the riders on the descents. Such extremes in temperature can play havoc with a rider but the tifosi, the maniac fans, were there in force, handing out sheets of newspaper indiscriminately. This was not for the peloton to catch up on world news, but to use as padding beneath their jerseys to protect against destructive windchill on the descents. On the Col de Portet D’Aspet, the race was neutralized as the riders paid their respects at the stone memorial to Fabio Casertelli, the 1992 Olympic champion who was killed, aged 22, after a horrendous crash there in the 1995 Tour.
Fabian Ducasse, the current yellow jersey, punctured at the base of the penultimate climb, the Col de Port. Three Système Vipère domestiques dropped back to assist. The Viper boys had practically to ride a Time Trial up the mountain to minimize time loss. Using his domestiques’ slipstreams until they were spent, Ducasse had ultimately to make much of the passage by himself. His main contender, Vasily Jawlensky, observed peloton etiquette and did not launch an attack until Ducasse’s had rejoined the lead group. The Russian then motored away, flanked by his team’s superclimber Massimo Lipari. With no Viper boys in Ducasse’s group, if the yellow jersey wanted to catch Jawlensky he would have to do all the work. That’s the law of the race and four other riders just sat on his wheel as Fabian pursued his Russian adversary.
On the Plateau de Boudin, Jawlensky’s team-mate Massimo Lipari, defender of two consecutive King of the Mountains triumphs, launched his trademark attack. Riding out of the saddle, he found perfect rhythm and swallowed up the seconds, the gravelly tarmac, and soon enough two stunned riders who thought they were well clear. Ultimately, he had enough time to zip up his jersey and approach the summit finish, clapping, waving and blowing kisses to the fans and to the heavens. His rival, Carlos Jesu Velasquez, victor of yesterday’s Stage, still wears polka dot but Lipari is only a few points behind. With three days of a flatter profile, the battle for the King of the Mountains in this year’s Tour de France will resume in the Alps.
<ENDS>
Rubbing her eyes, Cat packs up from the table and goes to transmit her work down the line to London. She arrives at the hotel nearing 11.30.
Too late to talk to Josh.
She goes to her room and slumps into a chair.
Is it really too late to talk to Josh?
She goes and hovers outside his door, pressing her ear against it. There is no sound. She won’t disturb him. It can wait. Tomorrow. Definitely.
Back in her room, curled on the bed, she dials Ben’s mobile phone and stares at the number. Her phone beeps at her. Call? She leaves the phone on the bed and goes to the window. There’s a draught. She’s chilly. The phone beeps again. Call? Cat rummages around her rucksack and retrieves a sweatshirt. She hasn’t yet worn it. It smells of the fabric conditioner she always uses, of being tumble-dried in her local launderette. She inhales, closing her eyes. She can smell home. Now there’s a place! A beep from her phone brings her back to reality. Call? Cat goes to the bathroom and glances briefly at herself in the mirror.
That’s me. I know who I am.
She returns to the bedroom and stares at her phone. It beeps again. Call?
No.
STAGE 11
Tarascon sur Ariège-Le Cap D’Arp. 221 kilometres
Luca Jones had a childhood fascination with prehistory that has never left him. He collected fossils, knew everything about dinosaurs and still loves the idea of cavemen and women. However, that morning, with one Stage left to take him away from the Pyrenees and to the Rest Day, he was not remotely distracted by the fact that Tarascon-sur-Ariège, with its famous local caves, was one of the great centres for its study. Nor had he given much thought to, let alone passed comment on, the fact that they’d be riding through the hottest part of France where bikinis would abound, that the area of coast to which the race was headed was popular with naturists. Luca was anomalously quiet. Yet his spirit was good. He felt very well. His legs were tingling to get going. It was scorching hot but the sun’s rays seemed to be nourishing him deep to the marrow of his bones. He loved his job passionately on days like this.
There was a great turnout to see him and the remaining 177 riders on their way. As they rolled out and along the route, the crowds thinned but the strength of support did not diminish. On a quiet stretch of road, Luca saluted with heartfelt gratitude a corps of firemen standing to attention outside their fire station, the lights of the fire engines flashing, the hoses providing a refreshing arc of water. And then, despite an estimated further five hours in the saddle, in the heat, Jacky Durand, as was his wont, picked up the pace and the pack started to pelt along.
‘Jesus, we’ve covered a fuck of a lot this first hour,’ Luca yelled to Hunter who tweaked the computers on his bike and confirmed they’d been racing at an average speed of a fraction under 50 kilometres an hour.
‘You’re looking strong, Luca,’ Hunter shouted, ‘go have yourself some fun. Go flirt with the TV cameras and grab yourself some new fans.’
‘Whatever you say, boss,’ said Luca guilelessly, heading off through the pack as if the leaders were pulling his bike towards them.
‘Great tailwind,’ he said to Vasily Jawlensky who didn’t quite hear him but smiled warmly anyway. Vasily was cycling with his faithful domestique, Gianni Fugallo. Luca and Gianni knew each other well.
‘Stick with us,’ Gianni said as they approached the fourth-category climb Cote de Mouthoumet.
‘I’m not going anywhere,’ Luca replied.
‘You are,’ said Vasily, ‘you’re coming with us.’ The Russian suddenly powered away, flanked either side by Luca and Fugallo, his wheel taken by a Belgian rider called Tommy, an old friend of Vasily’s from a previous team. The four-man break spoke little, they worked together to read the wind and build a good distance from the bunch. Cross-winds had splintered the peloton into small fractions and organization to bring back the breakaway was tardy. Luca swept to the head of his little group feeling utterly invincible, consequently he was somewhat disappointed when Fugallo came alongside to take the brunt at the front. The motorbike scoreman rode up, brandishing the blackboard which proclaimed they had a 2 minute 12 second lead. It meant Vasily was now the yellow jersey on the road. The peloton behind was in disarray despite the wrath of Fabian Ducasse, the frustration of Jules Le Grand barking orders to his Vipers through their earpieces.
65 kilometres from the finish, with the medieval town of Narbonne a few kilometres off, Vasily Jawlensky sat up, appearing to stream backwards as the other three, momentarily unaware, kept the pace high. When they looked over their shoulders, he waved them on. His hands were off the handlebars, he was sitting upright, pedalling leisurely, eating a power bar, enjoying a drink. They stared at him. Now he wasn’t so much waving them on as shooing them away. Emphatically.
‘What the fuck is he doing?’ Luca asked incredulously. ‘He’s giving up the fucking yellow jersey.’
Fugallo, listening to his directeur through his earpiece, had tears in his eyes. ‘Vasily is doing it for me. He knows the pack will chase hard – our directeur says that Système Vipère are now setting the pace very strong. Vasily knows that it is him they want. He knows that the bunch don’t care about us as we pose no threat in the overall classification. Vasily is doing this for me – giving me a chance for a Stage victory.’
‘He’s
