The cameras pan back. The other rider is still on the tarmac, sitting up, hunched, head in hands. The woman from San Diego finally presses the shutter on her camera.

‘I got Bobby J!’ she says delighted to her husband. ‘That’s cool – I got Bobby J!’

In more ways than one.

Bobby Julich tries to stand. He manages it but he cannot walk. He is out of the race. His Tour stops here, but not his reputation. A battle-broken body leaves his heroism intact. There’s next year.

On the other side of the road, the cameras focus momentarily on two figures. One is an old farmer standing very still, clasping his cloth cap to his heart. The other is a young boy standing by his small, basic bike, holding on to the handlebars hard. His mouth is open, his eyes are huge. When I grow up, I will cycle the Tour de France. I will be that brave. I will be a hero.

It was just one more crash in the Tour de France but for Cat, the image of Ducasse fallen and then up and away, of Julich down and then stretchered away, lay resonant in her mind’s eye constantly. If the Stage had been as exciting, as traumatic, as exhausting for a mere journalist to experience, how can it have been for the riders? The atmosphere in the salle de pressé was thick and intense. It was also too hot, and somewhat odoriferous. Too many men with a dwindling awareness of personal hygiene, a slackening interest in the merits of laundry, an increasing appetite for nicotine and, Cat detected, for garlic sausages.

‘I need some air,’ she told Alex and Josh, ‘coming?’

‘Bring us a Coke, will you?’ Alex asked.

‘Just Evian for me,’ said Josh, eyeing up the line of empty cans in front of him.

It was still incredibly hot. Inland now, and with very little breeze, the peloton were currently racing in 30 degrees. Having been seated herself for almost three hours, Cat was stiff and sticky. Walking slowly amongst the trees, she chose a sturdy old trunk to lean her hands against, stretching out first her right leg then her left behind her. Then she picked up each foot in turn to hold against her bottom, giving the fronts of her thighs a good stretch. She put her hands on her hips and rolled her head very slowly about her neck. She reached up high above her head with arms extended, relishing the feeling of release from the pull on her waist. She swooped her arms down in an arc, holding them out horizontally at shoulder height before clasping them behind her back and pulling upwards. She held her pose and breathed deeply, her eyes closed.

‘Fantastic tits, Catriona McCabe,’ said Ben York desirously, feeling the objects of his adulation gently and swiftly before Cat could open her eyes in amazement. She grabbed her breasts protectively, glanced around aghast for fear of witnesses, and had no idea how to respond.