‘Ça va?’ a photographer said perfunctorily, looking around for another photo opportunity.

Luca shrugged, got to his feet, set his bike upright, spun a wheel and grinned through 180 degrees. ‘Yeah – I’m fine.’ He saluted the family who nodded humbly. Off he went, shorts in shreds, left hip stinging, reputation intact, popularity increased.

‘It’s not your blood,’ said his soigneur, sponging Luca down at the team car when he arrived an hour or so later.

‘Huh?’

‘Not yours,’ the soigneur said, almost accusatorially.

‘Jeez, must be Jalabert’s,’ Luca muttered as if he ought to return it.

‘Great butt,’ Hunter laughed, raising his eyebrows at Luca’s flank on view through his tattered shorts.

‘You want to change?’ his soigneur asked.

Luca nodded initially but then said, ‘Nah.’ Narrowing his eyes, he correctly deduced that the three girls hovering would prefer him this way.

‘From Denmark,’ said one, holding out her T-shirt for an autograph and exchanging three kisses.

‘Me too,’ said the other, proffering a felt tip and her forearm for signing and her lips for direct osculation.

‘And me,’ the third said, offering Luca her autograph book and a respectful if solemn handshake.

I feel better already. Bye bye girls, come again. Oh look, there’s that girl from the press conference. Come and ask me how I am. Don’t just mouth ‘You OK?’ Come nearer. I don’t bite – unless you like. How about I give a shrug and look blue? Yes!

‘Hullo,’ the girl from the press conference said, ‘are you hurt?’

Luca responded with his heroic shrug.

‘What happened?’ she asked, pen poised, eyes concerned.

‘One minute I’m sitting on the bike,’ Luca drawled, staring at her steadily, ‘next I’m sitting on Jalabert. Hey, but we both live to ride another day!’

‘Hullo, Catriona journaliste McCabe,’ said Luca’s doctor, suddenly at his side.

‘Oh, hi,’ said the girl with a swift but sweet smile. Luca’s doctor looked hard at her, Luca gazed at her almost imploringly. ‘Just checking the wounded soldier is all right,’ she said.

‘Er, that’s my job,’ his doctor teased.

‘Yes, of course,’ the journaliste said ingenuously. She tipped her head and regarded the rider. ‘Glad you’re OK – good luck tomorrow.’

‘Thank you, Catriona,’ Luca Jones replied, rolling his ‘r’s and disjoining her name with strange emphases.

‘Cat,’ the journaliste all but cautioned. Rider and doctor regarded her. ‘I’d better go,’ she said, brandishing her notepad. ‘Bye – see you.’ She walked away briskly, scribbling in her pad all the while.

‘Close your mouth,’ Ben said to Luca, who didn’t know his doctor had only just shut his. ‘Do you hurt?’

COPY FOR P. TAVERNER @ GUARDIAN SPORTS DESK FROM CATRIONA McCABE IN ROUEN

For the first time in the history of the Tour de France, the yellow jersey and the first five places in Stage One went to English-speaking riders. Chris Boardman, losing only 2 seconds off his lead, keeps the golden fleece of his Prologue win. Stefano Sassetta of Zucca MV was relegated to the bottom of this first group for a flamboyant swerve dangerously close to his sworn rival, Système Vipère’s Jesper Lomers. Whether plain careless or downright malicious, Sassetta was not given the benefit of the doubt. In the city of Rouen, Sassetta should think himself lucky – Joan of Arc was burnt at the stake here in 1431.