The Badger

The Life of Bernard Hinault and the Legacy of French Cycling

Chicago Review Press Incorporated

Contents

THE BADGER IN A TRAP

'Everything you do is a permanent challenge. You have to be on top of it all the time but treat it as a game.'

– Bernard Hinault

Bernard Hinault was stuck. Crammed into the front passenger seat of the car in a backstreet of the Norman town of Lisieux, there was nowhere for him to go. The door wouldn't open; the crowd was too densely packed. Winding down the window was a no-no; too many bodies were pressed up against it. It was a balmy midsummer evening, the sun was setting, the fans had turned out in force and they had been waiting for a good while. Old, young, men, women, each wanted to get a sight of him, touch him, ask him for an autograph.

Hinault had arrived fashionably late for the start of the Lisieux criterium on 23 July 1985, and through the evening the crowd had swelled in anticipation of his arrival. They had started out looking for prime spots on the circuit, then had moved as if by osmosis, filling the pavement infront of the building where the riders were to get changed. The crush was understandable: two days earlier, Hinault had won the Tour de France for the fifth time, joining Eddy Merckx and Jacques Anquetil in the record books. Here he was, in the flesh.

I can't remember how Hinault eventually got out of the car and made it to the door of the changing rooms. What I do remember is that while the script called for a bit of badger-type aggression – a snarl, at least, if not a swipe of the claws – there was none of that. He sat calmly and waited for the organisers to find some muscle and give him the space to emerge. He looked slight – he is one of those cyclists who looks larger on his bike than off it – and not unreasonably he looked a little tired. He didn't win. That privilege was reserved for the 'regional' Thierry Marie, a first-year professional who had just finished his debut Tour.

I wasn't in the throng around the car containing the man in the yellow jersey. Ironically enough, I hadn't come to see Hinault. The history-making and the drama of the 1985 Tour were not to be denied, but for a large group of us, the interest was more parochial. Along with a gaggle of teammates from the Etoile Sportive Livarotaise – a club based in a cheese-and-cider-making village ten miles to the south – I'd come to watch Thierry, our clubmate of the year before. Thierry was one of three Livarotais in the big race that evening: with him were François Lemarchand, another first-year pro who had just finished the Tour, and Alain Percy, a first-category amateur who had been selected for the Norman 'regional' team. They were the guys we trained, yarned and joked with. They were our conduit to the world of Hinault and company. That put the Badger well within six degrees of separation.

The little world that had bred Hinault, Maurice Le Guilloux, Vincent Barteau, Laurent Fignon and countless French professionals since the war was also our world. It was a world in which there were races by the score every weekend, and a fair few during the week. At some time in the year, almost every centre of population in Normandy and Brittany had its Prix du Comité des Fêtes or Prix du Cyclisme, no matter how isolated the village or how small the hamlet. Some had two or three in a summer. Hinault and the others we were watching had all started in those races. They had moved up to the bigger events, regional semi-Classics run with pride by clubs like ours, and thence into the stratosphere. Hence the connection. For Livarot, a small-town club from deepest rural France, fielding two riders in the same Tour was an unlikely feat – at least since the days of 'regional' teams came to an end in the 1950s. It was like a backwoods football team fielding two players in an FA Cup final. For our boss, Robert Vogt, it didn't get much better than this.

The point of the post-Tour criterium is – was – that you see your heroes in the flesh. It adds an extra, personal dimension to the photographs and the stories. Hinault had been a key part of my cycling life since it had begun in 1978, and now here he was. Stuck in a car, emerging to be lost in a sea of bodies, then whizzing past in the high-speed string backlit by the setting sun. It was Hinault's curly hair, hedge-thick eyebrows and bared teeth that had filled the covers of the copies of Miroir du Cyclisme that I devoured as a teenager. I would lose myself in his world to the point that in physics lessons the teacher would return me abruptly to a land of equations and Bunsen burners with a coolly targeted lump of chalk. Hinault's Tours and Classics were the ones my late father and I listened to on long-wave French radio stations, brought to us by Jean-Rene Godart and Jean-Paul Brouchon.

I had no particular passion for Hinault in spite of his obvious status as the top dog in the sport. What appealed was the fantastically clandestine nature of cycling: the process of discovering a culture few knew about or had an interest in, a journey guided by a language few people spoke and media that weren't readily available. The magazines had to be bought in a shop in Soho; the radio had to be tuned to the right station at the right time. But Hinault always cropped up at the memorable moments, and their scarcity made them all the more notable.

