moi? Merci.’
Don’t mention it. It’s on tap. I can get another. Where are you, Ben? I’ll circumnavigate once. Well, if that’s Luca, his doctor surely must be close to hand.
‘Hey, Luca,’ Cat beamed, ‘how are you? Bloody good ride yesterday.’
‘Thanks, babe,’ said Luca, delighted to see her but wracking his brains for her name and squinting behind his Oakleys to try and read it from her pass.
‘Any thoughts on today?’ Cat asked.
Any idea where your doctor is?
‘Well, Catriona,’ said Luca, most pleased with himself, ‘it’s a weird finish – you hit Plumelec and then have to do a 12 k circuit before an uphill home stretch. Not really sprinter’s domain – but if anyone wants to win it more than Delongue, whose birthday it is, it’ll be Sassetta – he’s out to kill, man, out to kill. You know what I mean, Catriona?’
‘Luca,’ Cat reprimanded the rider lightly, ‘you really can call me Cat. You take care today.’
And tell your bloody doctor I’m looking for him.
Luca tipped his head. ‘Thanks,’ he said. Cat’s ‘Take care’ was so much more humane than the perfunctory ‘Good luck’ from most journalists. ‘Come find me at the finish – I’ll give you the scoop of the day!’
‘That, Luca, would be an honour,’ said Cat. ‘Promise?’
Make sure your bloody doctor’s there.
‘Sure,’ Luca shrugged. He tipped his Oakleys on to his forehead, flashed excellent teeth, held out his hand and kissed Cat’s when she took it.
If I feel this floaty from Luca’s kiss to my hand, how am I going to feel when Ben takes my mouth?
With Stefano Sassetta, he of the spectacular thighs, on the war path for a Stage win, or the green jersey, potentially both, Cat and her fellow journalists took the itinéraire direct to the salle de presse in Plumelec to scrutinize the race from the bank of televisions there. On the way, they pooled notes about the buildings changing in colour from grey to beige, that the small town of Josselin with its stunning river-hugging château and sharp right-hand bend over a narrow bridge was worthy of mention, that rosebay willowherb and other meadow flowers were abundant and that the villages became increasingly bedecked with bunting and Breton flags.
In the salle de pressé, one of the technicians tested the microphone with a lengthy impression of an orgasm. While most of the 1,000 press men shared a titter, the dozen female journalistes bonded immediately by locating each other to share eyebrows raised in exasperation. Having grabbed and then bolted down baguette and pâté from the buffet, Cat sat and allowed the live pictures of the peloton to seduce her, to mesmerize her. Had Ben York appeared, bollock naked with a rose between his teeth, Cat would have given him but a cursory glance and requested that he return later.
The bravery of a breakaway, the beauty of the bunch streaming along to bring them back. I love watching the Tour aerially – a flock of geese, a shoal offish, a single arrow – the comparisons are poetic. When seen from above, the pack moves as one, surging along harmonious and unified. See them approach that roundabout?
Cat’s lips parted as she watched the bunch split and streak around either side of a flower-encrusted roundabout before fusing together again and streaming ahead. Like mercury.
And yet, an aerial view of the Tour, aesthetically moving as it is, is somewhat misleading. Looking down on the peloton from on high, it is easy to forget that this apparently single mass is in fact 189 riders – oh, down to 184 – jockeying for position, shouting and swearing, psyching each other out.
Cat contemplated the fact that this beautiful streak of colour, skating along the tarmac, slicking around corners, enhancing the Breton countryside and the lives of the native spectators, was made up of each man turning his pedals, watching his line, monitoring his pulse, pacing himself, performing his job for his team, his sponsors, making it a day closer to Paris, surviving to ride another day, period. Twenty-one teams. 184 individuals at present. The peloton of the Tour de France. A river of bright energy when seen from above. Down there, in the bunch, in reality: war.
With over 100 kilometres to go, Megapac’s Hunter Dean and Travis Stanton grouped together with three other riders and shot away from the peloton.
‘Fuck, it’s humid, man,’ said Travis.
‘Wind’s behind,’ Hunter replied encouragingly, taking the front. The five-man break kept their heads down and pedalled with conviction.
Back in the bunch, Stefano Sassetta summonsed his team car. ‘Who’s gone?’ he asked his directeur. ‘What do you want me to do?’
‘No one for you to worry about,’ his directeur answered him, ‘let them have the last sprint point. They’ll tire soon enough. They’re nothing. Some Americanos – let them fly their flag a while.’ Sassetta made his way back through the bunch, catching sight of the yellow-clad back of Jesper Lomers. He felt his blood chill and then immediately boil. He pedalled until they were shoulder to shoulder. The Dutchman was looking studiously ahead. Apart from gesture, English was the only language in which these two riders could communicate.
‘Enjoy your shirt,’ Sassetta hissed, ‘you no have it long time. Green suit me only anyway. Bad with your hair colour.’
Jesper regarded Stefano briefly and then returned his concentration directly ahead. Jesper had no intention of reacting. It was not his style. He was a sportsman. For him, manners were integral to his vocation. And his mind was on Anya, who was never at home.
With just over 25 kilometres to go, Travis and another rider dropped back, eased off and returned to the peloton. Hunter and the other two soon hit Plumelec, knowing there were a further 12 kilometres to race. Looking briefly over his shoulder, Hunter knew that the bunch would be on them soon enough but the Stage might, with a miracle, be his. Just. Was it worth riding himself out today? What would be the consequence for his legs tomorrow? There were two Stages later in the race he had earmarked for himself. But the opportunity was here.
‘6 k to go – I’m out of here,’ he said to himself, summoning up reserves to surge away from the other two. Hunter was riding at 46 kph. With 3 kilometres to go, Hunter’s lead was eleven seconds and he was charging along on adrenalin and desire. With just 1 kilometre left, he swept perfectly around the right-hand bend and narrow bridge, stood on his pedals and honked towards the finishing climb.
Then he heard it; it was all he could hear. Not his heart. Not his breathing. Not the yelling crowd. What he could hear he could sense too. He wanted to go forward yet sensed he was being sucked backwards. As his legs and arms felt the drag of the finishing incline, Hunter took a fateful glance over his shoulder. The motion cost him seconds yet he knew the sight he would see was of the deafening, deflating sound that was filling his ears. The peloton of the Tour de France was surging towards him, a swarm in a heat haze with no affection for him, no malice either, but certainly no consideration for the stamina he had exhibited for over 100 kilometres. With dignity intact, Hunter sat up. He was caught. He was back in the bunch. He was anonymous once more.
COPY FOR P. TAVERNER @ GUARDIAN SPORTS DESK FROM CATRIONA McCABE IN PLUMELEC
Mario Cipollini conceded the green jersey to fellow Italian Stefano Sassetta in Stage 3 of the Tour de France. In an uphill finish not conducive to sprints, the powerful Zucca MV rider pumped away from the bunch. As he crossed the line he punched the air, perhaps not so much in ecstasy of the victory as in the sweetness of revenge. He won the Stage; tomorrow he will ride in the green points jersey. Jesper Lomers is in yellow for another day but soon he will relinquish the jersey when the true all-rounders come to the fore. Lomers will no doubt do this with grace and equanimity. He will then focus his efforts on the maillot vert. To claim it will require more than excellent riding – it will demand a certain stoicism