Over an hour before the start, the colourful conga line of the 220 novelty vehicles in the publicity caravan was delighting the crowds, already six deep, with their flamboyance and freebies. The riders were arriving in their team buses and campers, parking en masse in the Place Victor Hugo. Bikes were held stationary on blocks and the riders were warming up, their fans gawping just inches away from their noses. Some riders stared fixedly at the frame of their machines, or their knuckles, or the ground, as they pedalled; others gazed, glazed, directly ahead, directly at some stranger without seeing them at all.

Cat caught sight of Alex chatting to a girl at the Zucca MV bus and walked over to see if chance might provide her with Massimo Lipari or Stefano Sassetta. Or even Vasily Jawlensky.

For a soundbite. OK, then, just for a glimpse!

She smiled quickly at Alex and the woman.

‘Cat, this is Rachel – the soigneur nine out of ten riders said they’d like to, er, have.’

This typical remark from Alex enabled Cat and Rachel immediately to share a look that shot heavenward and was followed by a conspiratorial smile apiece.

‘Cat McCabe,’ said Cat, holding out her hand.

‘Press?’ Rachel asked. Cat nodded. ‘First Tour?’ Rachel enquired. Cat nodded again, matching the girl’s smile with one of her own. ‘Me too,’ said Rachel. ‘Welcome.’

‘Thanks,’ said Cat. ‘It’s great to be here.’

She seems my type – I could have a good natter with her, but I’d better be a bit more journalisty.

‘How’s the team?’ Cat asked nonchalantly. Rachel looked over her shoulder to the closed door and blacked-out windows of the camper.

‘Tense,’ she said.

‘I’ll bet,’ Cat colluded. Massimo Lipari appeared and Cat had to ensure she did not break into a wild grin though a small smile crept out unannounced anyway.

‘Hey, Massimo,’ said Alex. The rider tipped his head in recognition, asking Alex, in Italian, how he was and Alex, in Italian, rabbiting away until he had achieved an obvious goal of making the rider chuckle. Rachel was gladly telling Cat about how she came by her job – she’d never had a journalist express interest in her career, she’d never actually talked directly to a female journalist – when Massimo tapped Rachel on the shoulder, stood for a moment before tapping her again, staring intently at Cat all the while.

‘Rachel, I need the jacket, yes, for here?’ he proffered his left elbow displaying a glistening and pretty grave graze acquired from a careless fall whilst training yesterday.

‘Jacket?’ Rachel asked, shooting a glance at Cat. ‘You mean the gauze tube? Excuse me,’ she said to Cat with an apologetic shrug, ‘it’s been nice talking. Pop by again some time, hey?’

‘Brilliant,’ Cat enthused. Massimo stared at her again. It was only when Rachel had turned from her and led the cyclist into the secret interior of the van that it struck Cat that Massimo had actually stared at her quite accusatorially.