On school exchange in Brittany in the 1979 Easter holidays, I pestered my hosts to let me watch Paris– Roubaix and Liège–Bastogne–Liège, where Hinault was among the impotent chasers behind a dominant Didi Thurau. Somehow, I found a radio on which to listen to the finish of the Ballon d'Alsace stage of the 1979 Tour – Hinault's epic, now largely forgotten duel with Joop Zoetemelk – as my school form picnicked on a hillside in Devon during an outing when French exchange students returned that July. Hinault's 1980 Sallanches world championship I watched in episodes one afternoon on a visit to our twin village in Normandy, with the race split up by a long lunch and a drive between houses, during which my brother sicked up his Camembert.

Inspired by the knowledge that Hinault had broken away early at Sallanches in the rain to avoid confusion in the bunch, I tried something similar a year later at the Devon and Cornwall junior divisional championships, only to realise that it might have worked for him, but wouldn't for me. By 1982 I was wearing the John McEnroe-style sweatband in Renault-Elf's yellow and black, popularised by Hinault and Laurent Fignon. If the Badger and the Professor were happily flying in the face of practicality and good taste, I had no qualms about doing the same.

The 1984 Tour, Hinault against Fignon, was the first I lived in full, in France. I didn't appreciate it at the time: this would come to be the way that I experienced most Tours from 1990 onwards as a journalist, through French television and the newspaper L'Équipe. Every afternoon in that baking hot July – racing and training permitting – I trekked religiously up the hill in Livarot to M. and Mme Vogt's house, where the curtains would be drawn against the sun so that we could watch Hinault's drawn-out defeat and Fignon's utter triumph. We couldn't avoid feeling smug, given that we knew that the following season our Thierry would be riding with Fignon and Guimard at the all-conquering Renault-Elf team. With hindsight, it's amusing to recall the Schadenfreude we felt in the knowledge that Hinault had quit Guimard the previous autumn. Now he was getting a kicking, and our boy was going to be among those putting the boot into the Badger in 1985. That July, no one expected Hinault to bite back.

The best part of thirty years later, I was again looking at the figure of Hinault squashed up in a car, but this time there were no crowds to get in the way, and I was in the car too. It was one of the red Skoda Superb saloons, emblazoned with logos and festooned with radio aerials that are driven by the Tour de France's top brass and we were sitting on the top of Holme Moss. The Yorkshire moorland was deserted, as you would expect in midweek at the end of March, and it was bone-achingly cold in a wind that seemed to come a long way from the east.

A national institution transposed to foreign territory made entertaining watching on that spring day in 2014. Hinault was contracted to visit Yorkshire to publicise the Grand Départ of the Tour in Leeds the coming July, and to that end he had begun with a ceremonial visit in the red Skoda to the Robin Hood pub in Cragg Vale. He'd had a rapid pie and pint in the bar – the photograph by Simon Wilkinson made many of the papers. He'd run through a load of questions for the local press, then slipped into cycling kit for a spin to the top of what purported to be the longest continuous ascent on English soil with a group of local cyclists. He had signed anything and everything from posters and T-shirts to the bunting which the locals were going to run up the telegraph poles when the Tour visited on 5 July.

Hinault had moved on from his years as the angry man of French cycling. He was no longer the guy who once said that he wished he had a jacket with tacks on it, to ward off the back slappers who would hassle him after stages. Le Blaireau had mellowed into an authoritative father figure, like the Badger Kenneth Grahame described in The Wind in the Willows. He jumped through the media and marketing hoops with the same professionalism that was his hallmark on the bike: he had signed up for it, so he got on with the job, with no second thoughts.

We drove from Cragg Vale over the Moss and up and down the plethora of little climbs that made stage 2 of the Tour into Sheffield one of the toughest opening-weekend stages in recent Tours. He waxed lyrical about the stone walls – 'imagine the skill, the hours of work that's gone into those' – speculated about what wine you might drink if you shot and cooked one of the pheasants in the moorland fields, discussed terriers, and enjoyed the comparison between Yorkshiremen and the famously tough and insular Bretons. He clearly relished the succession of tight little descents on narrow roads and the gritty little climbs that peppered the end of the Sheffield stage. 'The riders won't enjoy this, especially if it rains,' he said smugly. 'I'd probably have complained but I'd have had a bit of fun here.'

* * *

You could argue that the notion of professional cycling as fun died on the day that Hinault symbolically hung his bike on a hook after his farewell race in November 1986. The phrase se faire plaisir – have fun, take pleasure, enjoy yourself – crops up all the time when you talk cycling with him. It might seem curious to use the term about something that demands as much pain and sacrifice as professional cycling, but Hinault was not alone: it was Fignon's philosophy as well. In twenty-five years on the Tour, the only winner I've heard describe racing as fun was Lance Armstrong, but that's a different story.

