Merckx’s name. ‘He has shown his limitations in the mountains. The young Belgian will never win a major stage race,’ it said.
Bitossi shook his head. Raschi might be a good journalist, but he knew nothing about cycling…
‘I couldn’t believe it when I read that, what Raschi said about him not winning the Tour. I mean, based on what I’d seen, it was obvious what the kid could do…’
While others dozed or dithered in denial, Crazy Heart Bitossi, at least, had not missed a beat.
By the end of July 1967, international cycling’s crowded constellation had abruptly found itself with one star fewer. What a way, though, for its glimmer to go out; the recent winner of Paris–Nice, Tom Simpson, had collapsed and died on Mont Ventoux at the Tour de France.
Simpson had perished midway through a race in which his Peugeot teammate Roger Pingeon’s talents had shone brighter than ever before. The pair had ridden in different colours at the Tour, race director Félix Lévitan having taken the controversial decision to revert to the old formula of national teams, but that hadn’t lessened their Peugeot manager Gaston Plaud’s delight at Pingeon’s excellent start to the Tour and his horror at Simpson’s death. Plaud made an easy target for ridicule but the man had virtues beyond his ability to pick the right suit and tie or bottle of Beaujoulais nouveau. He had a heart.
If only he’d been in charge on the Ventoux, or had convinced Tommy to quit the Tour the previous evening. He had tried, lord knows he had tried. Even on the Ventoux, when Simpson’s cheeks had appeared even more wan and sunken than the night before, Plaud had ordered Tommy to call it quits. He didn’t know about the five amphetamine pills that Simpson had supposedly been balancing on his tongue in the morning, and boastfully showing the other riders, or exactly what he’d drunk during an emergency stop in Bédoin at the foot of the Ventoux.
The fact remained that Plaud’s dynamic dichotomy – the happy-go-lucky yet immensely driven Englishman, and the talented French dilettante – had been cut in two, leaving just Pingeon. Peugeot’s third man had been Merckx, and Plaud suspected that he had already signed with the Italian start-up Faema during the Giro. Merckx learned of his friend and mentor Simpson’s death back home in Belgium, when it flashed on to the evening news. He was distraught. Ever since he had joined Peugeot the previous year, Simpson’s friendliness and willingness to dispense advice had been in marked contrast to the antipathy of his previous team leader, Rik Van Looy. Merckx immediately made up his mind to travel to Simpson’s funeral in Harworth in England a few days later. He would be the only rider from the continent to attend the burial.
Ninety-one summers young, in his home in Tours on the banks of the Loire, Gaston Plaud can still reel off names of the cyclists he helped guide to superstardom – Simpson, Pingeon, Charly Gaul, Ferdinand Bracke, Merckx and more. Plaud and his memory only show their age when he’s asked how,
why
, for heaven’s sake, he allowed a gem like Eddy Merckx to escape through his fingers at the end of 1967.
‘But, but, Pingeon was a good rider. He had won the Tour…’ Plaud starts to stammer.
But, but it’s not good enough.
*
There was more one big opportunity to stake a claim, as well as the rainbow jersey of the World Champion to win. The rendezvous was at Herleen, a grimy mining town in the south of Holland, on 3 September 1967. The sandy-haired, smooth-talking, short-sighted Jan Janssen had won the Vuelta a España in the spring. He would be the home fans’ talisman and one of the favourites. So too would Eddy Merckx and Gianni Motta.
Contrary to what had been written at the time, San Remo in March had not been Motta’s ‘funeral’. It was true that the left leg run over by a car at the 1965 Tour of Romandy had been hampering his form and his morale since the start of the
Bitossi shook his head. Raschi might be a good journalist, but he knew nothing about cycling…
‘I couldn’t believe it when I read that, what Raschi said about him not winning the Tour. I mean, based on what I’d seen, it was obvious what the kid could do…’
While others dozed or dithered in denial, Crazy Heart Bitossi, at least, had not missed a beat.
By the end of July 1967, international cycling’s crowded constellation had abruptly found itself with one star fewer. What a way, though, for its glimmer to go out; the recent winner of Paris–Nice, Tom Simpson, had collapsed and died on Mont Ventoux at the Tour de France.
Simpson had perished midway through a race in which his Peugeot teammate Roger Pingeon’s talents had shone brighter than ever before. The pair had ridden in different colours at the Tour, race director Félix Lévitan having taken the controversial decision to revert to the old formula of national teams, but that hadn’t lessened their Peugeot manager Gaston Plaud’s delight at Pingeon’s excellent start to the Tour and his horror at Simpson’s death. Plaud made an easy target for ridicule but the man had virtues beyond his ability to pick the right suit and tie or bottle of Beaujoulais nouveau. He had a heart.
If only he’d been in charge on the Ventoux, or had convinced Tommy to quit the Tour the previous evening. He had tried, lord knows he had tried. Even on the Ventoux, when Simpson’s cheeks had appeared even more wan and sunken than the night before, Plaud had ordered Tommy to call it quits. He didn’t know about the five amphetamine pills that Simpson had supposedly been balancing on his tongue in the morning, and boastfully showing the other riders, or exactly what he’d drunk during an emergency stop in Bédoin at the foot of the Ventoux.
The fact remained that Plaud’s dynamic dichotomy – the happy-go-lucky yet immensely driven Englishman, and the talented French dilettante – had been cut in two, leaving just Pingeon. Peugeot’s third man had been Merckx, and Plaud suspected that he had already signed with the Italian start-up Faema during the Giro. Merckx learned of his friend and mentor Simpson’s death back home in Belgium, when it flashed on to the evening news. He was distraught. Ever since he had joined Peugeot the previous year, Simpson’s friendliness and willingness to dispense advice had been in marked contrast to the antipathy of his previous team leader, Rik Van Looy. Merckx immediately made up his mind to travel to Simpson’s funeral in Harworth in England a few days later. He would be the only rider from the continent to attend the burial.
Ninety-one summers young, in his home in Tours on the banks of the Loire, Gaston Plaud can still reel off names of the cyclists he helped guide to superstardom – Simpson, Pingeon, Charly Gaul, Ferdinand Bracke, Merckx and more. Plaud and his memory only show their age when he’s asked how,
why
, for heaven’s sake, he allowed a gem like Eddy Merckx to escape through his fingers at the end of 1967.
‘But, but, Pingeon was a good rider. He had won the Tour…’ Plaud starts to stammer.
But, but it’s not good enough.
*
There was more one big opportunity to stake a claim, as well as the rainbow jersey of the World Champion to win. The rendezvous was at Herleen, a grimy mining town in the south of Holland, on 3 September 1967. The sandy-haired, smooth-talking, short-sighted Jan Janssen had won the Vuelta a España in the spring. He would be the home fans’ talisman and one of the favourites. So too would Eddy Merckx and Gianni Motta.
Contrary to what had been written at the time, San Remo in March had not been Motta’s ‘funeral’. It was true that the left leg run over by a car at the 1965 Tour of Romandy had been hampering his form and his morale since the start of the
Similar Books
