IT’S A GREY AUTUMNAL day in Normandy. The keen wind and occasional showers make the weather a perfect match for the subdued mood just outside a small village near Rouen as a coffin begins the slow journey to its last resting place. Inside the coffin is the body of Jacques Anquetil, one of the greatest sports stars of his generation and of his sport, cycling. In his native France, he is still held by many to have been one of the greatest sports stars of all time.
The coffin and the body start their journey outside Anquetil’s chateau, nicknamed ‘Les Elfes’. Chateau is not too grand a title. There are dozens of rooms, a heated outdoor swimming pool and formal grounds of 28 hectares, not to mention many more of farmland. As befits someone of such stature, a police motorbike leads the procession of hearse and half a dozen cars towards Rouen’s famous cathedral. Two more policemen are required to regulate the traffic around the entrance to the chateau.
At the cathedral, mourners start to arrive soon after the coffin at midday. Although the funeral service doesn’t start until 2 p.m., the cathedral is soon full; many people have to stand outside. Those squeezed inside further underline Anquetil’s prestige. Here a secretary of state for sport and a former prime minister; there half a dozen winners of the Tour de France, including Eddy Merckx and Bernard Hinault. There are also erstwhile friends and rivals, such as Raymond Poulidor, Anquetil’s would-be nemesis, three former world champions in Rudi Altig, André Darrigade and Jean Stablinski, and former teammates such as Guy Ignolin.
Pride of place, however, is taken up by his immediate family, the composition of which goes some way to revealing the complex character of Anquetil himself. Alongside his 87-year-old mother can be seen Dominique, his partner at the time of his death, and their 19-month-old son Christopher. Then there is Jeanine, Anquetil’s first wife. Also present are her children: Alain, the former husband of Dominique; and Annie, the estranged mother of Anquetil’s 16-year-old daughter Sophie, who is there by her side.
Tacitly acknowledging the domestic tribulations that had led to such an unlikely family group, Jean-Marie Leblanc, then a journalist with the French daily sports newspaper L’Équipe, soon to be director of the Tour de France, records the words of the priest conducting the funeral. After lauding the friendships and fraternity inspired by sport, Father Larcher adds, ‘In the life of a man, there is the good and the less good. It’s not up to us to judge.’
Certainly, none of the thousands gathered for the service in Rouen, nor the several hundred who accompany the coffin to a private blessing service in Quincampoix at the church where the young Anquetil received his First Communion, are inclined to do so. Another journalist, Anquetil’s close friend Pierre Chany, wrote of the ‘remarkable dignity’ of those present: ‘The sadness of those gathered was immense, and the religiously observed silence was testament to the depth of the emotion.’
Proceedings are brought to a close when Anquetil is finally laid to rest in the small churchyard beside his father. The coffin is adorned with a single lily-of-the-valley flower and a yellow jersey from André Darrigade. ‘There were many of us, thousand and thousands, who returned home yesterday richer than we arrived, in spite of leaving a part of ourselves in a small patch of Normandy’s rich soil,’ concluded Chany.
But who was Jacques Anquetil? Who was the man behind the sportsman? What was it about him that inspired such devotion from such a large number of people in spite of an obviously scandalous family life?
And it certainly was scandalous. The public may not have become aware of the story until after he had died, but even now his domestic arrangements can still inspire shock, even disgust, possibly admiration. First, he seduced the wife of his doctor, at the time not just his physician but also a friend. Then, he lived happily with her for more than ten years, acting for at least part of this time as stepfather to her two children. Once retired from cycling, however, he desired a child – the problem being that his wife could no longer conceive. In an effort to keep the family unit together, his stepdaughter acted as a surrogate mother and bore him a daughter. More than this, though, she also became his mistress, and another dozen years were spent living in a ménage à trois à l’Anquetil. Inevitably, the set-up proved unsustainable. When this unique domestic arrangement eventually collapsed, Anquetil’s final companion was the former wife of his stepson, a woman with whom he then had a son less than two years before he died, at the age of only 53, from cancer of the stomach.
In case it’s not clear, it should be categorically stated that there was no incest. There may or may not have been an abuse of power – this is considered later in more detail and in the context of the contributions of those directly involved. There was certainly a unique and provocative story, involving a series of events at which even Casanova might have baulked. Had it been scripted as a storyline in either Footballers’ Wives or Desperate Housewives, it would surely have been considered too unrealistic, too risqué even. Yet, as is so often the case, truth is stranger than fiction.
It was also a truth widely, if not universally, acknowledged. Everyone involved in the Anquetil clan, including friends, among whom were journalists, and Sophie, from whom the truth was never concealed, was aware of the domestic reality. Such attempts as were made to conceal the truth, such deceit as was practised, such lies as are implied by the title of this book, were only for the outside world, that much-feared, dangerous place that wouldn’t understand what was perceived as normal in the Anquetil household.
