Read The Secret Race: Inside the Hidden World of the Tour De France: Doping, Cover-Ups, and Winning at All Costs: Inside the Hidden World of the Tour De France: Doping, Cover-Ups, and Winning at All Costs for Free Online
Authors: Daniel Coyle, Tyler Hamilton
152-pound Dane nicknamed the Eagle. Riis had a big bald head, and intense blue eyes that rarely blinked. He spoke seldom, and usually cryptically. His focus was so intense that it sometimes looked as if he were in a trance. But the strangest thing about Riis, by far, was the arc of his career.
For most of his career, Riis was a decent racer: solid, but rarely a contender in the big races. Then, in 1993, at twenty-seven, he went from average to incredible. He finished fifth in the 1993 Tour, with a stage win; in 1995, he finished third. By 1996, some observers believed he might even be able to defeat the sport’s reigning king, five-time defending champion Miguel Indurain.
I remember one of the first times I saw him up close, in the spring of 1997. We were going hard up some brutally steep climb, and Riis was working his way through the group, except he was pushing a gigantic gear. The rest of us were spinning along at the usual rhythm of around 90 rpms, and here comes Bjarne, blank-faced, churning away at 40 rpms, pushing a gear that I couldn’t imagine pushing. Then I realized: he’s training. The rest of us are going full bore, either trying to win or trying to hang on, and he’s training . As Riis went by, I couldn’t resist. I said, “Hey, how’s it going?” to see if he’d react. He gave me a glare and just kept riding.
You looked at Riis, you looked at the dozens of Riis look-alikes that made up the peloton, and you couldn’t help but wonder what was going on. I mean, I was green, but I wasn’t an idiot. I knew some bike racers doped. I’d read about it—albeit limitedly, in this pre-Internet age—in the pages of VeloNews . I’d heard about steroids (which mystified me at the time, since bike racers don’t have big muscles); I’d heard about riders popping amphetamines, about syringes tucked in jersey pockets. And lately I’d heard about erythropoietin, EPO, the blood booster that added, some said, 20 percent to endurance by causing the body to produce more oxygen-carrying red blood cells. *
The rumors didn’t impress me as much as the speed—the relentless, brutal, mechanical speed. I wasn’t alone. Andy Hampsten was achieving the same power outputs as previous years, years when he’d won the big races. Now, producing that same power, he was struggling to stay in the top fifty. Hampsten, who was staunchlyanti-doping, and who would soon retire at age thirty-two rather than dope, had a good view of the change.
ANDY HAMPSTEN: In the mideighties, when I came up, riders were doping but it was still possible to compete with them. It was either amphetamines or anabolics—both were powerful, but they had downsides. Amphetamines made riders stupid—they’d launch these crazy attacks, use up all their energy. Anabolics made people bloated, heavy, gave them injuries in the long run, not to mention these horrid skin rashes. They’d be superstrong in the cool weather, in shorter races, but in a long, hot stage race, the anabolics would drag them down. So bottom line, a clean rider could compete in the big three-week tours.
EPO changed everything. Amphetamines and anabolics are nothing compared to EPO. All of a sudden whole teams were ragingly fast; all of a sudden I was struggling to make time limits. By 1994, it was ridiculous. I’d be on climbs, working as hard as I’d ever worked, producing exactly the same power, at the same weight, and right alongside me would be these big-assed guys, and they’d be chatting like we were on the flats! It was completely crazy. †
As the [1996] season went by, there was so much tension at the dinner table—everybody knew what was up, everybody was talking about EPO, everybody could see the writing on the wall. They were looking to me to give them a little guidance. But what could I say?
Nobody sets out wanting to dope. We love our sport because of its purity; it’s just you, your bike, the road, the race. And when you enter a world and you begin to sense that
For most of his career, Riis was a decent racer: solid, but rarely a contender in the big races. Then, in 1993, at twenty-seven, he went from average to incredible. He finished fifth in the 1993 Tour, with a stage win; in 1995, he finished third. By 1996, some observers believed he might even be able to defeat the sport’s reigning king, five-time defending champion Miguel Indurain.
I remember one of the first times I saw him up close, in the spring of 1997. We were going hard up some brutally steep climb, and Riis was working his way through the group, except he was pushing a gigantic gear. The rest of us were spinning along at the usual rhythm of around 90 rpms, and here comes Bjarne, blank-faced, churning away at 40 rpms, pushing a gear that I couldn’t imagine pushing. Then I realized: he’s training. The rest of us are going full bore, either trying to win or trying to hang on, and he’s training . As Riis went by, I couldn’t resist. I said, “Hey, how’s it going?” to see if he’d react. He gave me a glare and just kept riding.
You looked at Riis, you looked at the dozens of Riis look-alikes that made up the peloton, and you couldn’t help but wonder what was going on. I mean, I was green, but I wasn’t an idiot. I knew some bike racers doped. I’d read about it—albeit limitedly, in this pre-Internet age—in the pages of VeloNews . I’d heard about steroids (which mystified me at the time, since bike racers don’t have big muscles); I’d heard about riders popping amphetamines, about syringes tucked in jersey pockets. And lately I’d heard about erythropoietin, EPO, the blood booster that added, some said, 20 percent to endurance by causing the body to produce more oxygen-carrying red blood cells. *
The rumors didn’t impress me as much as the speed—the relentless, brutal, mechanical speed. I wasn’t alone. Andy Hampsten was achieving the same power outputs as previous years, years when he’d won the big races. Now, producing that same power, he was struggling to stay in the top fifty. Hampsten, who was staunchlyanti-doping, and who would soon retire at age thirty-two rather than dope, had a good view of the change.
ANDY HAMPSTEN: In the mideighties, when I came up, riders were doping but it was still possible to compete with them. It was either amphetamines or anabolics—both were powerful, but they had downsides. Amphetamines made riders stupid—they’d launch these crazy attacks, use up all their energy. Anabolics made people bloated, heavy, gave them injuries in the long run, not to mention these horrid skin rashes. They’d be superstrong in the cool weather, in shorter races, but in a long, hot stage race, the anabolics would drag them down. So bottom line, a clean rider could compete in the big three-week tours.
EPO changed everything. Amphetamines and anabolics are nothing compared to EPO. All of a sudden whole teams were ragingly fast; all of a sudden I was struggling to make time limits. By 1994, it was ridiculous. I’d be on climbs, working as hard as I’d ever worked, producing exactly the same power, at the same weight, and right alongside me would be these big-assed guys, and they’d be chatting like we were on the flats! It was completely crazy. †
As the [1996] season went by, there was so much tension at the dinner table—everybody knew what was up, everybody was talking about EPO, everybody could see the writing on the wall. They were looking to me to give them a little guidance. But what could I say?
Nobody sets out wanting to dope. We love our sport because of its purity; it’s just you, your bike, the road, the race. And when you enter a world and you begin to sense that
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