As Cat begins planning her article, Vasily’s Zucca MV equipeur Stefano Sassetta is yawning leisurely, deciding to rise in a short while and ride the course once or twice. He shaved last night and is somewhat appalled that razor rash on his right leg sullies the sculptural beauty of his famous thighs. Massimo Lipari is singing in the shower. Their soigneur Rachel has already mixed the energy drinks, thrown out a box of energy bars a day off their sell-by date and prepared the panini – scooping out the centres of sweet rolls and packing in honey and jam.

The Megapac guys are breakfasting as a team, squashed around a long table, interrupting mouthfuls of pasta with the occasional ‘yo!’ and high five. Luca is positively hyper, Hunter is focused, Travis contemplative.

At the Système Vipère hotel, Jules Le Grand is having to recharge his mobile phone already. Jesper Lomers has phoned home but found no answer. Anya must be on her way to Delaunay Le Beau. He hopes. Fabian Ducasse is staring at himself in the bathroom mirror, giving himself a pep talk concluding with a quiet, prolonged chant proclaiming himself invincible. His brow is dark, his excessively fit heart is thumping its extraordinary resting pace of 30 bpm. To Fabian, it is like a portentous, growing drum roll. In the depth of his soul and absolutely out of earshot of the salle de pressé, he ranks Chris Boardman’s chances more than his own but he knows that public consensus fancies his adversary Vasily Jawlensky over Boardman. What can he do about it? He does not want the man who wore yellow in Paris last year to begin the race in yellow again tomorrow, but what can he do about it?

Fabian joins the rest of Système Vipère, along with many other teams, to ride the Prologue course, to learn the corners, the cobbles, the drag in the middle off by heart. He is focused and tense and his team know to give him a wide berth. He has sworn at the domestiques and he has snapped at his soigneur. He has said not a word to Jules Le Grand, even ignoring his directeur’s morning salutation.

Tour personnel are checking the barriers, hanging banners and liaising via walkie-talkies. They hardly notice the riders warming up. Spectators have already started to mill about, gazing almost in disbelief as riders zip by. The circus has come to town. This year’s Tour de France will soon be under way.

Jules Le Grand’s mobile phone lives again. He is wearing new shoes today, exquisite Hermes loafers. He has opened a new bottle of aftershave even though he has a bottle three-quarters full.

‘Everything starts again. Today is the first day of this year’s Tour de France and our lives begin anew. There is no continuation with last year’s race. No link. We start afresh. Jawlensky taking yellow last year is now history, I see it as a gauntlet he threw to us last year. We accept. We take it. Jawlensky can only defend what he took last year. It is us who attack. We are the aggressors. We are ready to duel. He should be afraid. En garde.’