pace caused as much by their intent conversation as from a little alcohol.
‘Podium girls?’ Ben repeats.
‘Yeah! I want to be flanked, Ben – flanked, kissed and zipped into that yellow jersey – just for a day. I’d die happy.’
‘You can’t die,’ Ben reasons, ‘or you won’t be able to bask in glory, sign more autographs, dish out more kisses and increase your female fan base.’
‘I want to have fun,’ Luca says, ‘you know? On the Tour. On my bike and off. It’s the fuckin’ Tour de France, man – it’s my dream. I’m going to be living it. My goal is to finish in the top thirty in Paris. My dream is a Stage win. My ambition is recognition for my skill, to be recognized by the spectators, the media, my sponsors. Yeah, and the girls!’
They pedal thoughtfully, virtually tasting the imminence of the Tour, the hopes that might be realized or could be dashed.
‘You know,’ Luca says imploringly to Ben as they arrive outside the doctor’s apartment, ‘I don’t mind the hills, I like the flat, I enjoy Time Trials.’
Ben pats him on the back and bids him a good night’s sleep, stressing the word sleep with a slyly raised eyebrow.
‘You’ll have a great Tour,’ Ben says, ‘and it won’t end there.’
Luca grins and spins away.
I want to have fun. I am twenty-four years old and I want the world to know who I am. Luca Jones and the Tour de France – awesome.
Ben closes his apartment door and regards his suitcase, packed and waiting.
‘Let’s have a good race, boys,’ he says, wandering over to the window and rolling down the blind. He sits on the sofa and looks at his fingers. ‘I would rather they ride well enough and safe enough that I end up twiddling my thumbs instead of using healing hands.’
I know what the team are doing with their hands right now, Ben muses as he slips naked between his sheets. Hunter and Travis are running them all over their fiancées’ bodies, with courtesy and their partners’ sexual gratification leading the route. Luca, no doubt, now has a minimum of two pairs of tits to choose from and grope. I’ll put money on him having cycled back to the bar. No amount of sport – indoor or outdoor – alters his testosterone levels.
He switches off the light and wonders whether he’s too tired to masturbate or tired enough not to have to.
Shit, when was the last time for me? And not by me? That girl in Paris with the gecko tattoo?
What was her name, Ben?
Annabel? Annie? It was three months ago. I can’t remember. Well, I can add another month now – I would say that there’s not going to be time for anything on the Tour de France unless it’s cycling-related.
Cat’s mind is meandering while she deliberates over the pros and cons of a rucksack versus a suitcase for three weeks in France.
It’s not so much an ‘if I meet Hunter or Travis’ as ‘when’ – because I know that they’re happy to talk to any journalist who expresses an interest in their ride. So, when I meet Travis and Hunter, what shall I ask them? Dare I tap into their feminine sides and ask about the importance of their girlfriends to their performance? Would that be acceptable? Maybe I could find the girlfriends and ask for their stories – that would be a great idea. I could branch out, perhaps pitch an article to a women’s magazine.
Cat decides on the rucksack and proceeds to lay out the contents of her entire wardrobe on her bed, sectioning the clothing into don’t-take, might-take and must-take.
Mistake? Is He thinking of me preparing? Is He impressed? Untouched? Is He ever coming back? Please let France enable me to let go, to move on. Please let the physical distance mean that I won’t have to think of Him as much as I do now, when we still share the same city and my home houses His ghost.
Alongside shorts, cotton T-shirts and cotton short skirts, Cat chooses a couple of frocks but then wonders if she is being a little too hopeful. She knows there are dinners hosted by the teams, and parties on the Sunday evening of the Champs-Elysées finale. She should be ambitious.
What the hell, they don’t take up much space and they won’t crumple.
Yes, but you’ll need a suitable pair of shoes – trainers and pumps are certainly practical, but somewhat spoil the line of a nice little slip dress. And remember, the Alps and Pyrenees are prone to suddenly clouding over and becoming very wet and cold. You’ll need a fleece or two, and something highly waterproof. You’d better pack your Timberland boots.
I hope Luca has a good Tour – he’s a great rider and so colourful. The Brits are as sceptical of him taking our nationality as they are about Greg Rusedski, but I think Luca could be a useful sidekick to Chris Boardman as a publicist for the sport in my country. Chris is the consummate champ – he is to cycling what Gary Lineker was to soccer. So Luca, with his trendy haircut and his haphazard speech and flamboyant losses and crashes and triumphs, could play a different role entirely. He’d be as useful to the profile of cycling in Britain, especially awareness amongst women, as the Hollioake brothers are to cricket. I want my girlfriends to say to me, ‘Cat, when’s the Vuelta? Will Luca be racing? He’s such a spunk – that photo Marie Claire published of him alongside your article – well!’
You and me, Luca my boy, we can do something good for cycling – and, of course, for ourselves.
Cat props the packed rucksack upright on her bed and shuffles herself within its straps. She meanders around her flat and kids herself that the pack on her back is really rather comfortable and not nearly as heavy as, well, as it is.
It’s loaded – and yes, all symbolism absolutely intended.
My God, France tomorrow. I hate ferries. I can’t believe I’m almost there, that I’m going, period, that I will indeed be there. Cat McCabe and the Tour de France. Please let it last for ever.
SETTING THE WHEELS IN MOTION
Wednesday. The English Channel. 10 a.m.
How strange. On the ferry’s deck, Cat McCabe, who has fantasized about following the Tour for years, who has recently acknowledged that a change of country – if only for three weeks – would be a sensible and constructive option, has found that she is wishing she’d stayed put, that she could be back at home. She is very nervous, convinced she’s bitten off more than she can chew and fears she might choke. Oughtn’t she just to watch the Tour on Channel 4, in privacy at home as she always has? She could be on her settee, with a nice cup of tea, proclaiming aloud that the presenters, Phil Liggett and Paul Sherwen, should have their own TV series. Or run for Parliament. Or come over to her flat for coffee and a chat.
Maybe it would just be better if I had no interest in cycling at all.
Cat experiences lurches of homesickness when the white cliffs start to shrink. Wafts of the panicky emotion gust through her more strongly than the buffets of sea air which, she kids herself, are the sole cause for her smarting eyes. Having enjoyed umpteen
