‘He’s a fucking hero,’ Luca yelled and Tommy nodded vigorously.

‘Let’s not let him down,’ Gianni said. ‘You guys ready to work?’

‘Sure,’ said Luca, ‘and I’ll work for you – the Stage is yours in Vasily’s honour. Let’s hit it!’

Off they went, men with a mission, men riding on the legacy of a true champion.

‘Vasily does not want to take maillot jaune just yet,’ Fugallo reasoned, ‘too much pressure. He is only 53 seconds off Ducasse. The maillot is his for the taking whenever he so chooses.’

‘Let’s ride!’ Luca cried, heading off.

‘The bunch will subconsciously slow down when they’re retrieved him,’ Tommy judged.

‘Fuck, Luca, you’re on a roll!’ Fugallo marvelled. ‘What are you on?’

Luca shot him a look. ‘Passion,’ he said. ‘It’s legal, it’s effective, it’s safe, there are no side effects and the results are true.’

20 kilometres later, Gianni blew. Not a tyre but his legs. Having finished minutes ahead of Luca and Tommy in the previous two mountain Stages, after a week of hard work for Stefano Sassetta, the price of selflessness was unfortunately paid for by the body. Luca dropped back immediately, urging Gianni to dig as deep as he could to find a second spurt.

‘It’s no good,’ Gianni said magnaminously, ‘poor Vasily. But it’s no good. I’m hurting, I’m through. You guys go on. You take it. I don’t want to hold you back. The bunch are two minutes away. You’re wasting time on me. I’m spoiling it for you. Go, Luca. Tommy, go. Fuck off and go.’

Luca and Tommy were torn. They actively wanted Gianni to recover. They wanted to do justice to Vasily’s altruism, to bring to fruition the great Russian’s munificence.

‘Go,’ Gianni pleaded, ‘please. Another time. Another Tour.’

Luca and Tommy both put a hand on Gianni’s shoulders. And then they surged forwards again, without Gianni but on his wishes. However, at Beziers, with only 21 kilometres to go, Luca could sense Tommy was starting to flag.

‘Come on,’ he urged as the motorbike drew alongside and held up the blackboard which now said ‘1 minute 54’.

‘Go,’ Tommy commanded. ‘I can’t. You can.’

‘Please,’ Luca encouraged.

‘Think of your team,’ Tommy said. ‘You’re as strong as you were 50 k ago. Go for it. I’ve won a Stage in the Tour de France. I won’t win one today and that’s no reason for you not to.’

Luca looked at Tommy, bloodshot eyes, dried spittle at the corner of his mouth, his legs so tight they looked almost flayed.

‘You sure?’ Luca stressed.

‘Fucking go!’ Tommy yelled, his shoulders moving far too much.

All Luca had ever learnt from his trainers and managers, from listening to other riders, from watching miles of footage of pro cycling, surged through his blood and nourished his muscles. He went.

Don’t look over your shoulder. Keep your head down. Don’t even look ahead. You know the route profile off by heart because you studied it before you went to sleep.