Hinault's career neatly bridged two eras. He started out in 1975, when the sport had barely changed in its essentials since the Second World War – better bikes and kit, better roads but not much else – and when he hung up his wheels cycling had begun to resemble its twenty-first-century incarnation. By his retirement in 1986 it was a much bigger, far more business-oriented, fully international sport with more cash on the table and more sponsors. In Hinault's first Tour, 1978, the field comprised a mere eleven teams, with bike manufacturers dominating as sponsors and co-sponsors. Six of the teams were French. The Italians didn't even bother to turn up; a Swede, an Irishman and a brace of Britons (Barry Hoban and Paul Sherwen) were the only riders from outside the European heartland. By 1986, Hinault's last, the race had twenty-one teams, including two from Colombia and one from the USA, with a diverse mix of multinational sponsors, and riders from Australia, Norway, Canada and Mexico, as well as the obvious Europeans and a plethora of North and South Americans.

When I followed Hinault's win in the 1985 Tour – in front of the same French television set as I'd watched him on in 1984 – the race was well into its transition from being a French event with a smattering of international entrants to an international sporting event which took place – largely – on French soil. It had gone global in just a few years. Some historians locate the turning point as 1981, when the Australian Phil Anderson shook Hinault by clinging on to his wheel at the Pla d'Adet finish in the Pyrenees and briefly wore the yellow jersey. Anderson was the first non-European to lead the race, and that prompted Jacques Goddet to write his keynote editorial on globalising cycling in L'Équipe, 'un Tour mondialisé'. The American Greg LeMond's victory in Hinault's last Tour was the first for a non-European; for veteran L'Équipe writer Pierre Chany, the presence of four nations in the top five overall represented the 'complete internationalisation of the Tour'. Chany reminded his readers that a few years earlier, it would have been unimaginable for the maillot jaune to come from outside Europe and looked forward to a time when no nation would dominate cycling – which is where we have arrived in the twenty-first century.

Hinault played his part in the transition in the 1980s. After his mentor Cyrille Guimard signed LeMond, he and Hinault took a celebrated trip to the US, marked by the 'cowboy togs' photo shoot, where Hinault, LeMond and the Renault manager posed in Old West outfits. This now looks like a key turning point. Hinault's later transfer to La Vie Claire exemplified the change in cycling: Renault was the state-owned car maker, with all the emotional baggage that went with that, while La Vie Claire was a chain of health-food stores run by a charismatic if roguish capitalist Bernard Tapie. It had a Mondrian-inspired racing jersey that summed up its modernity. And in drawing Tapie to cycling, Hinault brought in the big money.

Hinault is rightly hailed as cycling's last champion in another way. Since his time, no Tour de France winner – and barely any other riders at all – have raced an entire season with the goal of winning everything on offer. 'The last of his kind perhaps, racing from spring to autumn, triumphing on all terrains, piling one exploit on another, forging the second greatest record of cycling history behind Eddy Merckx,' wrote Olivier Margot in the introduction to L'Équipe's centenary celebration book of the Tour in 2003.

Fignon echoed Margot, pointing out that the reductive approach to targeting just the Tour de France has in its turn reduced the stature of the champions who adopt it: 'When Hinault was on song he would wipe out everyone; he would win everything he could from the start of the season to the end. Back then, cycling champions didn't do things in a small way. When the Badger won, he won big-time.'

'Hinault just did things, like falling off in the [1977] Dauphiné and winning, dominating [the 1980] Liège– Bastogne–Liège in the snow,' recalls Sam Abt, a journalist who covered the era for the Herald Tribune. 'They were extraordinary demonstrations of strength.'

There was another, broader change. In 1978, the American writer Felix Magowan could claim that 'In the Latin countries, cycling is a sport practised mainly by the socially disadvantaged, those who might otherwise go into boxing ... For the most part, the cyclists are the children of peasants, either landless day-labourers or small farm holders. In France they are more apt than not to be from Brittany, the one province where cycling enjoys a following akin to that in Belgium.' That had gone by the late 1980s, partly because the international mix of the professional peloton meant potential racers came from far beyond cycling's traditional industrial and agricultural base, but also because economic change across Europe meant there were fewer peasant farmers and industrial workers who needed cycling as a means of escape. Cycling changed its sociological mix in Hinault's time, enough for Margot to describe him as 'one of the last, symbolic representatives of a suffering working class'.

Most famously, however, Hinault was the last of the sport's patrons, a series of authoritative figures going back to the founding days. They were the men with the hardest characters and the strongest legs, who could dictate the pace of the racing, and could exert influence with organisers and other teams. Their whims could affect their fellow professionals' chances in other races, their influence could dictate what appearance money their inferiors earned. The patrons – Merckx, Rik Van Looy, Hinault, Anquetil – were a blend of union leader and mafia boss, but they had this in common: they ruled the sport through muscle and mouth. Hinault's status as a patron was established early on when he took on the organisers of the Tour de France in 1978, and he continued to dominate his fellows to the end of his career. After which, the patron went the way of the dodo.