They watched Ducasse fly through the first checkpoint, swiping 34 seconds off David Millar’s time there. At the second checkpoint Fabian’s time was 42 seconds faster than Millar. He swept past Massimo Lipari who had started three minutes before him before storming through the final time-check now 1 minute and 11 seconds clear of David Millar. Hunter Dean, who started two men before Fabian, was staggered to find himself being overtaken by Ducasse. Système Vipère’s great rider sprinted for the line. He’d completed the course in a phenomenal 1 hour, 15 minutes and 54 seconds and looked fresh and strong enough to ride the entire 63 kilometres again.

Vasily Jawlensky zipped through the first time-check a second faster than Ducasse. His fluid rhythm, comfortable position, his potent and fresh legs could have seen him swallow seconds with every kilometre. Only he punctured just before the second time-check. It was horrendous bad luck and, though the wheel change had been executed with military efficiency, he forfeited twenty-one seconds to Fabian. Nothing could have foretold nor prevented the unbelievable misfortune of a second puncture 6 kilometres later. This time, the wheel change, though fast, was not smooth and though Vasily willed the bike to perform, something jammed and he skidded to the ground. He flung thousands of dollars’ worth of hi-tech machine on to the grass verge and had no option but to resort to a regular road bike for the last 28 kilometres. By the final time-check and with 15 kilometres still to go, he was 59 seconds slower than Ducasse. Though he rode for all he was worth, forcing his body to fold to the ultimate aerodynamic pose, to rebuff the drag of the headwind, to slight the technical demands of the small towns en route, Vasily crossed the line 1 minute and 2 seconds behind Fabian Ducasse.

The salle de pressé roared, some in triumph for Fabian, others in sympathy for Vasily, all in reaction to superb bike riding. Cat looked contemplatively at her screen before answering an expected call from her sisters.

‘If tomorrow goes smoothly,’ she told them, ‘Vasily Jawlensky will win this year’s Tour de France. If a mishap befalls him – punctures, a crash – Fabian might just take the maillot jaune. You can never discount the danger of the unexpected.’

‘Who do you think will win?’ Fen asked.

‘Who do you want to win?’ Pip rushed before Cat had answered.

‘The thing is,’ Cat mused thoughtfully, ‘I’d be happy for either rider to win and will mourn for the man who comes second. I’m going to cry tomorrow regardless. Probably throughout the day.’

Pip and Fen had already made a note to have a box of tissues at the ready, alongside the bottle of champagne already chilling in Fen’s fridge.

‘I can’t believe tomorrow is tomorrow,’ Cat wailed out loud in the salle de pressé, ‘that it will conclude my Tour de France. That the day after tomorrow, I’ll be back in England.’

‘You didn’t say ‘home’.