‘You cannot make a thoroughbred from a donkey,’ had been the yellow jersey’s opening line. Didier remembers how he had not known how to respond, that he could not fathom what Vasily meant, nor why the Russian had let a break containing his main adversary go so he could hang back and talk equestrianism. ‘You are no donkey,’ Vasily had continued, ‘nor are you a thoroughbred. But you are a fantastic workhorse. I have respected you for many seasons.’ Didier had nodded his gratitude, still baffled and even more so when Vasily had played his next card. ‘I don’t want to lose respect for you – it would pain me.’

Didier LeDucq checks the computers on his bike and his pulse monitor. He’s racing well, strong enough to take a turn at the front, well enough to allow his mind to wander back and reflect on what had been said the day before.

‘When I used to do amphetamines, my eyes were like piss holes in the snow,’ Vasily had launched, ‘my skin was terrible – I was covered in spots. I was more aggressive off the bike than on and I could rarely sleep. Unless I had valium.’

‘Speed is shit,’ Didier had said, hoping it was what Vasily wanted to hear.

‘EPO is worse,’ Vasily said. ‘When I first took it, my kidneys felt like balloons full of water bashing the base of my back. My vision went queer, my joints hurt, I’d get nose bleeds. The migraines – terrible.’ Vasily had stared hard at Didier who felt that to nod energetically was the best reply. ‘But,’ Vasily continued, ‘soon enough it was like waking in a new land. I wanted to train hard, I could ride with reduced suffering and I recovered quickly. What a drug!’ Again he had confronted Didier with his hypnotic stare.

‘Yeah!’ Didier had responded; simultaneously utterly crushed that his greatest hero was giving the notorious drug an apparent seal of approval, and yet knowing he wanted this drug badly himself.

‘Yeah, what a drug,’ Vasily had all but spat at him. ‘I beat dope control – what a sportsman.’ He fixed a penetrating stare on Didier who believed he ought to nod his head in an impressed way. ‘What a clever, lucky guy I am – I beat dope control, won through cheating and the only price I’ll pay is probably to die prematurely.’ Didier’s face dropped and Vasily continued in a more genial tone. ‘The iron level in my blood was so high – and for such an extended period. If I’m lucky I might avoid kidney failure. If I’m truly blessed, I might not suffer liver failure either. If God is on my side, I just might not contract cancer.’ Vasily looked at Didier. He had taken a hand from the handlebars to lay it on the Frenchman’s wrist. ‘But you never know,’ he had said in conclusion, ‘and will it have been worth it? You decide.’

Gutted and speechless, Didier had ridden on in silence. Vasily had ridden alongside, also silent. At the end of the Stage he cycled alongside Didier towards the team vehicles. ‘You know, LeDucq,’ he said, ‘I often wonder about the guy who won the Giro three years ago – and all his other victories that season.’