And why shouldn’t he? I was hogging his soigneur. How awful of me.

Alex had disappeared. Josh was nowhere to be seen. Cat turned and decided that to walk around with purpose even if she hadn’t a clue what to do next, was a sensible option. Everywhere she looked, she now saw the faces and bodies of the men she had previously known only second-hand, behind the glass of a television, or two-dimensionally in print. Now they were surrounding her, life size, in the flesh, en masse. It was so overwhelming, she found herself unable to establish eye contact with any of them. In turning away from the awesome Mario Cipollini whom she could see from the corner of her eye, hands on hips and a vision in a red lycra skinsuit, she found herself by the Megapac vehicles. By concentrating on not catching sight of her best friends of yesterday – Hunter or Travis or Luca (whose eyes were in any case shut as he pedalled the course in his mind whilst his bike remained stationary on the blocks), her eyes went instead to someone else. Or were they pulled there? Or were they caught?

It’s that guy. The one who sat by Luca at the medical. Oh blimey, what a smile. Hey! I didn’t say that I could smile back.

The man stepped towards her and fingered her pass. ‘Hullo, Catriona McCabe,’ he said, ‘journaliste, the Guardian.’

‘I’m, er,’ she cleared her throat, ‘Cat.’

‘Are you now?’ he said. ‘I’m er doctor.’ Cat regarded him. He gave her an open smile.

‘I’m Ben. York. Hullo.’

Cat nodded rather enthusiastically because she had no idea what to say. She then smiled fleetingly but not directly at Ben York, sweeping it instead quickly and non-commitally over the riders, the Megapac vehicles, and Dr York’s shoes before nodding, biting her lip and moving away, rifling through the pages of her pad whilst chastizing herself silently.

He’s English. That’s nice.

It was gone three o’clock and she thanked God that it was. Cat made her way slowly to a vantage point near the starting ramp and gazed at Travis Stanton as he and his bike were held steady or, Cat felt, perhaps embraced, by a blue-blazered official. She watched another official count the rider down, she observed the rider’s face, the focus, the deep inhalation and exaggerated exhalation. The official’s fingers had finished the count and he sliced the air with his hand. Off. Go. The rider swept down and away towards a lonely, strenuous eight and a half minutes. Cat found that she was holding her breath and had her fingers crossed.

‘My legs. My heart. My mind. My soul.’

Hunter Dean chants the familiar phrase to himself as he pedals slowly through the mêlée around the team cars and on towards the starting ramp.

‘My legs. My heart. My mind. My soul.’

He spits. He is wearing his burgundy and green skinsuit and space-warrior style helmet.

‘I am aerodynamic. My legs. My heart. My mind. My soul.’