With three laps to go, Hunter Dean from US Megapac pumps away from the bunch not just to taste glory and do his sponsor proud, but to savour precisely where he is and where he has been and just what he has achieved to be here, on heaven’s cobbled paving of the Champs-Elysées, ahead of the peloton of the Tour de France. Three weeks ago, the crowds at Delaunay Le Beau had sent him on his way; a superfit rider with a golden tan, hope in his legs and a goal in his soul. The crowds in Paris welcome him home; a rider unfathomably fit, his face thinner, his limbs more sinewy, lighter by a fair few kilos, intensely bronzed if slightly grimy from the city streets. The hope in his legs and the goal in his soul have been tested to the limit but the self-belief that continues to pump through his system with every beat of his heart is what ultimately has brought him here. As he cycles in front of the bunch, he wants to cry. He can’t wait to be on his knees, kissing the cobbles; an image he has called upon frequently over the past three weeks when his body threatened to give up and his mind said no way, no more, I can’t. You can, Hunter, you did.

If L’Alpe D’Huez is mecca for the grimpeurs, the climbers, then the Champs-Elysées is the equivalent for the sprinters. Consequently, Carlos Jesu Velasquez rides along safe in the centre of the bunch, hissing and clicking in the polka dot jersey. Massimo Lipari rides nearby, bolstered by the fact that he is as much a hero for being vanquished as he would be were he wearing polka dots. There will be many people waiting for him at home, there will be a party in the local bar where the world will be put to rights and the Tour de France rerun to the outcome they would have preferred. And there will be plenty of signorine to soothe him, who will be desperate to stroke his ego and caress his brave body. A woman at the start this morning had touched his shaved chin and made wonderful innuendos about bare cheeks.

Into the penultimate lap, the sprinters’ teams start to organize themselves. Stefano Sassetta seeks out Jesper Lomers and cycles silently alongside him. The riders regard each other. Jesper nods. Stefano nods too. Then Jesper’s congenial smile is countered by Stefano’s huge and affable grin. The Dutchman congratulates the Italian maillot vert.

‘Next year I have to fight hard, hey? To keep it?’ Stefano says reverentially, whistling and shaking his head at the prophesied effort of it all again.

‘He wins it who deserves it,’ Jesper replies with equanimity.

Stefano nods and places his hand between Jesper’s shoulder blades. ‘I may have the green jersey,’ he says, ‘but if you are crowned the most beautiful thighs of the peloton again, I will fucking kill you!’

Jesper laughs. He loves all this. The camaraderie. This family. This burgeoning sense of euphoria and relief that has been earned tenfold from the effort of the last three weeks. ‘Let’s race,’ he says, allowing his lead-out men to guide him through the bunch.