‘It’s fucking hot,’ Luca says to Travis, ‘and the wind’s picked up – it’s north-westerly and it’s a bitch.’

‘I’d say it’s around 50 kph,’ Travis confirms. ‘It’s cool that Hunter’s in the break.’

‘Yeah,’ Luca agrees, ‘my legs feel great – I might go for a little gallop.’

‘Whatever,’ Travis says, ‘I’m happy hanging out with this lot.’

Just after the feed, Luca Jones jumped gear and tore away. Though he accomplished a minute’s lead on the bunch at one point, he made little headway on the 3-minute lead of the six-man break. 10 km later, aware of the TV helicopter hovering close behind him heralding the imminence of the bunch, Luca sat up and returned to the fold with dignity and his infamous grin.

‘Creeps!’ Travis hisses to Luca, referring to four young riders from four different teams taking turns to ride headfirst into the wind at the arrowhead front of the bunch.

‘I’d say they’re shrewd,’ Luca counters.

It was a day for young riders acting alone to take turns at the head of the peloton, hauling the Zucca and Viper boys along, to garner favour in the hope that it might be returned in the mountains. 22 km from the finish, the riders faced the second-category climb of the Col de Murs.

‘It’s a fucker of a descent,’ Travis warns Luca as they approach the mountain.

‘Too right,’ Luca agrees, ‘you can’t see where the hell you’re going.’

‘Careful!’ Travis calls to Luca who’s gone ahead again. ‘The publicity caravan leave slicks of rubber and diesel and crap – it can be pretty dangerous.’

With the mountains of the region being densely tree-clad, descents are fast and dangerous as it is difficult for the riders to judge the lay of the land, the severity of the hairpins, which way the mountain slips away around the corners. Travis Stanton was flung from his bike having hit a skid of diesel half-way down.

‘Nice road rash!’ Luca teases Travis once the road has levelled out into a wide lush valley of breathtaking beauty. Travis glances at his grazed, glistening forearm, his scraped, red raw knee. He pours water over his wounds and shrugs the sting off. ‘Where’s the break?’ he asks Luca who doesn’t know.

‘Where’s the break?’ Luca asks David Millar.

‘Still three minutes plus,’ the Cofidis rider replies. ‘You’ve got Hunter there, right?’

‘Yup,’ says Luca with pride, ‘he’s our main man and if I continue to send him my Stage-winning vibes, he’s gonna do it. Yo, Hunter!’

‘You’re a jerk, Luca,’ Millar laughs, riding ahead.

The breakaway streamed into the elegant town of Daumier where huge crowds had been chanting and singing all afternoon. The tight corners and barriers of a civic finish, plus the sudden change from unabated sunshine to tree-dappled light, enforcing the riders to steady their pace. With no true sprinter amongst them, psychology was going to decide the victor of the Stage. Though Hunter Dean hung back to judge when to go and who to take, all six riders stormed the last few metres abreast and fellow countryman Marty Jemison (US Postal) took the Stage by a rim, 2 minutes 32 seconds ahead of the main field. Fabian Ducasse takes his sixth yellow jersey but Vasily Jawlensky plays psychological warfare, still a mere 53 seconds off Ducasse’s lead. The peloton head for Grenoble tomorrow. Tonight they rest under the imposing presence of the Giant of Provence; the mighty, fearsome Mount Ventoux where Tom Simpson, English rider and yellow jersey wearer, lost his life in 1967.