Last thing I remember I was running for the door I had to find the passage back to the place I was before Relax said the night man We are programmed to receive You can check out any time you like But you can never leave

- – Hotel California, the Eagles.

In his six years as a professional road cyclist, Michael Rasmussen never left anything to chance. Every morning at breakfast, he resumed his daily crusade against body fat by pouring water on his bowl of muesli; every evening at dinner, he counted or weighed his pasta and cooked his vegetables à l’eau. The 33-year-old Dane was also obsessive about his sleep and guarded against snoring teammates by always rooming alone. But there are certain things in life we can never control.

It was cold and grey in northern Italy on that fateful morning in June when he set off alone for the training ride. The opening stage of the Tour de France was three weeks away and he was continuing his preparation with a long ride in the Dolomites. By early afternoon, it had started to rain heavily but the Dane pressed on, revelling in the sacrifice.

On the road to Pedrazzo, near the San Pellegrino pass, he was accosted by the driver of a car travelling in the same direction. Davide Cassani, a former Italian professional, commentated regularly on cycling for the Italian network RAI. They exchanged greetings and Rasmussen explained that he had been riding for almost 8½ hours.

The time of their brief encounter was 2.30pm. The date of their brief encounter was Wednesday, June 13. The effect of their brief encounter was devastating. Rasmussen’s life would never be the same. IT IS Tuesday afternoon in Pau. Fifteen stages of the Tour de France have been completed and the riders are being treated to a second and final rest day. For Jean-Claude Leclerc a former French professional champion who works as an analyst on the race for Swiss televi-sion, that means a nice leisurely breakfast followed by a stroll to the press room after lunch.

As he enters the press room at the majestic Palais Beaumont, Leclerc happens upon a journalist he raced with in the 1980s and a fiery debate ensues. The heat is coming from the journalist. He is raging at the headline – “The courage of Vino” – on the front page of L’Equipe, the French daily sports newspaper. “It’s a joke,” he fumes. “They are trying to sell us another miracle.”

“Well, we are not that far from Lourdes,” Leclerc smiles.

For Vino read Alexandre Vinokourov, the 33-year-old preTour favourite from Kaza-khstan, who has been showing remarkable signs of recovery after the fifth-stage crash which left him with more than 30 stitches in his knees. On Saturday, he blitzed the field in the time trial at Albi; on Monday, he won the brutally tough mountain stage to Loudenvielle. The journalist is sceptical.

“Last week they were telling us Vinokourov was in so much pain that he could hardly stand,” he fumes. “This week he’s walking on water! It’s a replay of the crap we had last year with [Floyd] Landis.” (The American rider exhibited exceptional powers of recovery in the Alps but later tested positive for elevated levels of testosterone.)

“You’re probably right,” Leclerc concurs.

“Have you read the interview? It’s unbelievable. The French are soft, he says; I inspire respect, he says; I’m as tough as a rock, he says. But if he’s as tough and talented as he says, why does he need Ferrari? [Vinokourov announced before the race that he was working with the controversial Italian doctor Michele Fer-rari.] And L’Equipe are letting him get away with it! They’ve been promoting him since the start of the race as the great white knight.”

“Yes, but what can you say?” Leclerc counters. “He hasn’t tested positive. There is no proof that he is doing anything wrong.”

“You can say, ‘Sorry Alexandre, go sell your bullshit some-place else’.”

“Okay,” Leclerc laughs, “I’ll try that tomorrow during the broadcast.”

Leclerc concedes that many of the performances he has witnessed during his time in the commentary box have been literally unbelievable. “But you can’t say that,” he says, “and sometimes you feel like an accomplice.”

“Well, at least you’re honest,” the journalist says. “I’ve not heard many of your colleagues admit to that.”

