‘Good for Chris,’ Cat mused, recalling the rider’s consummate Time Trial. ‘Might we raise a glass to him tonight?’

Aren’t I being brave, organizing après-race activities!

Alex, however, laughed. ‘If we manage to leave the salle de pressé before last orders.’

Cat shrugged as if to say ‘Whatever’, whereas actually she was shaking off the sudden embarrassment she felt. She read her article over Josh’s shoulder. He could feel her breath on the side of his neck. It felt nice. He didn’t comment.

‘So,’ Cat said, ‘Fabian stormed to second place today, 0.19 of a second faster than Vasily.’

‘Yes,’ clarified Josh, ‘but Jawlensky still has the incentive of racing with Number 1 on his back.’

‘But Fabian is tasting blood,’ Cat commented.

‘Well, it’ll be Boardman wearing the first maillot jaune of this year’s Tour when the race starts in earnest tomorrow,’ Josh said.

‘It will be interesting to see who makes the first assault on the jersey,’ Cat pondered, ‘Vasily or Fabian.’

‘I like the way you’ve commented on how Ducasse showed greater bravura but Jawlensky looked consistently more comfortable,’ Josh remarked.

Alex, who had left the salle, returned with cans of Coke for everyone. He read Cat’s work over Josh’s other shoulder. ‘I don’t know whether you should be using solely their Christian names, girl,’ he commented.

But they’re my boys! Cat protested to herself, with no intention of changing a word.

‘Good closing paragraph,’ Josh said.

Tomorrow, the Tour de France will be under way with a week of flat road racing Stages providing the spectators and sponsors alike with the flamboyance and daredevilry of the sprinters.

‘Good comment on strategy,’ Alex furthered, ‘to explain that those aiming for overall victory will be keeping quiet in the centre of the bunch, maintaining a safe distance from the unavoidable mayhem of sprint finishes.’

‘She calls it “the broiling hurl”,’ said Josh approvingly.

‘Come on,’ Cat tried again, ‘let’s finish up and toast Mr Boardman.’

‘Maybe,’ Josh said, to her satisfaction.

‘Could do,’ Alex said. Cat allowed herself an inward smile.

STAGE 1
Delaunay Le Beau-Rouen. 195 kilometres

When Luca Jones tripped on the stairs of the start podium to sign in, he did not see it as an omen for his ride but as cultivation of his popularity. He recovered his composure, signed the vast chart and beamed and waved at the crowd as his name was blasted out by the PA system.

‘Stage 1 of the fucking Tour de France,’ he marvelled to Travis as if he might not have realized, while, astride their bikes, they waited for the ceremonial off.

‘Watch yourself,’ Travis laughed.

‘Everyone’s watching!’ Luca responded. He felt absolutely ready for the day’s racing and was looking forward to enjoying himself. ‘It’s fairly flat today,’ he had reasoned to his soigneur who was slapping his legs warm earlier, ‘I’m just going to hang out with the bunch, turn and tune my legs. I’m going to clock the crowds, even the landscape – perhaps there’ll be some gorgeous scenery along the way, softly undulating and bikini-clad – you know?’