I decided that whatever happened I wasn't going to miss the boat. I attacked early in a big group and, on the last lap, went clear with two others, Brendan Madden and Mick Nulty. They were both stronger than I was, but neither was a good finisher. In the finishing sprint, slightly uphill, sheer will to win was the difference between us and I beat them easily. I was Irish champion at nineteen, the youngest ever to win the tide. I was thrilled.

Stephen Roche was in Waterford that day. He was home on a break from the Continent and he turned up in a lovely white Peugeot with his name on both doors. He had made a sensational pro debut, winning the Tour of Corsica and Paris-Nice – an instant star. He brought a girl to Waterford. She was French, blonde and wore an outrageous mini-skirt. Her name was Lydia, and seeing her with Stephen that day made professional cycling seem very enticing.

Winning in Waterford was very important to me: I was Irish champion and no one could ever take that away. I loved the tide. In the pubs in the off-season I would often bump into someone who would ask if I was into sport.

'Cycling, hmmm that's interesting and have you won anything?'

And I would reply with false modesty, 'Well, actually, I'm the current national champion.'

The glamour of being champion didn't last. Later that month I was picked in an Irish team for the Tour of Scotland. There was a Czech team riding who were huge brutes of men. Milan Jurco was the most impressive; I had never seen so much muscle on one man or anyone quite as ugly. The Czechs taught me a new game – the art of riding in crosswinds. In Ireland the hedges are so high that crosswinds are rarely a factor in deciding race tactics, so we were inexperienced. The Czechs toyed with us all week, and I can remember going to bed one night dreading having to get up for another hammering the next day. I remember the second to last stage in particular. It lashed down with rain all day and I arrived in a group hours down and totally miserable. At the finish we rode straight to the dressing room. The Englishman, Mark Bell from Liverpool, was getting changed. He had just beaten two Czechs to win the stage, a fine performance. Someone asked if he wanted to turn pro. He laughed and in his best scouse accent replied, 'No way! It looks great on the telly, seeing them pulling faces on the climbs, throwing themselves all over the place, but it's not like that in real life. It's pain. No fuckin' way.'

I knew that Mark Bell was right, but it didn't change my mind. I reckoned I was still young and had still a good margin for improvement. I reckoned I would go much better with another two years under my belt. But he did make me think about it.

Stephen came home for the winter and was in great demand all over the country. He had won four stage races in his first season with the professionals and was already a big name. I phoned him and invited him to our house for a chat and some advice about going to France. When he came, he talked of the problems he had faced as an amateur, of the need to be two-faced with the team managers and the French riders because they were always two-faced with you. He told us it was important to 'get them before they get you'. The message struck a chord. He promised to find Raphael and me a place at ACBB at the end of 1983 when we finished our apprenticeships. After the talk, he cleared the spread of cakes and pastries my mother had laid on – it was nice to see he had lost none of his old habits.

1982 started well, then flopped, but was most memorable for meeting Ann. I have always thought it a strange coincidence that I met my wife and my best friend on the same day, at the same time and in the same place. It was in Phoenix Park in Dublin at the end of the week-long Ras Tailteann. I had been noticing Ann since the start of the season. She was a sister of one of the guys who raced, Paul Nolan. I knew Paul was riding the Ras and guessed she might be in the park. I found her in the crowd after the race and we started talking. She had followed the race for the week, taking notes for a journalist from the Irish press, David Walsh. As we talked, David and his wife Mary approached and Ann introduced me. I arranged to meet her later at the post-race dance. We had two more dates during that week and on the following Sunday I won my first race for over two months at Carrick on Suir.

Carrick was one of the rare occasions in 1981 when I beat Raphael. He had a superb year and was heralded by all as the new Kelly. It was hard playing second fiddle to my younger brother; he was the apple of my father's eye, but we were always close and his success did not change this. Meeting Ann was a great consolation. She came into my life at an important time. My poor form frustrated me. The more I tried, the less I succeeded. I was impossible to live with whenever I travelled with an Irish team: moody, grouchy, a real pain. Ann changed me. She lightened me up, brought me out of myself, got me smiling more. It was no coincidence that I started to ride better almost from the first day we met.

For me 1983 was about two races. The Milk Race, a two-week Tour of Britain sponsored by the Milk Marketing Board, had the reputation of being one of the hardest amateur stage races in the world. I was a bit dubious about entering for it as I had never ridden a stage race of more than a week, but decided it was time to test my mettle.

The first stage was a marathon 120-mile trip to Bristol. With about twenty miles to go I went clear in a chasing group with race leader Malcolm Elliot and Tony Doyle and finished sixteenth. It was a good start and I was determined to hang on to my sixteenth place for as long as possible. The morale in the team was excellent. We had been slaughtered by the Irish press before leaving, but the criticism united us and made us try harder. There was no pressure on us, so we had nothing to lose and attacked every day. The good start continued when my mate Phillip Cassidy finished second on the third stage to Welwyn Garden City. He stole some of my thunder and spurred me to attack. On the sixth stage to Leicester I got into an important break that moved me up to sixth overall. Sixth in the Milk Race, I couldn't believe it.