Yet it’s precisely because this normality was so at odds with the normality of the rest of society that it’s essential to understand the man if we’re not to be overwhelmed by the scandal. The purpose of this biography is to come to terms not just with the reality of Anquetil’s family life, but also to reveal the man for whom it was all possible. ‘I encourage you to do that, because when you paint the portrait of Anquetil you understand how he could do what he did,’ asserts Philippe Brunel, chief sports writer at L’Équipe and a friend of Anquetil, in his later years, and his daughter Sophie. ‘If you don’t, all you’re left with is the shock.’
Given Anquetil’s accomplishments, both as a man and as a sportsman, understanding him is an ambitious goal. Yet it is certainly possible to describe him and the things he did, the character traits and achievements that made him into a still-iconic figure. First among these is his career as a cyclist. ‘He’s one of the mythical characters both for cycling, and for France,’ says Bernard Hinault, his most worthy successor in French cycling and godfather to Anquetil’s son Christopher. ‘He was a winner, and I had that in my spirit, so I warmed to him. When I was small, he was for me the champion cyclist. But above all he was a gentleman, as much for his personal qualities as for his sporting achievements. I have always been irritated by the game of comparing champions from different times, but to be compared to him was an honour.’
Irritating as it may be, comparing champions from different eras is compelling. It’s also the only way for fans brought up on one generation to situate their heroes in the context of those who have gone before. In this light, Anquetil still fares well nearly 40 years after he retired. Of course, Hinault’s irritation comes from it being an inexact science. (It may also come from the fact that Eddy Merckx always comes out on top.) Yet to the extent that it is possible to be objective, Anquetil is almost invariably placed in the top five cyclists ever. Simply being the first man to win the Tour de France five times and the first to win all three major Tours – France, Italy and Spain – gives some measure of his achievements. He was also only the second rider, after Fausto Coppi, to win the Tours of France and Italy in the same year, a feat subsequently achieved only by Eddy Merckx, Bernard Hinault, Stephen Roche, Miguel Indurain and Marco Pantani. Lance Armstrong never attempted it.
In a league table compiled by L’Équipe after his death, giving a point for each victory in what it defined as the most important races – the world championships, the three grand Tours, the five one-day monuments (Milan–San Remo, Tour of Flanders, Paris–Roubaix, Liège–Bastogne–Liège and the Tour of Lombardy), the Grand Prix des Nations and the hour record – Anquetil was fourth, one point behind Coppi and two behind Hinault, with Merckx an incredible sixteen points clear. If Armstrong’s career had been included in the same table, he would have languished ten points adrift of Anquetil with fewer than half his number of victories.
In a similar table compiled for the Cycling Hall of Fame website using a more complex points system based on the prestige of different races and on placings, not just victories, Anquetil still finished fourth – not bad for a rider often criticised for being little more than a glorified time-triallist and lacking the breadth of achievement of his rivals. This time he was two places ahead of Armstrong and, once again, Coppi, Hinault and Merckx topped the list. Yet the ranking gives no consideration to his victories in time trials – his nine Grand Prix des Nations victories are overlooked, as are his fifteen other major time-trial triumphs, as well as his hour record. Had these been included and given similar weighting to other one-day races, Anquetil would move into a clear second place.
None of these comparisons can accurately weigh the significance of these victories, however. Armstrong’s record bears no comparison to that of Merckx, for example, yet his unparalleled Tour de France achievements and his unique story mean he is the first cyclist since the great Belgian to transcend the sport and enter the wider public consciousness. Even on this intangible measure, Anquetil more than holds his own. His famous double victory in the week-long Dauphiné Libéré stage race followed immediately by the 557 kilometres Bordeaux–Paris, the longest one-day race, was voted the greatest sporting achievement of the twentieth century in L’Équipe.
Anquetil was also awarded France’s highest civilian accolade, the Légion d’honneur, from General de Gaulle. De Gaulle, it is reported, was aghast at the initial absence of Anquetil’s name from the list, an absence explained to him as being due to the cyclist’s outspoken comments about doping. De Gaulle was not impressed: ‘Doping? Don’t know what you’re talking about. Has he made “La Marseillaise” be heard abroad, yes or no?’
When Anquetil received the award, his standing was such that the skier Guy Périllat, world champion and Olympic silver medallist, who was receiving the same accolade that day, was more impressed by being able to rub shoulders with the famous cyclist than with his own medal: ‘We received the Légion d’honneur together from General de Gaulle. Receiving it at the same time as him seemed like a consecration. He had always been a sort of hero in my eyes, someone whom I dreamed of imitating in my discipline.’
Even today, Anquetil’s reputation is still common currency in France. The presidential elections in 2007 saw the ruthlessly efficient victory of Nicolas Sarkozy, which prompted the headline ‘Sarkozy gagne à l’Anquetil’ (‘Sarkozy wins like Anquetil’). Nor is his contemporary relevance limited to the mileage that politicians can make out of being associated with him. His ambivalence towards one-day races was as much to do with the fact that they added little to his contract value as it was that they were subject to the vagaries of fortune and beyond his control. Instead, he focused exclusively on those events that most suited his calculating style and would bring him the greatest rewards in terms of profile and therefore money. Top of the tree, of course, was the Tour de France, victory in which would guarantee his prestige and his income – a single-minded approach echoed and exceeded by Lance Armstrong.
