LITMIR.BIZ

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he stared at the vision of Santa Claus in the mirror. He bared his teeth, observing that they did not appear unduly yellow next to the shaving foam.

      Hunter is so focused, he feels so much for the team, for the sponsors and his belief in himself is immense. Good. Great. But we’ve only had three days of racing. I can’t have him burn out. He’s a potentially brilliant all-rounder. He can delve into all the disciplines of pro cycling and come up with results. But I don’t want him riding like a sprinter. Or anywhere near them really. I’ll talk to the directeur. Maybe his soigneur too. I’ll talk to his girlfriend. Maybe I ought to talk to him. I’ll go down to the start today.

      Looking out through the curtains, Ben saw clear skies and a breeze that gave the impression that the trees were breathing gently. He dressed in shorts, slipped bare feet into docksiders, wrapped a sweatshirt around his waist and headed out for the village.

       I’ll breakfast there. The company is usually good.

      ‘Hey, Alex.’

      ‘Morning, Josh.’

      At a rickety table in the breakfast-room of their hotel, which was really a glorified pension without the nice personal touches, the men rubbed bleary eyes and bemoaned the stream of beer which had found its flow down their gullets the previous night.

      ‘Have you seen Cat?’ Josh asked, picking up a croissant, scrutinizing it from various angles, before forsaking it in favour of a second cup of black coffee. Alex, who had a mouth full of croissant and lips coated with crumbs, shook his head.

      ‘Nah – not since she left the salle de pressé yesterday.’

      ‘Talking of the devil,’ Josh said, ‘morning, Cat.’

      ‘Morning,’ said Cat.

      ‘Have some breakfast,’ Alex said, offering her a croissant in his fingers and munching on it himself when she refused.

      ‘Coffee?’ Josh offered, pouring himself a third cup when she declined.

      ‘I’ll see you at the village,’ Cat said. ‘Are we going avant or arrière?’

      ‘Who’s driving?’ Josh asked.

      ‘I’m probably still over the limit,’ Alex said with a certain pride. Josh looked beseechingly at Cat.

      ‘I don’t mind,’ Cat said, ‘the route is pretty straightforward – shall we follow it?’

      ‘Avant!’ Alex proclaimed, like an army general.

      ‘Can you load my stuff if I leave it in reception? I’m going to stroll over now,’ said Cat, ‘we’ll meet by the Maison du Café stand at the second bell.’

      ‘Sure,’ said Josh.

      ‘Yes, ma’am,’ said Alex, saluting and burping simultaneously.

      ‘Is she all right?’ Josh asks Alex, glancing at Cat disappearing from view, thinking how this morning she looks somewhat deflated.

      ‘Huh?’ Alex responds, turning to scour the space she has left.

      ‘She’s all right,’ Josh declares.

      ‘Then why are you asking?’ Alex retorts.

      ‘I mean,’ Josh says, ‘I was sceptical initially but actually I rate her – her writing’s good and her knowledge is sound.’

      ‘I must admit,’ Alex nods, drinking the juice set for Cat, ‘I agree. She’s one of us – but with great tits. Which is refreshing.’

      ‘God, you’re a twat,’ Josh laughs.

      ‘Street cred for us in the salle de pressé,’ Alex shrugs. ‘I’ve seen the L’Equipe hacks regard us approvingly.’

      ‘We must remember that this is her first Tour,’ Josh reasons, ‘and that she’s a girl.’

      Alex winces and tuts theatrically. ‘You sexist sod, you!’

      Josh is serious. ‘Fuck off. She is one of us but she is not one of us. I mean – she is a girl. And she is a novice. We must remember that and we should respect it. But don’t you think she seems a bit – I don’t know how you’d call the condition – quiet?’

      ‘Maybe,’ says Alex, reaching for the remainder of Josh’s croissant.

      ‘Hey, Hunter,’ said Ben, laying a hand on the rider’s shoulder.

      ‘Yo,’ Hunter replied. The rider was sitting on the steps of the Megapac van in a picturesque green, plotted and pieced by birch trees – near the start line. Just one rider from the group of 184 wondering how his day would pan out and how much control he could ultimately exact on the outcome.

      ‘You have a nice mention here,’ Ben said, holding up the Guardian.

      ‘What is that?’ Hunter asked.

      ‘A newspaper?’ Ben cajoled before answering honestly, ‘It’s British. Listen up. If Dean’s passion can be maintained even if the mountains mangle his muscles, he might well shine in one of the final Stages of la Grande Boucle. She terms your ride yesterday “heart-rending”.’

      ‘Who the fuck is “she”?’ Hunter asked.

      ‘The journalist – the British one.’

      ‘Oh sure, right,’ Hunter nodded, ‘Luca’s one.’

      ‘Luca’s?’ Ben asked quizzically.

      ‘Sure,’ Hunter shrugged, ‘he feels like she’s his – saves up his best quotes for her. I was in his room yesterday. He put on aftershave after dinner even though he hadn’t shaved. And clean track pants. Said he’d invited her for a soundbite.

      ‘And?’ Ben enquired.

      ‘She didn’t show,’ Hunter said. ‘Hey, let me read that.’ He scanned the article quickly, then folded the paper angrily and thrust it back at Ben. ‘I’m not waiting till after the fucking mountains to go for it.’

      ‘Hunter,’ said Ben sternly, ‘that’s the point – if you go for broke now, you’ll bonk – you’ll hit the wall – you’ll break. This first week is for sprinters, some of whom won’t even make it half-way up the first hill – you know that. Be consistent. You’re a rouleur. You’re team captain. Why else would the bunch insist on chasing you down? Your strength is known – you’re a rider to be reckoned with. And you’ve got to get yourself and the boys to Paris. What sort of example are you setting the likes of Luca, Travis even, if you don’t?’

      Hunter regarded his legs, smooth, hard, glistening, and glanced across to Ben’s which looked unnaturally hirsute in comparison. It made him remember who he was and where he was and his function here, his purpose, his gift, his aim in life. He looked up at Ben and rose. ‘Sure thing, Doc. You’re right. I’ll ride as I should. I’ll lead the guys home.’

      Hunter Dean, Ben marvelled as he tweaked the peak of the rider’s logoed baseball cap, when you hang up your pedals you can slip straight into Congress. Or Hollywood. You’re a star.

      Ben went in search of Didier LeDucq. Luca said he’d seen him heading off towards the toilets. Luca looked at his feet. Then Luca told the doctor he’d heard the French rider throwing up before breakfast. Then he looked down at the doctor’s feet. When his doctor ventured off to track down his ailing equipeur, Luca winced.

      If I felt shit, but I wanted to race, would I want my doctor to know? If I felt shit but I wanted to race, would I tell my team-mates? If I’d thrown up and chosen not to tell my teammates, would I want them to dob me to the doctor behind my back? Fuck me. I’m a jerk. I’ll go find Didier – before Ben. Oh. But not before I have a quick chat with my journaliste.

      ‘Gatto!’

      Cat

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