There was a great turnout to see him and the remaining 177 riders on their way. As they rolled out and along the route, the crowds thinned but the strength of support did not diminish. On a quiet stretch of road, Luca saluted with heartfelt gratitude a corps of firemen standing to attention outside their fire station, the lights of the fire engines flashing, the hoses providing a refreshing arc of water. And then, despite an estimated further five hours in the saddle, in the heat, Jacky Durand, as was his wont, picked up the pace and the pack started to pelt along.

‘Jesus, we’ve covered a fuck of a lot this first hour,’ Luca yelled to Hunter who tweaked the computers on his bike and confirmed they’d been racing at an average speed of a fraction under 50 kilometres an hour.

‘You’re looking strong, Luca,’ Hunter shouted, ‘go have yourself some fun. Go flirt with the TV cameras and grab yourself some new fans.’

‘Whatever you say, boss,’ said Luca guilelessly, heading off through the pack as if the leaders were pulling his bike towards them.

‘Great tailwind,’ he said to Vasily Jawlensky who didn’t quite hear him but smiled warmly anyway. Vasily was cycling with his faithful domestique, Gianni Fugallo. Luca and Gianni knew each other well.

‘Stick with us,’ Gianni said as they approached the fourth-category climb Cote de Mouthoumet.

‘I’m not going anywhere,’ Luca replied.

‘You are,’ said Vasily, ‘you’re coming with us.’ The Russian suddenly powered away, flanked either side by Luca and Fugallo, his wheel taken by a Belgian rider called Tommy, an old friend of Vasily’s from a previous team. The four-man break spoke little, they worked together to read the wind and build a good distance from the bunch. Cross-winds had splintered the peloton into small fractions and organization to bring back the breakaway was tardy. Luca swept to the head of his little group feeling utterly invincible, consequently he was somewhat disappointed when Fugallo came alongside to take the brunt at the front. The motorbike scoreman rode up, brandishing the blackboard which proclaimed they had a 2 minute 12 second lead. It meant Vasily was now the yellow jersey on the road. The peloton behind was in disarray despite the wrath of Fabian Ducasse, the frustration of Jules Le Grand barking orders to his Vipers through their earpieces.

65 kilometres from the finish, with the medieval town of Narbonne a few kilometres off, Vasily Jawlensky sat up, appearing to stream backwards as the other three, momentarily unaware, kept the pace high. When they looked over their shoulders, he waved them on. His hands were off the handlebars, he was sitting upright, pedalling leisurely, eating a power bar, enjoying a drink. They stared at him. Now he wasn’t so much waving them on as shooing them away. Emphatically.

‘What the fuck is he doing?’ Luca asked incredulously. ‘He’s giving up the fucking yellow jersey.’

Fugallo, listening to his directeur through his earpiece, had tears in his eyes. ‘Vasily is doing it for me. He knows the pack will chase hard – our directeur says that Système Vipère are now setting the pace very strong. Vasily knows that it is him they want. He knows that the bunch don’t care about us as we pose no threat in the overall classification. Vasily is doing this for me – giving me a chance for a Stage victory.’