How are the boys going to get up this, with the Aubisque coming right before? And the d’Aspin and Peyresourde after? In this rain and mist? With thousands of fans clinging to the slopes like birds on a cliff and the tifosi – the truly obsessed – thronging either side of the road as the summit nears; crowding in, yelling and running alongside, making it all so narrow, so claustrophobic, so treacherous. How can the riders descend as fast as they can, but safely? Far faster than a car can manage. Look at these bends, the drop. It’s wet. I can hardly see. How are my boys going to cope?

With wills of steel, legs of iron, the snap-quick eye reflexes of an eagle, hearts of a lion, and no nerves to mention.

The terrible grandeur of the mountains elicited fulminations from Alex so colourful and effusive that Cat wondered if he was suffering from Tourette’s syndrome. Josh was capable of little more than whistles and tuts. They made it in one piece to Luchon knowing full well that some of the riders would not.

If Cat had found the drive itself a physical and mental trial, watching the riders do battle with themselves, with each other, with the awesome gradients up and down, was emotionally exhausting. She swallowed down a sob as she watched the excruciating but not unfamiliar sight of a rider weave semi-deliriously all over the road at a snail’s pace half-way up the Tourmalet. Despite the impassioned pleas and helpful if illegal running shoves from fans, the rider finally stopped, quit his bike and the Tour, had his race number ceremoniously stripped from his back by an official before he was escorted to the ignominy of the broom wagon which transports deserters funereally along the route behind the race.

‘How on earth can you put into words what we’ve just witnessed?’ Cat marvels to Alex once the Stage has finished. ‘I’m utterly exhausted, I’m speechless. I want to cry and go to sleep.’

‘Fuck off and stop being so girlie,’ Alex declares, envious of Cat’s entitlement and ability to express emotions mirroring his own but which bravado in the salle de pressé dictates he should keep close to himself.

‘I know,’ Josh says sympathetically, giving her arm a squeeze, ‘I know.’

You know nothing, Cat thinks miserably, suddenly wanting to be shot of her work so she can enlighten Rachel and appease Ben. In privacy.

Her phone rings and she goes to the back of the salle before answering it.

‘Oh my God,’ Fen all but wails.

‘I can’t believe it,’ Pip whispers.

‘Jesus, what’s wrong?’ Cat gasps. ‘Is it Django?’

‘Django?’ Fen retorts, ‘God no. He’s fine. He’s having to have a stiff brandy though – we’ve just phoned him.’

‘Today, stupid,’ Pip cries, ‘how did they do that? Why were they made to do that?’

‘Huh?’ says Cat.

‘The Tour de Bloody France,’ Pip protests.

Cat grins.

My two sisters. In the fold. Part of the fraternity.