how much tourist blurb is the norm). Today’s distance, from the total of over 3,500 km, might seem insignificant but with no great time gaps achievable, a rider’s placing today can have a psychological bearing on himself and his competitors. Prologues are won and lost in fractions of seconds so the riders must race on the rivet. They are set to race at an average of 51 kph to complete the challenge in around 8½ minutes (check with Josh), confronting a couple of taxing corners (two or three – check), dealing with a drag quite soon after the start, a stretch of cobbles half-way and then a 400 m straight run to the end. Whether Vasily Jawlensky wins today or not, the pressure will be firmly on his back regardless of the colour of jersey he will wear tomorrow for Le Grand Départ.
‘I really can’t do any more,’ Cat decides, after reading her paragraph, ‘not until it’s all over.’ She lays her hand on her diaphragm. She is brimming with adrenalin. How on earth must the boys feel?
Her Tour de France is about to start, her sense of anticipation is as much for her own race as for the riders for whom she feels so much.
None of us can do more just now – it’s a waiting game. First rider on the course in just under four hours’ time. Vasily goes last at 18.33. How on earth can they be feeling?
‘Coming to the village?’ says Josh.
‘Sure,’ says Cat.
Josh had to contend with Cat stopping still every now and then to focus on riders warming up along the circuit.
‘You’ve got three weeks of them,’ he said, over his shoulder as Cat focused on Bobby Julich until he was round a corner and out of sight, ‘you’ll be sick of the sight by the end of it.’ He laughed, knowing that she wouldn’t, nor would he, or any of the entourage of the Tour de France. ‘In truth, Cat,’ he said surreptitiously, ‘we’re a bunch of frauds. First and foremost, we’re fans. This isn’t a job, it’s pleasure for which we’re paid.’
‘Jalabert!’ Cat, giving immediate flesh to Josh’s theory, gasped and clapped as the legendary French cyclist zipped past them. ‘Allez, JaJa!’
If Cat had been surprised by the lavish buffet provided for her and the other journalists at the ice rink, the village had her positively gobsmacked. The large courtyard at the Hôtel de Ville, through which she had walked last night to the team presentation, was now plotted and pieced by a vast array of marquees, canopies and awnings, each commandeered by a sponsor and bedecked with an array of refreshments, brochures and promotional merchandise. The air was perfumed with the smell of coffee, of meat, of wine and cheese. There was an entire suckling pig gracing a table on which cold cuts from surely a whole herd of suckling pigs were laid artistically amidst a tapestry of fruit. Further on, an enormous omelette pan was being put to great use by three moustachioed chefs. Tables heaved under huge cartwheels of soft cheese amidst forests of baguette, counters groaned under the weight of local wines and liqueurs and all the Coca-Cola in the world seemed to be available right there. Everywhere Cat looked, people were eating and drinking.
They could be at a wedding, a ball, as much as the Tour de France. Do they actually realize where they are? I do. I couldn’t possibly eat – my stomach’s full of butterflies. God knows how the riders can eat – and yet they must.
Despite the opulence, variety and availability of all the hospitality, Cat took only a small nutty roll and a plastic cup of orange juice as she circumnavigated the village. She grinned at Channel 4’s Phil Liggett who had no idea who she was and she found the courage to say to his co-presenter Paul Sherwen, who also had no idea who she was, ‘I’m Cat McCabe – this is my first Tour.’ She glimpsed Josh with his notepad tucked under his arm so that he could hold a laden paper plate and plastic wine glass. She glanced at the roll from which she’d taken a few small nibbles and deposited it in a bin. Even the juice tasted too sharp to be pleasant and was no longer cool so she threw that away soon after. She was too excited to eat, too nervous to drink but too worried about missing a thing to phone home and recount her surroundings with glee. She checked her watch. Three hours to go.
Come on, come on – start!
Outside the hallowed area of the village, into which admittance was strictly by pass only and controlled by scrupulous sentries, the public was gathering along the Prologue route. The crowds were massive, holding flags that they’d wave frantically every now and then if any Tour vehicle should pass. Cat felt enormously privileged, being able to walk inside the snaking barriers, on the very surface that each of the 189 riders would soon be pedalling for position. Just then, she did not feel like a journaliste at all, merely an ardent admirer blessed with a pass and she felt extremely lucky. She would walk around for a while, soak up the atmosphere whilst noting specific details of the course. If she could infuse her article with her experience of the former, the details of the latter would surely interest her readers all the more.
‘I want to do eight thirty,’ Luca says to Ben. The doctor nods, just as he had for Travis, who wants to do eight thirty-two, and just as he did for Hunter, who wants to do eight twenty-seven.
‘You coming to watch?’ Luca asks. Ben hadn’t intended to but as both Hunter, Travis and two other members of the team had asked the same question, he has changed his mind.
‘Of course I’ll be there,’ he says to Luca, ‘just don’t make me scrape bits of you off the tarmac. Have a good ride. Go for your eight thirty but remember there’s tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow.’
‘Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,’ Luca says wistfully.
‘Fuck me!’ Ben exclaims, looking at Luca in genuine amazement. ‘You? Shakespeare?’
‘Fuck you,’ says Luca, frowning, ‘and I’ll tell you something for free, I’m not going at a creeping, petty pace. I’m going to ride for all I’m worth, race my heart out.’
Over an hour before the start, the colourful conga line of the 220 novelty vehicles in the publicity caravan was delighting the crowds, already six deep, with their flamboyance and freebies. The riders were arriving in their team buses and campers, parking en masse in the Place Victor Hugo. Bikes were held stationary on blocks and the riders were warming up, their fans gawping just inches away from their noses. Some riders stared fixedly at the frame of their machines, or their knuckles, or the ground, as they pedalled; others gazed, glazed, directly ahead, directly at some stranger without seeing them at all.
Cat caught sight of Alex chatting to a girl at the Zucca MV bus and walked over to see if chance might provide her with Massimo Lipari or Stefano Sassetta. Or even Vasily Jawlensky.
For a soundbite. OK, then, just for a glimpse!
She smiled quickly at Alex and the woman.
‘Cat, this is Rachel – the soigneur nine out of ten riders said they’d like to, er, have.’
This typical remark from Alex enabled Cat and Rachel immediately to share a look that shot heavenward and was followed by a conspiratorial smile apiece.
‘Cat McCabe,’ said Cat, holding out her hand.
‘Press?’ Rachel asked. Cat nodded. ‘First Tour?’ Rachel enquired. Cat nodded again, matching the girl’s smile with one of her own. ‘Me too,’ said Rachel. ‘Welcome.’
‘Thanks,’ said Cat. ‘It’s great to be here.’
She seems
