heads up, the peloton rolled out of Nantes today at 11 a.m. this morning when it was 25 degrees in the shade, travelling south before scooping inland to Pradier. By lunch-time, when the bunch streamed past the feed station at Doré to pluck the cloth musettes filled with victuals held out by their soigneurs, it was over 30 degrees. It was here, at the 100 km mark, that Tyler Hamilton (US Postal) flew off, as if he had suddenly traded his bicycle for a 900 cc motorbike. The bunch were either too engrossed in the contents of their musettes or too sensible to exert themselves in such heat and so early in the race, Hamilton was thus left alone to establish a lead that at one time was just over 7 minutes. He needed to win by 1 minute 15 seconds to claim the yellow jersey. In the last 30 km, the peloton somewhat begrudgingly began to work to close the gap. Hamilton came in with 2 seconds to spare, the maillot jaune was his. Stefano Sassetta, lying a sulky second, is still triumphant in the green jersey two points ahead of arch rival Jesper Lomers. Jesper, however, lies two placings higher than his Italian adversary in the overall standings.
A horrendous crash at 34 km, just after the first sprint point at Courbet, took Bobby Julich not just out of contention but out of the race altogether. Fabian Ducasse was lucky; his was but a taste, albeit unsavoury, of tarmac. If he is sore tonight, racing to Bordeaux tomorrow will ease his joints and restore him for the Time Trial on Saturday when he will throw down the gauntlet to Zucca’s Vasily Jawlensky. Vasily has been as enigmatic as ever; keeping a low profile, riding quietly, steering away from the action, the cameras and Fabian Ducasse. He lies in twelfth place, just 18 seconds behind Fabian.
Tomorrow’s Stage will be the last opportunity for the pure sprinters to display their daredevilry and thrust their stuff at the finishing line before the toil of the Time Trial and the misery of the mountains will send some of them home.
<ENDS>
‘I need something,’ Cat wails, ‘can I have a quote?’ she asks Alex.
He rifles through his notepad and shrugs, ‘Can’t help you – I’m having enough trouble making mine fit.’
‘You owe me one,’ Josh says, moving his chair nearer to her. ‘I got Lomers at the media scrum. He said, “Good for Tyler. Strength is a system of will and fitness – he has the maillot jaune because he deserves it.” I’m using it, but you can too – there were quite a few people around him.’
‘Josh,’ said Cat whilst typing in the quote at the end of her report, ‘I love you.’
Josh looked rather pleased with himself. Alex looked somewhat taken aback and, after a surreptitious flick through his notebook, a little deflated too.
I need something, Fabian Ducasse thought to himself. I was down on the ground tasting dirt – that’s no place for me to be.
His body was sore and his psyche felt bruised. Sure, his soigneur could tend to the former, Jules Le Grand the latter, but Fabian knew his requirements better than anyone. He had to feel on top, in control; that he was a man who could dominate anything he wished. He needed to reassert his strength, his supremacy. He regarded himself in the mirror in his hotel bathroom. He needed a shave. More importantly, he needed to rid himself of the hint of unease he alone could detect in his eyes. Easy. It would take one thing. He pulled a baseball cap on low, donned sunglasses and a non-branded sweatshirt. He regarded his reflection again and nodded. He still needed a shave but he liked what he saw. He phoned one of the Système Vipère mechanics and demanded to be driven across Nantes to an insalubrious area he had discovered on a race some years ago, and had subsequently revisited on a few occasions since.
‘Wait around there,’ he ordered, watching until the mechanic was out of sight before opening a front door without knocking. Of course it was open. It was a brothel.
Fabian was out less than quarter of an hour later, the swagger in his step reflected in the burning glow of his steady eyes. He licked his lips and than spat in the gutter. He felt much better. Restored. And look! Only 8.45 p.m. He’d be asleep in an hour.
Cat was in her hotel room, doing as Ben had requested. She’d finished her work, wolfed down steak frites with Alex and Josh at a small brasserie just near their hotel, she had just had a shower and was contemplating what to wear and quite when to sneak out to the Hôtel Ibis when her mobile phone rang.
‘Darling?’
‘Django!’
‘Cat, my girl,’ Django said, ‘you sound quite awful.’
Cat was taken aback. ‘I feel,’ she told him, ‘fine. More than fine.’
‘Well,’ Django said, ‘you sound lousy. How is it all going? It was fantastically exciting today – all those bodies all over the place – and then that Yankee bloke winning.’
Cat smiled: that her passion for cycling should be so contagious was a delight. ‘I prophesied that – good old Tyler. It was a terrific Stage. Tomorrow should be more of the same – though rain is forecast here. How are Fen and Pip?’
‘Hooked!’ Django proclaimed. ‘We speak just before the programme starts, catch up briefly during the adverts and then have a full post-Stage analysis straight after. Are you eating? You do sound terrible.’
‘I’m fine,’ Cat pleads, ‘I just had steak and chips.’
‘I made pizza tonight,’ Django says proudly. ‘I had some bread that was going a bit off so I tore it up, added a little oil and beaten egg and a drop of ketchup, formed it into a base and baked the bugger.’
‘And?’ Cat asked, somewhat horrified.
‘Fantastic,’ Django swooned. ‘I added a topping of sardines, chicken liver, a little more ketchup and some Stilton.’
‘And?’ ventured Cat, clutching her stomach.
‘If I say so myself,’ Django proclaimed, ‘absolutely delicious. I’ll make it for you girls when you’re next here all together,’ he continued, ‘perhaps garnish it with a few pickled walnuts.’
‘Can’t wait,’ said Cat sincerely, about the visit more than the meal.
‘Darling girl,’ her uncle was saying, bringing her back from her family in Matlock to the bedroom in the hotel, ‘you really don’t sound good.’
‘I’m fine,’ Cat said, feeling her forehead and poking out her tongue at the mirror for good measure.
‘Well,’ said Django, ‘I rather think you should go and see the doctor.’
Cat and Django were quiet. As Cat watched herself break into a smile, she heard her uncle’s triumphant sniggers.
‘That is precisely what I’m about to do,’ she said.
‘Can I tell your sisters?’ Django asked.
‘If you can name the maillot jaune,’ Cat demanded.
‘Tyler Hamilton,’ Django replied, as if she was dim, ‘fellow US Postman Jonathan Vaughters is in polka dot and Stefano Sassetta in green. Must go, I have two phone calls to make.’
‘And I have a doctor’s appointment to keep,’ Cat said.
Cat needed to be incognito. Though she would
