Jules regrets the fact that it is only to himself, to his reflection in the team car’s rear-view mirror, that he has just spoken.

‘L’Equipe would have loved that. Never mind, I can regurgitate it at will for the salle de pressé and I shall be sure to do so later on.’

COPY FOR P. TAVERNER @ GUARDIAN SPORTS DESK FROM CATRIONA McCABE IN DELAUNAY LE BEAU

The Prologue Time Trial, the inauguration, the thrilling fly-past, of this year’s Tour de France will take each of the 189 riders in turn 7.3 km around the pretty town of Delaunay Le Beau, hosting the race for the first time (check with Alex or Josh how much tourist blurb is the norm). Today’s distance, from the total of over 3,500 km, might seem insignificant but with no great time gaps achievable, a rider’s placing today can have a psychological bearing on himself and his competitors. Prologues are won and lost in fractions of seconds so the riders must race on the rivet. They are set to race at an average of 51 kph to complete the challenge in around 8½ minutes (check with Josh), confronting a couple of taxing corners (two or three – check), dealing with a drag quite soon after the start, a stretch of cobbles half-way and then a 400 m straight run to the end. Whether Vasily Jawlensky wins today or not, the pressure will be firmly on his back regardless of the colour of jersey he will wear tomorrow for Le Grand Départ.

‘I really can’t do any more,’ Cat decides, after reading her paragraph, ‘not until it’s all over.’ She lays her hand on her diaphragm. She is brimming with adrenalin. How on earth must the boys feel?

Her Tour de France is about to start, her sense of anticipation is as much for her own race as for the riders for whom she feels so much.

None of us can do more just now – it’s a waiting game. First rider on the course in just under four hours’ time. Vasily goes last at 18.33. How on earth can they be feeling?

‘Coming to the village?’ says Josh.

‘Sure,’ says Cat.

Josh had to contend with Cat stopping still every now and then to focus on riders warming up along the circuit.

‘You’ve got three weeks of them,’ he said, over his shoulder as Cat focused on Bobby Julich until he was round a corner and out of sight, ‘you’ll be sick of the sight by the end of it.’ He laughed, knowing that she wouldn’t, nor would he, or any of the entourage of the Tour de France. ‘In truth, Cat,’ he said surreptitiously, ‘we’re a bunch of frauds. First and foremost, we’re fans. This isn’t a job, it’s pleasure for which we’re paid.’

‘Jalabert!’ Cat, giving immediate flesh to Josh’s theory, gasped and clapped as the legendary French cyclist zipped past them. ‘Allez, JaJa!’

If Cat had been surprised by the lavish buffet provided for her and the other journalists at the ice rink, the village had her positively gobsmacked. The large courtyard at the Hôtel de Ville, through which she had walked last night to the team presentation, was now plotted and pieced by a vast array of marquees, canopies and awnings, each commandeered by a sponsor and bedecked with an array of refreshments, brochures and promotional merchandise. The air was perfumed with the smell of coffee, of meat, of wine and cheese. There was an entire suckling pig gracing a table on which cold cuts from surely a whole herd of suckling pigs were laid artistically amidst a tapestry of fruit. Further on, an enormous omelette pan was being put to great use by three moustachioed chefs. Tables heaved under huge cartwheels of soft cheese amidst forests of baguette, counters groaned under the weight of local wines and liqueurs and all the Coca-Cola in the world seemed to be available right there. Everywhere Cat looked, people were eating and drinking.