bet he was pissed off having to delegate this job out – it would have been his thirteenth tour.’
God, I have so far to go. So much to catch up on. Shoes to fill. A spectre to cast off. An impression to make.
‘Well,’ Josh continued, ‘nice to meet you. I’ll see you around.’
‘Thanks,’ said Cat, watching Josh blend with the press corps and suddenly kicking herself for not asking for his mobile number, or where they should meet on Sunday for Stage 1, or what she should do with her bags and what sort of car it was she was to help drive.
Why didn’t he invite me to sit by him? Or suggest coffee or sandwiches? Or ask where I’m staying?
Because you’re at work, not at a dinner party. Anyway, he was friendly and he did come to find you. Now write. Work.
I don’t know where to start. I’m still starving. Anyway, it’s the Saeco-Cannondale press conference in twenty minutes and I want to get a seat near the front so I can concentrate on Mario Cipollini.
Ten minutes later, as Cat was on her way out of the main ice rink to the press conference room, she came across Josh Piper headed in the same direction. It transpired they were staying at the same hotel.
‘Cipo, Cipo,’ Cat whispered as they took their seats and waited for the team. She turned to Josh and regarded him earnestly. ‘Mario Cipollini,’ she said, eyes asparkle. The sentence was complete, the profundity of its meaning and the depth of associated emotion were encapsulated in those two words.
‘I fucking love Cipo,’ said Josh, ‘I love him.’
‘So do I,’ Cat breathed, ‘I love Cipollini too.’
Josh shook her hand. ‘Can I call you Cat? We should meet for dinner this evening,’ said Josh, ‘there’s a few of us at the hotel.’
‘That would be lovely,’ said Cat earnestly, ‘and of course you can. Can I have your mobile number?’
Josh tipped his head. ‘Won’t it be easier if I just call your room from my room?’
‘Oh yes,’ said Cat, biting her lip and hoping that a grin might, in some way, counteract her inanity. Josh looked ahead and nudged her. She grinned at him again.
I have a friend!
She nudged him back. He turned to her, swiftly regarding her with a flicker of a frown, tipping his head towards the platform at the front, giving her a sharp nudge. Cat followed his gaze.
‘Cipo!’ Cat proclaimed involuntarily, her voice hoarse and regrettably loud. The two rows in front of her turned and stared. Mario Cipollini, however, nodded at her. Josh nudged her. She could feel him smile. Cat swelled.
Friday. Salle de presse. 10 a.m.
The press room wasn’t quite so unnerving, did not seem nearly as cavernous or quite so cacophonous the next morning, nor did the press corps seem as intimidating. Not least because there were now two faces known to her. Nevertheless, Cat set up her work space, settled herself down, opening a file and typing a few lines, before she scanned the mêlée and finally recognized the backs of Josh and also Alex Fletcher a few rows in front of her. She grinned at their shoulder blades, felt settled and keen to work.
I do hope Jimenez and Lipari weren’t twiddling their thumbs and at a loose end last night – because I was otherwise occupied. Josh did indeed call my room and we went out for a meal, with Alex Fletcher who is also travelling with us. Alex is very tall but his stature seems disproportionate to his demeanour – he’s like an excitable schoolboy – deplorable expletives every other word and a quite staggering lack of respect for his expense account. I had heard he can be brusque, that he requires an ego massage. But I like him, he’s amusing – it might even be fun with the three of us in the car.
‘Morning, Cat,’ said Alex, right on cue and towering above her, ‘fucking shit night’s sleep last night.’
Cat wasn’t quite sure how to respond, because she had slept very well, so she gave what she hoped was a sympathetic tip of her head. Alex loped off. Cat returned her attention to her still ominously blank screen.
I have to write my piece – Taverner wants 800 words on the Tour de France in general for Saturday’s issue as a prelude to the daily reports on each Stage.
‘Coming for coffee?’ said Josh. ‘Then the Zucca MV press conference?’
‘Sure,’ said Cat, quickly exiting her empty file as if it was full of secret scoops; grabbing her notepad and dictaphone, checking her back pocket for francs. ‘Bugger,’ she said, looking aghast, ‘I’ve come with no money.’
‘Money?’ Josh laughed. ‘You won’t need it – did you not eat during the day yesterday?’ Cat shook her head. ‘Well, Cat, Christmas comes early for the salle de presse – follow me.’
Josh took her out of the main ice rink and through to a much smaller hall where three sides of the room were lined with tables heaving under what appeared to Cat to be a veritable banquet.
‘No one loses weight on the Tour de France,’ said Josh, assessing Cat openly and deciding, in her case, that was a good thing.
‘Apart from the riders,’ said Cat.
‘Huh?’ said Josh, looking at his watch and then taking some baguette and brie.
‘The riders,’ Cat repeated, sitting down beside Josh and Alex, ‘they lose weight – they can lose around 4 pounds of muscle alone when the body starts to use it for energy.’
The baguette Josh was about to eat stopped midway to his mouth. Alex had a mouthful of coffee but put the gulp on hold.
‘How many calories a day do the riders consume?’ Josh asked, as if merely interested though Cat could tell she was being tested.
‘Between six and eight thousand,’ she shrugged, ‘60 per cent from complex carbs, 20 per cent from protein and 20 per cent from fat.’
‘Liquid?’ Alex demanded, having swallowed his.
‘Well, on a long Stage, and if it’s hot,’ Cat recited, ‘they need about 12 pints – but you see, the body can only absorb around 800 millilitres an hour, so fluid is always going to be a major concern. That’s why the drinks must be cold and hypertonic – they need to be absorbed quickly and to work efficiently.’
‘Also—’ Alex started but Cat hadn’t finished.
‘All riders fear thirst,’ she said gravely, taking a contemplative sip of Orangina, ‘because if you’re thirsty, it’s basically too late.’
‘Who rode the most Tours?’ Josh enquired, as if he had temporarily forgotten.
‘Joop Zoetemelk,’ Cat reminded him kindly, ‘sixteen in all.’ She regarded Alex, who was obviously musing over some taxing question. She saved him the trouble. ‘Maurice Garin,’ she said, ‘won the first Tour in 1903. Of course, the free wheel wasn’t invented until practically thirty years later,’ she added as an aside.
‘How many hairpin bends on L’Alpe D’Huez?’ Alex asked.
‘Twenty-one,’ replied Cat.
‘Fastest time trial?’ Josh pumped, raising an eyebrow at Alex over Cat’s split-second silence.
‘I reckon that would be Greg LeMond in 1989 – I think he averaged a fraction under 55 kph.’
‘Name the infamous Uzbekistan rider who won the green jersey and was—’
Cat interrupted Josh: ‘and was thrown off the 1997 Tour for testing positive?’
‘Him,’ Josh confirmed.
‘In fact,’ Alex mused, ‘spell him!’