The debate continues. Leclerc makes the point that there is nothing wrong with the sport that cannot be solved by a few honest men, but the conversation is interrupted by the bustle of chairs and a commotion at the top of the room. Rasmussen, the race leader, has arrived for his press conference. THREE weeks ago in London, when Rasmussen rolled down the starting ramp in Whitehall and kicked towards Big Ben, the only people who noticed were the tourists pressed to the barriers. He finished 166th in the prologue, survived the sprint to Canterbury and spent the first week of the race cruising under the radar. The mountains have always been Rasmussen’s favourite terrain and on the eighth stage to Tignes, he produced a stunning display of climbing to become the sixth Dane in history to lead the Tour de France.

Bjarne Riis, the first Dane to win the Tour de France, had been Rasmussen’s first mentor when he joined the professional ranks in 2002. In May this year, Riis had his name scratched from the record books after confessing to have doped. Rasmussen had learnt a valuable lesson: why on earth had Riis con-fessed? In the sport of professional cycling, honesty did not pay.

On the morning after his brilliant ride to Tignes in the Alps two weeks ago he faced a grilling from Lars Werge, the cycling correspondent of the Copenhagen-based daily Ekstra Bladet. “Why should the Danish public believe that you are clean?” “Trust me,” replied Rasmussen.

The three days that followed were bliss for the new maillot jaune. He started to think about Paris. What if he, Michael Rasmussen, became the first Dane officially to win the Tour de France? And then all hell broke loose.

After the 11th stage to Montpellier, Jesper Worre, the director of the Danish cycling union, said Rasmussen would not be selected to ride for Denmark at this year’s world championships in Germany, nor at next year’s Beijing Olympics. The offence? The Tour leader had missed four out-of-competition dope tests in the past 18 months, including two in recent weeks on May 8 and June 28. “It was an administrative error,” Rasmussen explained.

A day later, after the 12th stage to Castres, Rasmussen was asked by Neal Rogers, a journalist working for the American magazine Velo News, if it was true that he had attempted to trick a friend, Whitney Richards, into carrying a banned product to Europe in 2002. “I cannot confirm any of that,” Rasmussen said. “I do know the name.” If Rasmussen was under pressure, it certainly wasn’t showing. In last Saturday’s 13th stage to Albi, a 54km time trial, he delivered the performance of his career to finish 11th and easily retain his yellow jersey. The French team managers were raging: what did this say about the world governing body UCI’s zero tolerance to doping? The Tour organisers were also apoplectic. Why hadn’t they been informed of this before the race? If riders are given a written warning about missed dope tests within 45 days of the start of the Tour they should be prohibited from starting. The press got high on the intoxicating scent of scandal.

That Vinokourov, practically a cripple, was producing feats that defied belief did not register. The Tour didn’t have a dope problem – it had a Michael Rasmussen problem. And now, on this Tuesday afternoon in Pau and for the second time in the race, it was time to face the music. Flanked by his manager Theo de Rooy and the team lawyer Harro Knyff, Rasmussen began with a short statement.

“Well, first of all I would like to say that I am sorry for the need for this press conference but obviously there was a big demand for it,” he said. “I have made a mistake and the UCI has given me a reported warning for that administrative mistake and I accept that and take full responsibility for that.

“I am sorry that this situation is coming out now at the moment that I am wearing the yellow jersey and its harming a sport I truly love . . . and I do support my team and our sponsors, Rabobank, in the fight against doping for a clean sport.”

When the interrogation began, he proved as adept at shrugging off journalists as he is at flying up hills. What was the administrative error? He had failed to inform the UCI of his whereabouts a month before the Tour. Why was that a problem? Testers had arrived at his home to conduct an out-of-competition test and found nobody home. Why hadn’t he informed the governing body of his whereabouts? He had had a problem with his computer and couldn’t send an e-mail. Where was he when the testers had come knocking? That was easy; his wife is Mexican; he had spent the month of June preparing for the Tour in Mexico. IT WAS three hours after Rasmussen had left the press room when David Millar arrived with a delegation from his team, Saun-ier-Duval, to promote a tree-planting scheme in Mali. On a slow news day, there might have been more interest but the coursing of the Dane had sent the hacks into frenzy and there wasn’t much appetite for what the Scot had to say about trees.

