him down,’ Gianni said. ‘You guys ready to work?’
‘Sure,’ said Luca, ‘and I’ll work for you – the Stage is yours in Vasily’s honour. Let’s hit it!’
Off they went, men with a mission, men riding on the legacy of a true champion.
‘Vasily does not want to take maillot jaune just yet,’ Fugallo reasoned, ‘too much pressure. He is only 53 seconds off Ducasse. The maillot is his for the taking whenever he so chooses.’
‘Let’s ride!’ Luca cried, heading off.
‘The bunch will subconsciously slow down when they’re retrieved him,’ Tommy judged.
‘Fuck, Luca, you’re on a roll!’ Fugallo marvelled. ‘What are you on?’
Luca shot him a look. ‘Passion,’ he said. ‘It’s legal, it’s effective, it’s safe, there are no side effects and the results are true.’
20 kilometres later, Gianni blew. Not a tyre but his legs. Having finished minutes ahead of Luca and Tommy in the previous two mountain Stages, after a week of hard work for Stefano Sassetta, the price of selflessness was unfortunately paid for by the body. Luca dropped back immediately, urging Gianni to dig as deep as he could to find a second spurt.
‘It’s no good,’ Gianni said magnaminously, ‘poor Vasily. But it’s no good. I’m hurting, I’m through. You guys go on. You take it. I don’t want to hold you back. The bunch are two minutes away. You’re wasting time on me. I’m spoiling it for you. Go, Luca. Tommy, go. Fuck off and go.’
Luca and Tommy were torn. They actively wanted Gianni to recover. They wanted to do justice to Vasily’s altruism, to bring to fruition the great Russian’s munificence.
‘Go,’ Gianni pleaded, ‘please. Another time. Another Tour.’
Luca and Tommy both put a hand on Gianni’s shoulders. And then they surged forwards again, without Gianni but on his wishes. However, at Beziers, with only 21 kilometres to go, Luca could sense Tommy was starting to flag.
‘Come on,’ he urged as the motorbike drew alongside and held up the blackboard which now said ‘1 minute 54’.
‘Go,’ Tommy commanded. ‘I can’t. You can.’
‘Please,’ Luca encouraged.
‘Think of your team,’ Tommy said. ‘You’re as strong as you were 50 k ago. Go for it. I’ve won a Stage in the Tour de France. I won’t win one today and that’s no reason for you not to.’
Luca looked at Tommy, bloodshot eyes, dried spittle at the corner of his mouth, his legs so tight they looked almost flayed.
‘You sure?’ Luca stressed.
‘Fucking go!’ Tommy yelled, his shoulders moving far too much.
All Luca had ever learnt from his trainers and managers, from listening to other riders, from watching miles of footage of pro cycling, surged through his blood and nourished his muscles. He went.
Don’t look over your shoulder. Keep your head down. Don’t even look ahead. You know the route profile off by heart because you studied it before you went to sleep.
Luca noted the red and white 10 kilometre banner.
Hug the side of the road, stay close to any fence or barrier, take any shelter from the wind, however minimal.
Luca could hear the crowds yelling for him. He picked out his name, time and again, from all the others painted in whitewash across the tarmac by the fans.
Jesus, I feel strong.
The motorbike pulled alongside. His lead was down to 1 minute 30.
I’m still 1 minute 30 ahead. I haven’t slowed down, they’ve picked it up, the fuckers. Let’s give the fans something other than a predictable sprint finish. Mama, this one’s for you.
Luca thought alternately of his mother, and of nothing but maintaining his momentum. His legs were stiffening, his arms were tired but his spirit was not phased by his lead diminishing. With 3 kilometres to go, he had just over a minute on the bunch. There was a taste in his mouth. Ambition. Victory. There was no way he was going to let anyone wrest this perfect moment from him. He thought of the great Miguel Indurain, he remembered Lance Armstrong, he recalled Vasily powering up the Col de Port yesterday.
They knew where to find that little extra. I need to access it right now.
He started to chant the names of past Tour giants. Merckx. Hinault. Indurain.
‘And Luca Fucking Jones!’
Merckx. Hinault. Indurain.
‘I don’t care to win the Tour de France five times. I just want to win today. On Stage 11. Tarascon-sur-Ariège to Le Cap D’Arp. 221 k.’
He passed under the final kilometre banner and the motorbike warned him 58 seconds. He ached across his shoulders. His throat was burning dry. He should have drunk more. There had been no time. His legs were hurting. His eyes were stinging. Mama.
And then just an atom of the combined gifts of Merckx, Hinault and Indurain seeped through into Luca’s soul and sent a current of strength through his knackered limbs. His legs did not feel so abominably sore. His arms were not insurmountably tired. Come on! Luca, ride for your life, take the Stage. Not just for your Mama, sitting at home with various family members all cheering and sobbing and clutching their hearts. Do it for everyone who knows you and all those who will know you ever after. Show them triumph over adversity. Become the personification of glory.
The crowds were roaring and thumping anything they could, including each other. Luca could see the finish. He allowed himself the briefest glance over his shoulder; the bunch were metres away. In a flash, he knew he was nearer to the line than they were to him. Near enough, moreover, for him to think not only of his Mama but of the TV cameras, the press photographers and his world-wide audience. Accordingly, he zipped up his Megapac jersey, clapped high above his head, punched the air, waved a double-handed victory salute, blew kisses to everyone and God, and gave his bike a final hurl towards the hallowed line. He crossed it 9 seconds ahead of the chasing sprint. Ultimately, he crossed it sitting up, not pedalling, his arms loose at his sides, his eyes closed, tears streaming, his smile ecstatic. The taste of tears. The taste of success. It was exquisitely beautiful. The greatest moment of his life.
I have won today. I am the Tour de France.
All journalists have not merely a favourite rider but one whom they feel they can appropriate as their own; whose career they always follow closely, whose triumphs they wax lyrical about, whose defeats they play down. It’s favouritism, it’s widespread and it’s allowed. For Cat, though mighty Miguel Indurain was her hero, Luca Jones had long been her special boy.
Cat had watched the last 10 kilometres of the race standing very close to one of the press TV sets. She winced at the welt of sunburn across the back of his neck. She noticed that he’d taken off his gloves, was transfixed by his hands, pale pink in contrast to his bronzed arms. She could practically count all the separate muscle groups in his legs. When Luca had only
