‘Ducasse!’ the murmur went round the salle de pressé.

‘Fabian!’ Cat exclaimed in horror.

Merde. I have to get up. I don’t want to eat tarmac. It tastes like shit. I must finish in the first group – as I have every day. I don’t want to lose a second before the Time Trial. It will make no difference if I do, but it would piss me off. I want my margin in the Time Trial to set the tone for the rest of the race. That is why I have ridden quietly this week, I have made no noise yet still I am up there, top ten. The day after tomorrow, I will take the lead. My body is so strong now, ready to Time Trial, eager to climb, fit to take me to the podium in Paris. So, Fabian, up you get. Carefully.

‘Ça va?’ the race doctor asks the rider, helping him to his feet. Ducasse looks himself over, straightens himself. Ça va? That’s a good question. How does he feel? Not broken but, having been hurled on to tarmac at 42 kph, somewhat winded all the same. But broken? Injured? No. At least, not enough not to go on. Jules Le Grand is at Fabian’s side, not saying anything, just standing tall in nubuck loafers the colour of Fabian’s bronzed legs. The directeur’s mind is racing – much faster, much harder than hitherto any of his riders have. And yet, there is nothing he can say or do – only Ducasse’s body can dictate what will happen next. It is one of the few things over which the directeur sportif of Système Vipère has absolutely no control.

‘Vélo?’ Ducasse says quietly at last, contemplating the somewhat mangled remains of his bike lying some metres away. Freddy Verdonk, who did not fall but has hung back to remain with his leader, pushes his own bike forward. Freddy rides anyway not at his measurements but at those of his leader so that he can be on standby for an occasion like this when it is quicker for Ducasse to change on to his faithful domestique’s bike. Verdonk can wait for his mechanic to bring a replacement. Patience and humility, rare in a team leader, being the defining qualities of the domestique.

The salle de pressé watch in hushed anticipation as Fabian Ducasse remounts. The race doctor is now looking him over, somewhat cursorily, as if Ducasse is a car that has been merely pranged. The wadge of gauze taped to the side of Ducasse’s knee will last the Stage through. This evening, the wound can be looked at more thoroughly. There is no reason why Ducasse shouldn’t carry on. Nothing is broken, not least his spirit. Jules Le Grand places his hand on Ducasse’s lower back and runs, pushing the rider for a few metres. Verdonk is given no helping hand; that’s OK, he doesn’t need it, he is the helping hand. Cat and the journalists watch in hushed reverence as Ducasse and Verdonk make their way through the convoy of team cars, past a posse of riders at the back, up and through a string of stragglers hanging like a tail to the back of the main bunch. Système Vipère are back in the race. Ducasse has lost no time at all; moreover he has gained publicity, popularity and respect. People will want to watch for him tomorrow, every day, a force to be reckoned with; they’ll be looking out for him, wishing him success. Hero.