Luca noted the red and white 10 kilometre banner.

Hug the side of the road, stay close to any fence or barrier, take any shelter from the wind, however minimal.

Luca could hear the crowds yelling for him. He picked out his name, time and again, from all the others painted in whitewash across the tarmac by the fans.

Jesus, I feel strong.

The motorbike pulled alongside. His lead was down to 1 minute 30.

I’m still 1 minute 30 ahead. I haven’t slowed down, they’ve picked it up, the fuckers. Let’s give the fans something other than a predictable sprint finish. Mama, this one’s for you.

Luca thought alternately of his mother, and of nothing but maintaining his momentum. His legs were stiffening, his arms were tired but his spirit was not phased by his lead diminishing. With 3 kilometres to go, he had just over a minute on the bunch. There was a taste in his mouth. Ambition. Victory. There was no way he was going to let anyone wrest this perfect moment from him. He thought of the great Miguel Indurain, he remembered Lance Armstrong, he recalled Vasily powering up the Col de Port yesterday.

They knew where to find that little extra. I need to access it right now.

He started to chant the names of past Tour giants. Merckx. Hinault. Indurain.

‘And Luca Fucking Jones!’

Merckx. Hinault. Indurain.

‘I don’t care to win the Tour de France five times. I just want to win today. On Stage 11. Tarascon-sur-Ariège to Le Cap D’Arp. 221 k.’

He passed under the final kilometre banner and the motorbike warned him 58 seconds. He ached across his shoulders. His throat was burning dry. He should have drunk more. There had been no time. His legs were hurting. His eyes were stinging. Mama.

And then just an atom of the combined gifts of Merckx, Hinault and Indurain seeped through into Luca’s soul and sent a current of strength through his knackered limbs. His legs did not feel so abominably sore. His arms were not insurmountably tired. Come on! Luca, ride for your life, take the Stage. Not just for your Mama, sitting at home with various family members all cheering and sobbing and clutching their hearts. Do it for everyone who knows you and all those who will know you ever after. Show them triumph over adversity. Become the personification of glory.

The crowds were roaring and thumping anything they could, including each other. Luca could see the finish. He allowed himself the briefest glance over his shoulder; the bunch were metres away. In a flash, he knew he was nearer to the line than they were to him. Near enough, moreover, for him to think not only of his Mama but of the TV cameras, the press photographers and his world-wide audience. Accordingly, he zipped up his Megapac jersey, clapped high above his head, punched the air, waved a double-handed victory salute, blew kisses to everyone and God, and gave his bike a final hurl towards the hallowed line. He crossed it 9 seconds ahead of the chasing sprint. Ultimately, he crossed it sitting up, not pedalling, his arms loose at his sides, his eyes closed, tears streaming, his smile ecstatic. The taste of tears. The taste of success. It was exquisitely beautiful. The greatest moment of his life.