LITMIR.BIZ

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of limbs and spokes. Gradually, the riders extricated themselves, retrieving their arms and legs from the knot of others, picking themselves up, sorting out their injuries and their bikes; spinning wheels, rubbing muscles, changing tyres. Most were remounted, pedalling off with a helpful running shove from their team mechanics or neutral service men. Two riders remained down. A Système Vipère rider was one of them, the snake encircling his body staring blankly at the TV cameras.

      ‘Ducasse!’ the murmur went round the salle de pressé.

      ‘Fabian!’ Cat exclaimed in horror.

       Merde. I have to get up. I don’t want to eat tarmac. It tastes like shit. I must finish in the first group – as I have every day. I don’t want to lose a second before the Time Trial. It will make no difference if I do, but it would piss me off. I want my margin in the Time Trial to set the tone for the rest of the race. That is why I have ridden quietly this week, I have made no noise yet still I am up there, top ten. The day after tomorrow, I will take the lead. My body is so strong now, ready to Time Trial, eager to climb, fit to take me to the podium in Paris. So, Fabian, up you get. Carefully.

      ‘Ça va?’ the race doctor asks the rider, helping him to his feet. Ducasse looks himself over, straightens himself. Ça va? That’s a good question. How does he feel? Not broken but, having been hurled on to tarmac at 42 kph, somewhat winded all the same. But broken? Injured? No. At least, not enough not to go on. Jules Le Grand is at Fabian’s side, not saying anything, just standing tall in nubuck loafers the colour of Fabian’s bronzed legs. The directeur’s mind is racing – much faster, much harder than hitherto any of his riders have. And yet, there is nothing he can say or do – only Ducasse’s body can dictate what will happen next. It is one of the few things over which the directeur sportif of Système Vipère has absolutely no control.

      ‘Vélo?’ Ducasse says quietly at last, contemplating the somewhat mangled remains of his bike lying some metres away. Freddy Verdonk, who did not fall but has hung back to remain with his leader, pushes his own bike forward. Freddy rides anyway not at his measurements but at those of his leader so that he can be on standby for an occasion like this when it is quicker for Ducasse to change on to his faithful domestique’s bike. Verdonk can wait for his mechanic to bring a replacement. Patience and humility, rare in a team leader, being the defining qualities of the domestique.

      The salle de pressé watch in hushed anticipation as Fabian Ducasse remounts. The race doctor is now looking him over, somewhat cursorily, as if Ducasse is a car that has been merely pranged. The wadge of gauze taped to the side of Ducasse’s knee will last the Stage through. This evening, the wound can be looked at more thoroughly. There is no reason why Ducasse shouldn’t carry on. Nothing is broken, not least his spirit. Jules Le Grand places his hand on Ducasse’s lower back and runs, pushing the rider for a few metres. Verdonk is given no helping hand; that’s OK, he doesn’t need it, he is the helping hand. Cat and the journalists watch in hushed reverence as Ducasse and Verdonk make their way through the convoy of team cars, past a posse of riders at the back, up and through a string of stragglers hanging like a tail to the back of the main bunch. Système Vipère are back in the race. Ducasse has lost no time at all; moreover he has gained publicity, popularity and respect. People will want to watch for him tomorrow, every day, a force to be reckoned with; they’ll be looking out for him, wishing him success. Hero.

      The cameras pan back. The other rider is still on the tarmac, sitting up, hunched, head in hands. The woman from San Diego finally presses the shutter on her camera.

      ‘I got Bobby J!’ she says delighted to her husband. ‘That’s cool – I got Bobby J!’

      In more ways than one.

      Bobby Julich tries to stand. He manages it but he cannot walk. He is out of the race. His Tour stops here, but not his reputation. A battle-broken body leaves his heroism intact. There’s next year.

      On the other side of the road, the cameras focus momentarily on two figures. One is an old farmer standing very still, clasping his cloth cap to his heart. The other is a young boy standing by his small, basic bike, holding on to the handlebars hard. His mouth is open, his eyes are huge. When I grow up, I will cycle the Tour de France. I will be that brave. I will be a hero.

      It was just one more crash in the Tour de France but for Cat, the image of Ducasse fallen and then up and away, of Julich down and then stretchered away, lay resonant in her mind’s eye constantly. If the Stage had been as exciting, as traumatic, as exhausting for a mere journalist to experience, how can it have been for the riders? The atmosphere in the salle de pressé was thick and intense. It was also too hot, and somewhat odoriferous. Too many men with a dwindling awareness of personal hygiene, a slackening interest in the merits of laundry, an increasing appetite for nicotine and, Cat detected, for garlic sausages.

      ‘I need some air,’ she told Alex and Josh, ‘coming?’

      ‘Bring us a Coke, will you?’ Alex asked.

      ‘Just Evian for me,’ said Josh, eyeing up the line of empty cans in front of him.

      It was still incredibly hot. Inland now, and with very little breeze, the peloton were currently racing in 30 degrees. Having been seated herself for almost three hours, Cat was stiff and sticky. Walking slowly amongst the trees, she chose a sturdy old trunk to lean her hands against, stretching out first her right leg then her left behind her. Then she picked up each foot in turn to hold against her bottom, giving the fronts of her thighs a good stretch. She put her hands on her hips and rolled her head very slowly about her neck. She reached up high above her head with arms extended, relishing the feeling of release from the pull on her waist. She swooped her arms down in an arc, holding them out horizontally at shoulder height before clasping them behind her back and pulling upwards. She held her pose and breathed deeply, her eyes closed.

      ‘Fantastic tits, Catriona McCabe,’ said Ben York desirously, feeling the objects of his adulation gently and swiftly before Cat could open her eyes in amazement. She grabbed her breasts protectively, glanced around aghast for fear of witnesses, and had no idea how to respond.

      ‘Cat,’ she corrected, indignantly.

      Ben held her face and kissed her lips, flicking his tongue tip over them before standing back and grinning at her broadly.

      ‘Ready to play?’ Ben asked. Cat shook her head solemnly. Ben regarded his watch and then raised an eyebrow. ‘I’d timetabled you in,’ he said, ‘my only free slot, young girl.’

      ‘I haven’t finished my work yet,’ Cat apologized, ‘old boy.’

      ‘Fresh air and a banana,’ Ben proclaimed, ‘brain food – mark my words.’

      ‘Trust me, I’m a doctor?’ Cat cajoled. Ben acquiesced with a tilt of his head. ‘Well, here’s the fresh air,’ Cat continued, ‘and I’ll grab a banana from the buffet. Promise.’

      ‘Let’s go and sit somewhere,’ Ben suggested, his hand lightly at the small of Cat’s back, guiding her through the park, down a deserted narrow side-street and to a small tabac on the corner with just two tables outside.

      ‘How much caffeine have you had today?’ Ben asked. Subconsciously, Cat pulled her bottom lip through her top teeth as she thought. When it sprung out, Ben’s mouth was there. He bit her bottom lip and then sucked it quickly. His eyes open, observing that hers were closed. Cat had to sit down.

      ‘Five,’ she said at length.

      ‘Five?’ Ben asked. ‘Out of five? Out of ten – are you grading my osculation?’

      ‘Coffees,’ Cat explained, licking her lips to lap up the taste of him.

       Your kissing is way off any scale I know.

      ‘You’re on the Tour de France,’ Ben said gravely, ‘you’re over the caffeine limit.’ He ordered two citron pressés. ‘Had a good day?’ he asked.

      ‘No,’ said Cat forlornly, ‘poor Fabian, poor Bobby.’

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