What’s more, his trenchant views on doping still have an unfortunate and pronounced resonance in today’s cycling. ‘I dope because everyone else dopes’ is an excuse still widely heard, as is the suggestion that so much is demanded of cyclists that a distinction should be drawn between ‘doping’ and expertly administered medical assistance designed to protect riders from themselves and the requirements placed on them. Only his frankness in confronting the issue is at odds with those implicated in today’s drugs scandals. This reveals some of the crucial aspects of his character, notably his openness and his nonconformity, as Brunel points out: ‘After he’d written the articles in which he says, “I dope because everybody dopes,” he was interviewed on television later in the winter with the sports minister who told him off and said to him that declarations like that could lead to confusion. Anquetil replied, “You’re sports minister, and yet you think I rode Bordeaux–Paris using just sugar.” That’s Anquetil’s nonconformity. You must remember that at the time the cachet of a minister was much more than it is now. People still believed in politicians, in the institutions. But Anquetil was very open when it came to the topics he was prepared to broach in conversation. He was a long way ahead of his time. In fact, in general, racers still have a tendency to hide things, but he was open.’
This candid approach to taboo subjects has led to him being portrayed as a rebel by some people, but even though his comments earned him a suspension – the latter-day equivalent of bringing the sport into disrepute – he himself denied that he wanted to destroy anything, certainly not cycling, which had made him who he was. ‘I wouldn’t say he was a rebel,’ agrees Brunel. ‘I’d say that he was completely nonconformist, completely ahead of his time in terms of morality, in terms of freedom. He was very independent intellectually – a free thinker – but not a rebel. Was he provocative? Yes, I think that’s it. He made fun of rules, of conventions, of others. He mocked them a bit. I remember one day he drove backwards through Rouen with Pierre Chany. He knew the town, and he took all the one-way streets backwards. Chany asked him why he’d done that, and he said, “So that if they stop me, I’m not in the wrong – going backwards on a one-way street is OK.”’
In the court of public opinion, this desire to challenge and poke fun at authority didn’t combine well with his reserved nature and timidity. Although France in the 1960s was split in its admiration for Anquetil and his great rival Raymond Poulidor, it was Poulidor, the eternal second, who inspired by far the greatest affection. Anquetil’s reserve was taken for hauteur, his disregard for rules as arrogance. Where Anquetil’s fans respected his achievements, Poulidor’s fans were infatuated with his open nature and his stoic acceptance of the misfortune that inevitably seemed to accompany his defeats.
‘I think his problem was that he just wasn’t comfortable in a crowd,’ says Hinault. ‘He didn’t like it if people came up to him and jostled him. Poulidor was the opposite. He was happy to sign autographs. “Maître Jacques” not so much. A bit, but not too much. But he wasn’t at all like that with his friends. In his circle, he was the kindest of all.’
Brunel agrees that the public got the wrong man: ‘Yes, he was a bit reserved. He had those cold, blue eyes. You couldn’t slap him on the shoulder. He was a character who inspired a bit of distance, and for that reason he didn’t earn the popularity or respect that he should have. People loved Poulidor instead. Yet in terms of personality, there was one who was interesting, engaging, generous, and that was Anquetil. The other one was tight and not someone who sparkled intellectually. Poulidor was intelligent – in terms of racing, in terms of a communion with nature, with his well-being – but he was not the great personality that Anquetil was. Yet the public chose the other one. That’s how it was – a misunderstanding by the public. Popularity is the aggregation of a series of misunderstandings.’
Plenty of people did understand him, however, in spite of his taste for provocation, something from which his friends weren’t immune. His great Italian time-trial rival Ercole Baldini, the man who bettered Anquetil’s first hour record, was no exception. ‘Anquetil won the Grand Prix de Lugano seven times, I think,’ says Brunel. ‘After he’d won it six times, the organiser said to him it would be better if he didn’t come back next year, as he was finding it difficult to get sponsors because Anquetil kept winning. Then, in the winter, he changed his mind and said he could come after all, as he was a star, an important rider, but if he were to let Baldini win, it wouldn’t be a bad thing. “I’ve not got anything against you. It’s for the good of cycling,” the organiser explained. Anquetil said, “OK, but you have to pay me at the start. I don’t want to wait around after to be paid and have to face the journalists. And it’s double the normal rate. If not, I won’t come.” It was all agreed, but when he arrived he went to see Baldini and said, “Listen, don’t say anything to the organisers, but if you want, I’ll let you win today, but you must give me your appearance money.” Baldini agreed and gave him the money up front, so he took all three fees, and he went and won the race. Just for a laugh. It was just a game for him. He got on really well with Baldini. They were very good friends. In fact, Baldini is still a good friend of Jeanine. It wasn’t about the money for Anquetil. It was about having fun. He just wanted to have fun.’