love quoting their power output in terms of watts, and mantras which they chant and believe in. They believe in themselves. Belief is both the ultimate and minimum requirement for any cyclist who wishes to survive the Tour de France, let alone do well.
‘As I said in my mission statement,’ says Hunter, touching a peanut and then forsaking it, ‘When I was a kid, I had a dream and my dream was to represent a great national team, to represent my country. I’m living my dream, man, living my dream.’ He sighs and nods gravely at Ben. ‘My statement continued: They say that racing takes it out of you, but by racing, I believe I’m giving something back. I ride because I love it but I race for all of you. That’s me, Ben, that’s how it is for me.’
Ben sips his beer thoughtfully.
I don’t know whether to kiss the bloke or piss myself laughing.
‘Your mission statement,’ Ben says instead, ‘did you write it? Were you interviewed?’
‘Interviewed? Was I fuck,’ says Hunter. ‘Sure I wrote it.’
‘And you, Travis?’ Ben asks.
‘It’s a mission statement,’ Travis exclaims, as if Ben is mentally deficient, ‘of course you write it yourself. Or it ain’t yours. What would that make the mission? Fucking bogus.’
‘Do, er, you know yours off by heart?’ Ben enquires, grateful that Luca is out of earshot or keeping his straight face would be a physical impossibility and mental torture.
Travis balks, as if Ben has asked a most ridiculous question. ‘It starts off: They say you never forget how to ride a bike and I guess that’s true. Racing professionally enables me to make my living out of a pastime that is a pleasure for so many people.’ He pauses and shrugs. ‘And it goes on, you know?’
Ben is saved a rendition of the entire statement by a rumpus at the other end of the bar. It is Luca, surrounding himself with an impressive, hungry female entourage. ‘What is it about Luca?’ Hunter shakes his head. ‘Huh, Ben?’
‘A blend of sound and vision,’ Ben shrugs, raising a bottle of beer on catching Luca’s eye.
‘Huh?’
‘The aural senses send nerve impulses to woman’s carnal core,’ Ben expostulates, knowing it’s bullshit but that Hunter would never think so. ‘At least, that’s my theory.’
‘Huh?’ Hunter repeats, wondering whether it is a finer point of medicine, Ben’s grammar or the effect of the rare beer that is making comprehension a little difficult.
‘Ears, right?’ Travis clarifies.
‘The accent,’ Ben specifies. ‘Luca’s curious blend of Italian and Carnaby Street peppered with Americanisms causes an involuntary chemical reaction in womenfolk.’
Hunter laughs and chinks bottles with Ben and Travis. ‘Way to go, Luca!’
‘You can kissa my ass ’cos I’m not going up that fuckin’ ’ill,’ Ben imitates Luca perfectly.
‘Fucking Al!’ Hunter proclaims, chinking bottles again and taking a good swig.
‘Plus,’ Ben continues in all seriousness, ‘it comes out of the mouth of a perfectly formed, aesthetically pleasing twenty-four-year-old.’
They observe the younger rider, in his element, flirting for England, or Italy, or America. Wherever. Perfect white teeth surrounded by pillowy lips, set into a boyish face atop a beautifully athletic physique.
‘Look at those women,’ Ben remarks objectively, motioning to the throng with his beer bottle, ‘they are utterly bewildered. They are caught in an extreme dilemma.’
‘They are?’ Travis probes, inquisitiveness keeping him in the bar though he’s glanced at his watch and thinks that, at half past nine and after half a bottle of beer, he really should be leaving so he can get eight hours’ sleep. ‘What’s the problem?’
‘Well,’ says Ben contemplatively, ‘they don’t know what they want more – to mother him or fuck him.’
‘Je-sus!’ Hunter exclaims. ‘He’s a fucking bike rider.’
‘Exactly,’ says Ben, ‘they can’t decide whether they’d rather run their fingers through those soft, Botticelli curls or grab hold of his buttocks and drive their nails right in.’
‘Go, Luca!’ Travis jockeys, ordering another beer and thinking what the hell.
‘Son of a bitch,’ Hunter agrees with admiration.
Luca extricates himself from the tangle of women and saunters over to his team-mates and doctor. ‘You guys, you talking about me, hey? What you saying?’
Bottles chink.
‘You’re a chick magnet,’ Hunter congratulates him so solemnly that it should be impossible to take seriously.
‘Cheers!’ Luca responds ingenuously. ‘Here’s to France and the belle femmes.’
‘Coming hot on the heels of the Giro and all those belle signorine,’ counters Ben.
‘Ah, the Giro,’ Luca says wistfully, as if it were something he’d done as a young man. ‘All those pretty babes in denim shorts and bikini tops, waving and calling your name from the roadside, coming to you at the village départs wanting an autograph—’
‘And being rewarded with your double kiss,’ Travis adds.
‘Gawping, in hot-flushed awe, as your legs were rubbed,’ Ben remembers.
‘All our legs are rubbed at the finish,’ Luca remonstrates.
‘Yes,’ Ben says, ‘but the rest don’t spread their limbs quite so wide while maintaining unflinching eye-contact and suggestive smiles with young ladies.’
‘I’m a young man, man,’ Luca shrugs, ‘and strong. I’m a bloke. The crowds, the passion, the girls – vive le Tour.’
‘OK guys,’ says Hunter, suddenly horny from the beer, the conversation, the freedom of the evening and the realization that he won’t see his fiancée again for nearly a month, ‘I’m out of here.’
‘Me too,’ says Travis. ‘All set?’
Ben nods approvingly and raises his eyebrows at Luca. ‘You should do the same.’ Luca looks petulantly over to the posse of pussy whose eyes have not once left him. He regards Ben and then nods.
‘I’m going to have a great Tour, hey doc?’ Ben places a supportive hand on his shoulder in response. ‘I’m going to make the sponsors proud and they’ll sign me for next year – with a raise, perhaps elevate my status in the team.’
Ben steers him through the bar and out into the night. The mountains lumber and slumber in dark mauve velvet masses against a sky smattered with an inordinate array of stars.
‘And my Mama and Dad – make ’em proud too,’ Luca