He is more interesting on doping. He is very interesting on doping. Twelve months have passed since he returned to the peloton after a two-year ban for doping and he has made encouraging strides since his days of firing writs at journalists. Take this cutting observation on the sports drug culture: “As soon as it goes well, everybody just forgets about the past. Tommy Simpson died 40 years ago and we didn’t even have a minute’s silence on the start line just to remember that a guy died of doping.”

Yes, sometimes you can listen to David and think, ‘Maybe the penny has finally dropped’. But at other times he can sound as confused as the great Stephen Roche (all bow), the Irish rider who won the Tour in 1987 but has never been altogether convincing in his condemnation of riders who cheat, and you find yourself humming that line from Hotel California: “Relax, said the nightman, we are programmed to receive. You can check out any time you like but you can never leave.”

We have moved on from the tree stuff and he has just answered a question on the relations in the peloton between the dopers and the cleans (“It’s one thing doubting them for being suspicious and another to actually treat them like cheaters when you don’t know . . . It’s up to the system to decide that for us”) when the room is suddenly abuzz with some sensational breaking news.

A young English reporter raises his hand: “David, we have just got a report from L’Equipe that Alexandre Vinokourov has tested positive for a blood transfusion on the day of the Albi time trial. What is your reaction on that?”

Millar looks stunned. “What a surprise,” he says. “I can’t say anything . . . Jesus Christ, there you go, that’s my quote.”

His response is translated into French by an interpreter. Perhaps a hundred journalists who have been otherwise engaged, abandon their lap-tops and rush from their desks to get his quotes. Millar picks up the microphone and resumes. “It makes me very sad,” he says, “because Vino was . . . well, I’ll still put it in the present tense; Vino is one of my favourite riders. He is one of the most beautiful riders in the peloton and I think this is f****** tragic because if a guy of his stature and class has done that in cycling’s current situation then we may as well pack our bags and go home.” And then something quite extraordinary happens. Millar’s eyes well with tears. He looks like he might cry. Tears for a cheat who defrauded his compatriot Bradley Wiggins at Albi. Tears for a cheat who has been playing the system for years. Tears for a cheat who had no problem hitching his wagon to the notorious Dr Ferrari. Tears for a cheat.

What the hell is Millar on? IT WAS almost 8pm when Rasmussen returned to the Mercure hotel and closed the door of his room. He showered and changed and glowed with satisfaction. He had won the 16th stage wearing the yellow jersey – the mark of greatness – and had taken everything the bastards had thrown at him. The whistles and jeers of the crowd at the start. The whistles and jeers of the crowd at the finish. The attacks from his rivals Car-los Sastre, Levi Leipheimer and Alberto Contador. The vitriol of the press. The wasp that had stung his lower lip and left a lump the size of a golf ball. It was over. He was almost there. But there are certain things in life that you just cannot control.

Earlier that morning, as Rasmussen was being driven to the start at Orthez, a Danish TV reporter, Niels Christian Jung, was following a lead to the RAI commentary box on the Col D’Aubisque. Jung had been informed of an interesting piece of commentary broadcast live during the stage to Tignes. Marvelling at the awesome display of the new race leader, the analyst Davide Cassani, had told Italian fans about a chance meeting with Rasmussen a few weeks earlier in the Dolomites. Jung was intrigued: “Hadn’t Rasmussen just told us that he had prepared for the Tour in Mexico?”

His interview with Cassani was broadcast that evening. The Rabobank team had just reached their hotel when the news filtered through to Theo de Rooy. He picked up the phone and called Cassani.

“Is it true you saw Rasmussen in June training in the Dolomites?” “I think so, yeah,” Cassani replied.

“You saw him? Or you think you saw him?”

“Do I have to tell you the truth? Yes, I saw him.”

“Okay.” Desperate, Rasmussen called the Italian and begged him to retract. “His voice was weak,” Cassani explained to Philippe Brunel of L’Equipe. “He didn’t insult me or accuse me of anything but I could sense that he was completely destroyed and it made me want to cry.”

