‘What’s that?’ Fen gasped in horror though she knew the answer, eyes hopelessly transfixed by the cyclist’s legs.

‘It’s shit,’ Pip whispered, staring in horror at what appeared to be trickles of slurry coursing their way down.

‘It’s fucking dysentery,’ Fen exclaimed, with revulsion but more with sublime respect that someone suffering so much, so publicly, was doggedly climbing a mountain by bike and obviously had every intention of finishing the Stage.

It was fucking dysentery. When Fugallo made it to the finish, 1 hour 20 minutes behind the leaders but defiantly just ahead of the gruppetto, Rachel had been radioed by the team car on the route. She ushered the exhausted rider into the team bus, all blinds drawn, and peeled away his stenching shorts. Tenderly, she washed the rider down by hand, going through three flannels and bottles of water. Then she helped him into a tracksuit and escorted him to a team car where the other soigneur whisked him away.

The only time anyone heard Gianni Fugallo protest, let alone complain, not only on this specific Tour de France but in his professional cycling career as a whole, was later that night when the Zucca MV directeur sportif instructed Gianni Fugallo, on doctor’s orders, to retire from the race.

The demands of team laundry saw Rachel cancelling her drink with André, the Système Vipère mechanic. It was not just Gianni’s shit-sodden shorts she had to contend with. When Massimo handed in his washing, she could detect a smell familiar yet undefinable. As she sorted through the clothing, she recoiled and all but retched when she came across his shorts. They were covered in a thick, greyish brown, viscid mess. She ran to his room, seriously concerned for his health.

‘Massimo, Jesus!’ she said, bewildered that he should look so well and indeed relaxed; a vision in Prada with sunglasses atop his head and goatee immaculately trimmed.

‘What is it, Rachel?’ the King of the Mountains, but only just, asked her.

‘Are you ill?’ Rachel asked. ‘Your shorts!’

‘I am very well, I am King!’ Massimo laughed, putting on his sunglasses and approaching her. ‘And my shorts – it is banana.’

‘Banana?’ Rachel exclaimed.

‘It is big ladies’ story, yes?’ said Massimo.

‘Old wives’ tale,’ Rachel corrected. ‘What is?’

‘That banana is good for bumps,’ Massimo said ingenuously.

‘There is no medical proof that bananas have any function in the treatment of piles, Massimo,’ she said, her relief manifesting itself in fury, ‘not by ingestion and certainly not by slipping a peeled, ripe one between your arse.’

‘So tomorrow maybe I try raw liver?’ Massimo asked ingenuously. ‘Steak, perhaps?’

‘No, you fucking won’t,’ said Rachel, leaving only to return moments later with conventional ointment for haemorrhoids.

Cat decided she had to write a profile on Gianni Fugallo. Whether Maillot or Procycling or Cycle Sport would want it was beside the point, she felt compelled to do it as her tribute to the rider himself. If it meant she was unable to accompany her sisters and Ben to Grenoble, then so be it.