Momentarily, the car was deeply ensconced within the peloton itself and Cat felt a rush of excitement and emotion. There was too much to see and absorb. It was a blur of colour within a capsule of pure energy. She wanted the directeur to slow down, the riders as well, so she could take stock thoroughly, preserve it all and commit it to memory. Every detail, every rider, every expression of effort, pain, exhaustion, focus. Then they were behind her and she was being driven onwards towards the breakaway. For a few seconds, she gazed backwards until the peloton had become a single bolt of colour before disappearing from sight. Her eyes were scouring ahead for the thirteen breakaway riders.

There they are!

Here they are! Tiny amidst the cars, the motorbikes, yet seemingly unaware of our presence. Move over, Viper and Zucca team cars, can’t we come through?

‘Seven minutes, Luca,’ the directeur said into the walkie-talkie. ‘6 k distance.’

‘’Kay,’ the breathless answer crackled back.

‘You OK?’ the directeur asked him.

‘Yeah,’ came the reply after a fuzzy delay.

‘Hunter too?’

‘Yeah,’ Luca said.

‘Will they do it, Cat?’ Mitch asked, not testing her but actively seeking her opinion as the directeur was obviously utterly absorbed with the driving.

Before she could reply, ‘Megapac, please’ came through over the radio, ‘US Megapac.’

The carload fell silent. The directeur, swerving the car in between the others, headed towards the thirteen riders themselves. Cat was speechless with anticipation and delight.

See the boys, tiny on their bikes from afar? Look, now we’re here; so strong and powerful. Their effort is so tangible. See the focus on their faces.

She gazed too at the neat bottoms clad in aesthetically panelled black lycra, the beautiful legs ever working; bronzed and glistening, the musculature long, lithe and delineated, calf muscles tapering like inverted teardrops, tendons taut, sculpted thighs exuding power, shoulders broad, tanned arms with wonderful definition. Breathtaking. Cat was holding hers.

‘Open your window, Cat,’ the directeur commanded her, ‘Luca needs something.’

Wow, just listen! We’re absolutely in the pack now. It’s incredible. The noise – men breathing, wheels whishing, someone spitting, another shouting. Tension is a taste, a smell, I can reach out and touch it. My senses are utterly seduced. What does he want me to do? I can hardly think straight. I want to touch.

‘Luca wants to hand his jacket in,’ the directeur told her, ‘take it from him. Pass him a power bar. Pass him two – one for Hunter as well.’

Luca! Luca? It’s me, it’s Cat. Gatto. The Babe McCabe. Hey!

See? He doesn’t clock me at all. I take his jacket. I pass him the food. I have touched his hand but I am invisible. And I am not offended. This is Luca Jones, doing his job. The focus, the commitment, the mastery. Jesus.

The break was not caught though the peloton were hot on their heels, swallowing up the intervening minutes and kilometres. Cat, in the Megapac team car, followed the boys to within 500 metres of the finish where the vehicles were directed off.