cold for bikinis. Crashes were a foregone conclusion without the added jeopardy of roadside distractions on Luca Jones. The peloton rode in unison for a while, teams happily dispersing to chat in native tongues to fellow riders.
‘You’re a tart, Luca,’ Stuart O’Grady teased when Luca came back to the English contingent, having ridden leisurely with an Italian posse for a few miles.
‘Yeah, but my tan, man,’ Luca reposted, ‘better than you, Stu.’ After tapping on for a few miles more, the bunch stepped up the pace and began to race. For over two hours, the only view Luca examined was the colourful contours of the mass of torsos around him. He was well prepared therefore when a Banesto rider took down four others just far enough ahead and to the left to avoid the pile up. Lucky Luca, he said to himself. He worked his way to the front forty for a while, rode alongside Vasily Jawlensky who gave him a nod of recognition, which served as fuel injection to the legs. Lucky Luca, he said to himself, Vasily fucking Jawlensky.
Then what happened? To be suddenly staring at the still mass of blue sky after concentrating for so long on the multicoloured movement of the peloton was momentarily disconcerting and dazzling. It was not Lucky Luca who found himself all but sitting directly on top of JaJa. The famous Frenchman Laurent Jalabert had Fucking Luca Jones sprawled over the top of him.
‘Merde!’ Jalabert swore as he and Luca extricated themselves amicably enough from one another.
‘Wank,’ said Luca, seeing blood on his shin and wondering where his bike was.
‘Ça va?’ someone asked.
‘Oui,’ Luca muttered, ‘wank.’
There’s my bike. There goes Jalabert. Skill. How come I’m bleeding? Do I hurt? I don’t think so.
Riders were picking their way cautiously around Luca and a few other floored men. Luca was aware of the thrum of the TV helicopter overhead, of the whirr of press cameras near by, of the yellow-clad Mavic neutral service personnel swarming around like helpful worker bees. After so long in the saddle, to stand upright felt a little odd. To the French family previously enjoying their annual institution of picnic and peloton, the stooped Luca looked injured enough even before they saw his ripped shorts. It was time to do their bit; what an honour, what a conversation piece. Luca was bent over with hands on knees, collecting himself and his Oakleys, when someone put an arm around his shoulders.
‘Monsieur?’
Fuck, look at my shorts. Where is the blood on my leg coming from?
‘Monsieur – ici.’
Luca was gazing at the sky again.
I’m lying on a picnic table. I’m being photographed.
He sat up. On the road, riders were remounting. He looked to his right and stared blankly at he photographer. He looked to his left and a small child stared at him whilst sucking hard on a straw in an empty bottle of Coke. He looked down and regarded a pile of picnic victuals hastily dumped on a chair. He looked at his left thigh and observed slivers of baguette crust speckling his skin with shards of gravel.
‘Ça va?’ a photographer said perfunctorily, looking around for another photo opportunity.
Luca shrugged, got to his feet, set his bike upright, spun a wheel and grinned through 180 degrees. ‘Yeah – I’m fine.’ He saluted the family who nodded humbly. Off he went, shorts in shreds, left hip stinging, reputation intact, popularity increased.
‘It’s not your blood,’ said his soigneur, sponging Luca down at the team car when he arrived an hour or so later.
‘Huh?’
‘Not yours,’ the soigneur said, almost accusatorially.
‘Jeez, must be Jalabert’s,’ Luca muttered as if he ought to return it.
‘Great butt,’ Hunter laughed, raising his eyebrows at Luca’s flank on view through his tattered shorts.
‘You want to change?’ his soigneur asked.
Luca nodded initially but then said, ‘Nah.’ Narrowing his eyes, he correctly deduced that the three girls hovering would prefer him this way.
‘From Denmark,’ said one, holding out her T-shirt for an autograph and exchanging three kisses.
‘Me too,’ said the other, proffering a felt tip and her forearm for signing and her lips for direct osculation.
‘And me,’ the third said, offering Luca her autograph book and a respectful if solemn handshake.
I feel better already. Bye bye girls, come again. Oh look, there’s that girl from the press conference. Come and ask me how I am. Don’t just mouth ‘You OK?’ Come nearer. I don’t bite – unless you like. How about I give a shrug and look blue? Yes!
‘Hullo,’ the girl from the press conference said, ‘are you hurt?’
Luca responded with his heroic shrug.
‘What happened?’ she asked, pen poised, eyes concerned.
‘One minute I’m sitting on the bike,’ Luca drawled, staring at her steadily, ‘next I’m sitting on Jalabert. Hey, but we both live to ride another day!’
‘Hullo, Catriona journaliste McCabe,’ said Luca’s doctor, suddenly at his side.
‘Oh, hi,’ said the girl with a swift but sweet smile. Luca’s doctor looked hard at her, Luca gazed at her almost imploringly. ‘Just checking the wounded soldier is all right,’ she said.
‘Er, that’s my job,’ his doctor teased.
‘Yes, of course,’ the journaliste said ingenuously. She tipped her head and regarded the rider. ‘Glad you’re OK – good luck tomorrow.’
‘Thank you, Catriona,’ Luca Jones replied, rolling his ‘r’s and disjoining her name with strange emphases.
‘Cat,’ the journaliste all but cautioned. Rider and doctor regarded her. ‘I’d better go,’ she said, brandishing her notepad. ‘Bye – see you.’ She walked away briskly, scribbling in her pad all the while.
‘Close your mouth,’ Ben said to Luca, who didn’t know his doctor had only just shut his. ‘Do you hurt?’
COPY FOR P. TAVERNER @ GUARDIAN SPORTS DESK FROM CATRIONA McCABE IN ROUEN
For the first time in the history of the Tour de France, the yellow jersey and the first five places in Stage One went to English-speaking riders. Chris Boardman, losing only 2 seconds off his lead, keeps the golden fleece of his Prologue win. Stefano Sassetta of Zucca MV was relegated to the bottom of this first group for a flamboyant swerve dangerously close to his sworn rival, Système Vipère’s Jesper Lomers. Whether plain careless or downright malicious, Sassetta was not given the benefit of the doubt. In the city of Rouen, Sassetta should think himself lucky – Joan of Arc was burnt at the stake here in 1431.
Nice opening paragraph,
