‘Hey, Hunter,’ said Ben, laying a hand on the rider’s shoulder.

‘Yo,’ Hunter replied. The rider was sitting on the steps of the Megapac van in a picturesque green, plotted and pieced by birch trees – near the start line. Just one rider from the group of 184 wondering how his day would pan out and how much control he could ultimately exact on the outcome.

‘You have a nice mention here,’ Ben said, holding up the Guardian.

‘What is that?’ Hunter asked.

‘A newspaper?’ Ben cajoled before answering honestly, ‘It’s British. Listen up. If Dean’s passion can be maintained even if the mountains mangle his muscles, he might well shine in one of the final Stages of la Grande Boucle. She terms your ride yesterday “heart-rending”.’

‘Who the fuck is “she”?’ Hunter asked.

‘The journalist – the British one.’

‘Oh sure, right,’ Hunter nodded, ‘Luca’s one.’

‘Luca’s?’ Ben asked quizzically.

‘Sure,’ Hunter shrugged, ‘he feels like she’s his – saves up his best quotes for her. I was in his room yesterday. He put on aftershave after dinner even though he hadn’t shaved. And clean track pants. Said he’d invited her for a soundbite.

‘And?’ Ben enquired.

‘She didn’t show,’ Hunter said. ‘Hey, let me read that.’ He scanned the article quickly, then folded the paper angrily and thrust it back at Ben. ‘I’m not waiting till after the fucking mountains to go for it.’

‘Hunter,’ said Ben sternly, ‘that’s the point – if you go for broke now, you’ll bonk – you’ll hit the wall – you’ll break. This first week is for sprinters, some of whom won’t even make it half-way up the first hill – you know that. Be consistent. You’re a rouleur. You’re team captain. Why else would the bunch insist on chasing you down? Your strength is known – you’re a rider to be reckoned with. And you’ve got to get yourself and the boys to Paris. What sort of example are you setting the likes of Luca, Travis even, if you don’t?’

Hunter regarded his legs, smooth, hard, glistening, and glanced across to Ben’s which looked unnaturally hirsute in comparison. It made him remember who he was and where he was and his function here, his purpose, his gift, his aim in life. He looked up at Ben and rose. ‘Sure thing, Doc. You’re right. I’ll ride as I should. I’ll lead the guys home.’

Hunter Dean, Ben marvelled as he tweaked the peak of the rider’s logoed baseball cap, when you hang up your pedals you can slip straight into Congress. Or Hollywood. You’re a star.

Ben went in search of Didier LeDucq. Luca said he’d seen him heading off towards the toilets. Luca looked at his feet. Then Luca told the doctor he’d heard the French rider throwing up before breakfast. Then he looked down at the doctor’s feet. When his doctor ventured off to track down his ailing equipeur, Luca winced.

If I felt shit, but I wanted to race, would I want my doctor to know? If I felt shit but I wanted to race, would I tell my team-mates? If I’d thrown up and chosen not to tell my teammates, would I want them to dob me to the doctor behind my back? Fuck me. I’m a jerk. I’ll go find Didier – before Ben. Oh. But not before I have a quick chat with my journaliste.