Tears for a liar who had been one of the last to sign the riders charter on ethics. (“It’s a gross invasion of my privacy,” he complained.) Tears for a liar who was forever changing his address from Mex-ico to Monaco to Denmark. Tears for a liar who had been banned by his national federation from competing in the Olympic Games. Tears for a liar who had attempted to trick a friend into carrying a banned product to Europe. Tears for a liar.

“I find it hard to come to terms with the idea that by speaking out I have perhaps destroyed a man and a career,” Cassani told Brunel. That’s the problem when you spend your life in the bubble of professional cycling. They all talk the talk about a drug-free omelette but they won’t dare break any eggs. “LE PLUS beau metier du monde.” Back in the 1980s, it was the first French a wide-eyed amateur was taught when he finally achieved his goal. He was a professional cyclist. It was “the best job in the world”. Does anyone still believe that any more? Let’s ask Cristian Moreni.

It is Wednesday evening and he is sitting in the back of a police car with its siren blaring, speeding towards a suburb of Pau. Moreni, a 34-year-old Italian, earns his living as a professional with the Cofidis cycling team . . . at least, that’s what he did before his positive test for testosterone was announced this afternoon. Now he is under arrest.

The gendarmes were waiting at the summit of the Aubisque. Moreni had spent almost seven hours in the saddle but there was no magic sponge when he reached the finish. He was escorted from his bike to dope control and then whisked to the police station in Pau. Then, after a short interrogation, he was driven to the team hotel where a crowd had already gathered.

As he stepped from the car a spectator shouted abuse. “Con!” “Le plus beau metier du monde.” Isn’t that how it goes?

It was an hour later when Bradley Wiggins arrived. The 27-year-old Londoner had performed brilliantly since London but his Tour would end in the back of a police car.

“They’re not bandits,” a spectator roared as he was escorted into the hotel. It just felt that way. He had been screwed by Vinokourov, screwed by Rasmussen and finally, cruelly, screwed by Moreni, his testoster-one-popping teammate. Tears? Don’t make him laugh.

“For the first 24 hours after it happened my reaction was that I was going to get out of the sport,” he told a press conference in Manchester on Friday. “Once I got home with my family I settled down. I want to show there are enough of us to make a difference.

“I couldn’t care less about the result now. We need to get it done and dusted, then try to start restoring credibility. It’s not the end of the Tour, but they need a rethink about who rides in the future. A lot of riders are angry. There have to be life bans for the cheats. The rewards of winning are so high, they are ready to take these risks.”

It is time for a new omelette. Hand Bradley the eggs.

How blood doping works

1 Athletes have up to two pints of their blood removed a few weeks before the event at which they want to benefit. The blood is centrifuged to isolate the oxygen-carrying red blood cells, which are then refrigerated. The body automatically replenishes its red blood cell levels

2 Just before the event, the athlete has his red-cell-rich blood reintroduced, adding to the new cells his body has created in its absence. Alternatively, he can be injected with the blood of a suitable donor. It was this type of doping that Alexandre Vinokourov was caught using

3 The effect of the doping is to increase the red blood cell count of the athlete. This makes him better able to carry oxygen from his lungs to his muscles and consequently better able to perform at the high levels of intensity that the Tour de France demands

How The Sunday Times has led the way

- The Sunday Times has been at the forefront of exposing the culture of drug abuse that taints the sport of cycling. Paul Kimmage and David Walsh have been fearless in questioning the performances many reporters hail as great athletic achievements

- Last year Kimmage was the first to question the result of last year’s Tour, after which the winner Floyd Landis was found to have failed a drugs test. In May 2004 the British cyclist David Millar threatened to sue The Sunday Times if we made doping allegations against him. Two months later Millar admitted to a French judge that he had used the drug EPO

- Kimmage is also the author of Rough Ride (Yellow Jersey Press), the award-winning book that blew apart the code of silence among professionals about drug taking. He was ostracised by his former colleagues for having ‘spat in the soup’, as the sport’s idiom has it