Cat contemplated the fact that this beautiful streak of colour, skating along the tarmac, slicking around corners, enhancing the Breton countryside and the lives of the native spectators, was made up of each man turning his pedals, watching his line, monitoring his pulse, pacing himself, performing his job for his team, his sponsors, making it a day closer to Paris, surviving to ride another day, period. Twenty-one teams. 184 individuals at present. The peloton of the Tour de France. A river of bright energy when seen from above. Down there, in the bunch, in reality: war.

With over 100 kilometres to go, Megapac’s Hunter Dean and Travis Stanton grouped together with three other riders and shot away from the peloton.

‘Fuck, it’s humid, man,’ said Travis.

‘Wind’s behind,’ Hunter replied encouragingly, taking the front. The five-man break kept their heads down and pedalled with conviction.

Back in the bunch, Stefano Sassetta summonsed his team car. ‘Who’s gone?’ he asked his directeur. ‘What do you want me to do?’

‘No one for you to worry about,’ his directeur answered him, ‘let them have the last sprint point. They’ll tire soon enough. They’re nothing. Some Americanos – let them fly their flag a while.’ Sassetta made his way back through the bunch, catching sight of the yellow-clad back of Jesper Lomers. He felt his blood chill and then immediately boil. He pedalled until they were shoulder to shoulder. The Dutchman was looking studiously ahead. Apart from gesture, English was the only language in which these two riders could communicate.

‘Enjoy your shirt,’ Sassetta hissed, ‘you no have it long time. Green suit me only anyway. Bad with your hair colour.’

Jesper regarded Stefano briefly and then returned his concentration directly ahead. Jesper had no intention of reacting. It was not his style. He was a sportsman. For him, manners were integral to his vocation. And his mind was on Anya, who was never at home.

With just over 25 kilometres to go, Travis and another rider dropped back, eased off and returned to the peloton. Hunter and the other two soon hit Plumelec, knowing there were a further 12 kilometres to race. Looking briefly over his shoulder, Hunter knew that the bunch would be on them soon enough but the Stage might, with a miracle, be his. Just. Was it worth riding himself out today? What would be the consequence for his legs tomorrow? There were two Stages later in the race he had earmarked for himself. But the opportunity was here.

‘6 k to go – I’m out of here,’ he said to himself, summoning up reserves to surge away from the other two. Hunter was riding at 46 kph. With 3 kilometres to go, Hunter’s lead was eleven seconds and he was charging along on adrenalin and desire. With just 1 kilometre left, he swept perfectly around the right-hand bend and narrow bridge, stood on his pedals and honked towards the finishing climb.

Then he heard it; it was all he could hear. Not his heart. Not his breathing. Not the yelling crowd. What he could hear he could sense too. He wanted to go forward yet sensed he was being sucked backwards. As his legs and arms felt the drag of the finishing incline, Hunter took a fateful glance over his shoulder. The motion cost him seconds yet he knew the sight he would see was of the deafening, deflating sound that was filling his ears. The peloton of the Tour de France was surging towards him, a swarm in a heat haze with no affection for him, no malice either, but certainly no consideration for the stamina he had exhibited for over 100 kilometres. With dignity intact, Hunter sat up. He was caught. He was back in the bunch. He was anonymous once more.