door’s still ajar. Soon I’m going to have to shut it. For my safety and my sanity. Let go.
I don’t want to. Won’t letting go be just that – letting go?
Giving up? Admitting failure? Admitting that it is really, truly over?
And if I let go, am I not saying that I relinquish my hope? Because who am I, Cat McCabe, without my hope?
France. Le Tour de France. La Grande Boucle. A dream I’ve had for five years. He was a dream I had for five years – at least this is one I can make come true, all the way to the Paris finale. I will follow the Tour de France, become a part of this fantastic travelling family. From start to finish. All the way, over the flat lands, over the Pyrenees and Alps, through the vineyards and home to the Champs-Elysées. Me and my heroes. Fabian Ducasse. Vasily Jawlensky. Luca Jones.
You can keep your Brad Pitts and Tom Cruises. You can even keep your George Clooneys. If you want a hero, choose anyone from the Système Vipère or Zucca MV teams. Brad and Tom couldn’t do a fraction of the twenty-one hairpin bends on L’Alpe D’Huez. Mr Clooney wouldn’t dare descend a mountain with the grace and speed of a peregrine falcon in full plummet.
Bollocks! What on earth has got into me? I mean, I know I have to move on now – but fantasizing about professional cyclists is not only unrealistic, it’s daft and it could be detrimental. Exactly. I’m a professional journalist about to infiltrate a male-dominated world. Not a groupie. Even if I was a groupie, why would they look at me? Put me next to a podium girl with their lips and their legs and their kisses and mini skirts, and I rest my case.
Exactly.
Anyway, the riders are mostly in bed by nine.
And I read something somewhere that hours in the saddle means impotence in the sack.
Only one way to verify that, I suppose.
Cat McCabe!
I meant, talking to the riders’ wives and girlfriends.
When Cat arrived home from Derbyshire, her neighbours had left a note inviting her upstairs for a snack and a chat. Eric and Jim (whose fifth anniversary that weekend Cat had missed for Django’s Spread) saw Cat’s emotional and physical welfare as their responsibility. They were positively parental though they were, in fact, but a year or two older than her. When she had food poisoning, they brought her tonic water and the bucket. When her flat was broken in to, they insisted she slept on their sofabed. When He left, they brought her ice-cream and comfort. They were almost as excited by France and the notion that an adventure and a change of scenery would work wonders for Cat, as they were by the thought of one hundred and eighty-nine amply muscled men in lycra shorts.
‘We have a present for you,’ Eric said. ‘We wanted to give it to you before you leave on Wednesday – by the way, if it doesn’t start till Saturday, why are you going so early?’
‘Because I have to organize my accreditation and then during Thursday and Friday there are press conferences, team by team,’ Cat explained, ‘and stuff.’
‘Are you excited?’ Jim asked, because he was. ‘Aren’t you nervous?’
‘I’m very both,’ said Cat. ‘If that’s a sentence.’
‘You’re vulnerable,’ Jim warned her. ‘Don’t expect too much from France. I know it’s a goal that’s kept you going, but don’t expect too much.’
‘And don’t go on the rebound,’ Eric added, wagging his finger. ‘I mean, those riders are considered gods, rock stars, over there, aren’t they?’
‘I think what he’s trying to say,’ said Jim, ‘is that if you’re to go on the rebound – which we sincerely hope you will – a professional cyclist might not be the most suitable participant.’
‘I mean,’ said Eric, ‘just imagine the effect of a night of non-stop debauchery – the poor sod will be too knackered to turn the pedals the next day.’
They all imagined it quietly for a moment and then burst out laughing.
‘Which somewhat makes a mockery of our gift,’ Eric then continued. ‘Here. It’s your survival kit.’
They handed Cat a shoebox. She lifted the lid, twitched her brow and then laughed as she fingered through the contents.
‘Condoms?’ she exclaimed, while Jim shrugged and Eric looked out the window.
‘Bic razors?’ she asked, counting four.
‘We weren’t sure if they use Immac on their legs,’ said Jim.
‘And there’s nothing quite like being shaved by someone you fancy,’ Eric furthered.
‘And there’s a lot of leg on some of those boys,’ Jim reasoned.
‘So am I to suppose that this bumper-sized bottle of baby oil is for after shave and not for me?’ Cat asked to meek smiles apiece from the two men.
‘Why do they shave their legs?’ Eric asked.
‘To show off their tans and muscles,’ Jim cooed.
‘Aerodynamics?’ Eric pressed.
‘Or just a tradition that I, for one, sincerely hope will continue,’ Jim said breathlessly.
‘Road rash,’ said Cat, most matter-of-fact.
‘Eh?’ said Eric.
‘If they crash or fall,’ Cat explained, ‘it’s easier to clean cuts and grazes on smooth skin.’
Jim looked most disappointed with this information. Cat returned her attention to the shoebox. ‘Vaseline?’
‘We read somewhere that it gives them a, um, more comfortable ride,’ Jim said ingenuously.
‘Not that we’re suggesting you offer to apply it,’ Eric rushed. Cat raised her eyebrows and held up a wildly patterned bandanna.
‘They all wear them,’ Eric said, ‘we saw them on the TV last year.’
‘Extra strong mints,’ Cat said, taking the packet to her nose.
‘For any, er, passing horses,’ Eric said.
‘I’m frightened of horses,’ Cat said.
‘You can befriend them with the mints,’ Jim said.
‘And that’s why you’ve included them?’ Cat pressed with a wry smile. ‘Not because I’m going to a country where you have meals with your garlic?’ They smiled back at her. Wryly.
Plasters. Antiseptic. A hundred-franc note. A packet of energy bars.
‘We’ll follow your progress in the Guardian,’ Eric said.
‘It’ll be good,’ Jim assured her with a squeeze, ‘you’ll be fine.’
I wonder who’ll end up in the yellow jersey? Cat ponders, sitting up in bed with current copies of Marie Claire and Procycling to hand. It’ll either be Fabian Ducasse or Vasily Jawlensky and I love them both equally but for different reasons. Fabian is stunning in looks and riding, his arrogance is compelling. He exudes testosterone – hopefully in doses that are natural and not administered. Vasily is fantastically handsome too but he really is inscrutable – an enigma. Who do I want to see in the maillot jaune? I don’t know. May the best man win.
And the polka dot jersey for King of the Mountains? I’d put my money on Vasily’s team-mate, the personable and rather gorgeous Massimo Lipari; the media’s dream and a million housewives’ darling. I’d like him to make it his hat trick though he’ll have to watch out for his Système Vipère rival, the diminutive but charismatic Carlos Jesu