And Didier?

I can’t sleep, that’s why I’m in the corridor. Feeling impotent. Feeling pretty enraged. I can’t have drugs on my team. I will not tolerate such a flagrant abuse of the team ethos, of all the work I do to maintain my riders’ health. I fear Didier’s stupidity and selfishness – if he dares, if he even dares, he could put all our jobs, our credibility, the very future of the team, on the line – to say nothing of his health.

And Vasily?

Vasily has a checkered past. He is now a crusader. I’m hoping his experience and the respect he now has universally, will enlighten Didier.

Why comes temptation but for man to meet

And master and make crouch beneath his foot

And so be pedestalled in triumph?

But I don’t know how Robert Browning translates into Russian or French.

Through breathtaking scenery, incredible overhangs of rock, tunnels burrowing through the mountains, stunning bridges old and new, the peloton of the Tour de France headed for its brief sojourn in Switzerland. Luca and Didier had woken in contemplative self-engrossed moods, having gone to sleep much the same the night before. Neither were aware that their doctor had eavesdropped on their slumber. Now they were cycling quietly side by side in a throng of yakking Spanish riders; through the beautiful town of Seyssel, elegantly atop a picturesque river, through the lovely flower-festooned old village of Billiat where Sassetta took the hot-spot sprint while aged men waved slowly and widely. The Tour de France – every year, since these septuagenarians were boys; defining their calendar, compounding their patriotism, affirming their past and confirming the futures of their grandsons. There would always be the Tour de France. A birthright. A heritage. An heirloom. Wave and smile and then a leisurely reminisce over Pernod about Louison Bobet, Jacques Anquetil, Thèvenet, Hinault, Fignon. Look forward to next year. Vive le Tour.

After 126 kilometres, a sprint, a fourth-, a third- and a second-category climb, Didier and Luca snatched their musettes as they flew past the feed station.

‘I’m so tired,’ Luca said, ‘I’m not even hungry.’

‘Me too,’ Didier agreed. ‘Mind you, I’ve been fantasizing about a day-long MacDonalds binge when the Tour is over.’

‘I’m going to have oysters and champagne,’ said Luca, brightening up. It was the first thing either had said all day.

‘On Jules Le Grand’s expense account, no doubt,’ Didier tested.

Luca regarded him and shrugged. ‘What would you do?’

‘What you mean is, what do I think you should do,’ Didier responded astutely.

‘What should I do?’ Luca asked quietly.

‘Are you tempted?’

‘Fuck, man! Système Vipère!’ Luca exclaimed, as if resting his case.

‘Loads of money, cool hi-fi, great bikes, cool team strip, the greatest team in the world,’ Didier defined nonchalantly while Luca cycled a few metres ahead. ‘So why,’ Didier asked, catching up, ‘are you asking me what to do? Why aren’t you telling me that you’re already signed up, that the cap fits, that you’re a Viper Boy in the making? Why do you even need to ask?’