I rang home every night: one call to my parents, another to Ann. They were all very excited and said I was getting rave reviews from the papers. On the ninth stage, a 94-mile mountainous stage from Kirkby to Halifax, I hit the jackpot – race leader. A star at last. But getting the lead was one thing, holding on to it quite another. Our team was young and very inexperienced and I was convinced there was no way we could defend the yellow jersey. I didn't sleep that night and felt a terrible pressure on my shoulders. I had worn a yellow jersey only once before on a Tour of Ulster and had lost it after one day. The Tour of Ulster wasn't a patch on the Milk Race, how could I possibly hope to hang on? I weighed up my options all night. I had a 42-second lead over German rider Ulrich Rottler and 54 seconds on Peugeot professional Sean Yates. The next day was a 100-mile stage to Hull, but this was followed by a rest day. Defending the jersey to Hull would ensure that I kept it for three days. It was a good incentive.

The stage to Hull was flat and proved uneventful. We had a shaky start and let a dangerous break go clear, but regained control half-way through and I rode into Hull with the jersey still in my possession. The rest day was great, it was an extra day to savour the glory. Being race leader was fun but it wasn't enough any more. I wanted to win. I couldn't sleep for thinking about it – the pressure was enormous. There were just three more stages to go; if I held out on two of those the race was mine. The first hilly stage across the Yorkshire Moors to Middlesbrough was the real test. On the first climb, all my team-mates were dropped and I was left alone to defend the yellow shirt. On the savagely steep Farndale Moor, I suffered terribly but broke clear with a sixteen-man group. Rottler, Eaton and Yates were left behind. I was so happy that I didn't bother to go for the stage win and was content to roll in at the back of the group. I had defended the lead on my own. I was convinced I was going to win.

There was just the difficult seventy-mile stage to Harrogate to master. It started with a steep first-category climb, the Stang, but I was flying and crossed the summit in seventh place. The bunch had split in two, and all my team-mates were behind so I was vulnerable. The Americans noticed and started attacking. One by one I brought them back, enjoying the defiance. When they saw they couldn't get rid of me they slowed the pace and my team-mates got back on.

I met my Waterloo after thirteen miles. A mile from the bottom of the second climb, the Fleak, I had a puncture. Eaton noticed my deflating front tyre and ordered his men to attack. My two team-mates Eddie Madden and Mick McKenna waited with me and we changed wheels. I didn't panic because I felt sure we would get back on. But the Americans split the field to shreds on the climb, and neither Madden nor McKenna could stay with me. I picked my way through the stragglers and chased alone down the descent. But I started to take chances, ran off the road at a T-junction and fell off. A puncture and a crash – the bad luck was too much. I got back on the bike, but lost heart; chasing alone was now a pointless exercise. I waited for a group and finished the stage thirteen minutes down. I slid from first to thirty-third overall. The next morning Matt Eaton pulled on my yellow jersey and we strolled to the race finish in Blackpool. At the race banquet I was presented with a watch as the most unfortunate rider of the race. I gave it to my father, remembering his words: 'In cycling there is more heartbreak than happiness.'

Knowing what I now know, I should not have lost the race. I should have paid money to a team-mate to defend the lead. In the modern era riders do not lose stage races because of punctures and crashes. But I returned to Ireland a hero. Only one other Irishman, Peter Doyle, had ever worn the yellow jersey in the Milk Race. I had equalled God. Not bad.

The Milk Race had made me the top rider in the country, and I confirmed my new status with two good wins on my return home. Two weeks later I rode the Manx International. On the last lap I broke clear on Snaefell mountain with six others. We dashed down the mountain, turned Governor's Bridge and entered the finishing straight. Joey McLaughlin opened the sprint and I came round him, heading for the line like a bullet. I got that feeling, that wonderful, 'I'm going to win the Manx International' feeling. The line was there just in front of me, but then the Swiss Hans Reiss passed me ten feet from the line, edging me out by a hair's breadth. Second. So near and yet so far. Again. The press started calling me 'the nearly man'.

The Tour de L'Avenir was the second memory of 1983. The L'Avenir, starting in Lorient and finishing in Marseille, was a fourteen-day mini Tour de France for pros and amateurs – and my first chance to race against Continental pros. It was very different from my previous races. They rode much closer together; I can remember leaving Lorient on the first stage with brake levers in both buttocks and feeling very uncomfortable. The style of racing was also completely new. With amateurs it was arse-up, head down, and go from the gun. But in the L'Avenir there was no set pattern to the racing, except at the finish, when it was always eyeballs out. From the opening stages survival was the goal.

Before riding the L'Avenir I thought I knew what mountains were. I didn't. The first mountain stage came after ten days. It was a split, with a morning stage from Bourg-de-Péage to La Chapelle-en-Vercors and in the afternoon a return to Bourg over the same climbs. I had been waiting all week for this day, the day of glory, but I was wiped out. It was so hot and the climbs were so long that I couldn't handle it. On the morning stage I was dropped with John Herety and Paul Sherwen, two British pros riding with French teams La Redoute and Coop-Mercier. Both were noted non-climbers and at the time I felt humiliated to be in their company. I had fancied myself as a Lucien Van Impe. I was deeply discouraged, and for the first time being a professional did not seem such a great thing after all. I reached La Chapelle at least half an hour down. My teammate John McQuaid finished with me, but Raphael and Gary Thompson, the only other Irish survivors, were further back again. We changed quickly and ate a pretty miserable lunch in a run-down shack of a hotel. Bernard Thevenet, a double Tour de France winner, was at another table. Word had it that he was a native of La Chapelle.