by Freya North
STAGE 2
Rouen-Vuillard. 260 kilometres
The next morning, the whole of Rouen awoke to the incessant thrumming of rain. Rachel was pleased – Stefano would be forced to be more vigilant. On the whole, the riders from the lowlands didn’t mind such weather, but those from southern Europe mostly hated it. For physiques attuned to long hot summers, the cold or the damp could infiltrate their bodies swiftly and disrupt the pursuit of prime form. Stefano Sassetta was only too aware that he was of the latter persuasion but that his arch rival Jesper Lomers was of the former. In kilometres, it was to be the longest Stage of the entire race. If the wind was north-easterly, as it had been, it would be three-quarters behind them and the day would be fast. Breakfasting with the team, Stefano theorized that he would ride carefully, commandeer a posse of domestiques throughout and ensure he had at least two leadout guys for the final sprint. His directeur nodded his approval and team orders were given. Rachel, who had snatched a bowl of cornflakes two hours previously, was now hauling the team’s luggage from foyer to van.
‘Want a hand?’ Ben York, standing amongst the Megapac baggage, asked her.
‘No, you’re all right, Ben,’ Rachel replied.
‘Only all right?’ Ben teased.
‘In your dreams,’ Rachel responded, knowing full well that she’d never been in Ben’s dreams because, for the cycling fraternity at large, her gender went unnoticed.
The rain did not deter the crowds. The city of Rouen, birthplace of the great Jacques Anquetil, the first man to win the Tour five times, appeared to have turned out in its entirety. Cat went to the village, to the press stand to shelter and see if yesterday’s Guardian was there. It was. Taverner hadn’t cut a word.
‘Good work.’
She turned. Josh, in an extremely colourful cagoule, was reading over her shoulder. ‘Alex has wangled a ride in the Vitalicio team car,’ he continued, ‘so it’s just you and me. Shall we drive the route or the itinéraire direct?’
Cat beamed. ‘Route, please.’
Josh regarded her. ‘We might be able to nip in behind a break if we’re lucky – we’ll have to leave at the first bell, though. See you by the car.’
Cat felt back on track, read great significance in to the fact that the rain had abated, flipped over to a clean page in her pad and left the village to be amongst the teams.
‘Morning, Dr York,’ she said as she passed by, without stopping, without really looking.
‘Miss McCabe,’ he responded, businesslike in tone but with a glint in his eye which went unnoticed.
‘Cat,’ she said over her shoulder.
‘Ben,’ he called after her.
Ahead, Rachel raised her hand at Cat who waved back. Rachel beckoned her over.
‘Hey, Rachel,’ Cat said warmly.
‘I have something for you, Cat,’ Rachel replied, ‘hold on.’ The soigneur went to her team car and ferreted around in the glove compartment, retrieved what looked like a small make-up bag and rummaged around the contents. ‘This,’ she said to Cat, ‘is a talisman – and I think it’s my duty to pass it on to you.’ She proffered a closed fist. Cat held out her hand. A pencil sharpener.
‘The lovely Emma O’Reilly – US Postal’s soigneur, I’ll introduce you – gave it to me at my first Vuelta,’ Rachel explained, as if that was enough. ‘Now I pass it on to you.’
‘Thanks,’ said Cat, trying to figure out the symbolism.
‘It’s for your elbows,’ Rachel whispered, chuckling conspiringly. ‘I saw you yesterday, getting knocked and shoved and more than ignored. Bastards. Make sure your elbows are sharp. At our height, we can give a most efficient jab at their waist-height.’
Cat laughed and thanked her sincerely, touched by the gesture.
‘Keep it with you at all times,’ Rachel said.
‘You bet I will,’ Cat replied.
‘I have two more things for you,’ Rachel continued, ‘my mobile phone number and also some advice.’
Cat jotted down the soigneur’s number. ‘We could meet after school,’ Rachel suggested wryly.
‘Yeah, right,’ Cat responded, giving Rachel her number, ‘have a quick drink after work.’
‘Like normal people,’ Rachel said, shaking her head at such absurdity.
‘As if!’ they said, almost in unison.
‘Now for the advice,’ Rachel said. ‘This is also from the wise mouth of Emma.’
‘Shoot,’ said Cat, pen poised, feeling bolstered that there was a girls’ club.
Rachel regarded Cat, twitched her lips into a sly smile and whispered, ‘Never answer your hotel door after midnight.’
Then she winked, turned her hand into a telephone, turned from Cat and gave her attention to Stefano Sassetta who wanted more embrocation on his thighs.
‘So,’ said Josh, almost as soon as they’d driven out of Rouen, ‘who’s holding the fort for you?’
At first, Cat thought he said fork and had no idea how to answer him.
‘Fork?’ she asked, glancing around the Peugeot hire car that seemed the height of luxury after her clapped-out Beetle.
‘Fort,’ said Josh. ‘This rain is bollocks.’
‘The forecast says bright and dry later. I don’t have a fort,’ Cat added, regarding herself in the side mirror, noticing she looked tired already, ‘just a small flat.’
‘Who’s—’ Josh began.
‘I live by myself,’ Cat preempted.
‘Who’s keeping the home fire burning?’ Josh probed, peering through the windscreen wipers swiping at full speed.
‘I have gas central heating,’ Cat replied primly, now knowing exactly what he was searching for and wanting to deflect further investigation as politely as she could.
‘Got a boyfriend, then?’ Josh asked her.
‘Yes,’ Cat proclaimed. ‘You?’ It was a fair question to put to a man with fine features and closely cropped hair, who marvelled at bike boys.
Josh, however, swerved. ‘I’m bloody married,’ he said defensively. Initially, his information pleased Cat, made her feel safe and relieved. Then it worried her.
Oh shit, is he coming on to me? I’d better ask about his wife. Thank God I lied about having a boyfriend.
‘How does your wife feel about you being away so much?’
Why the fuck did I say ‘Yes I have a boyfriend’?
‘That’s cycling,’ Josh shrugged.
‘Par for the course,’ Cat defined, ‘riders and writers and mechanics alike, hey? A life on the road. Presence of partners rare, discouraged even.’
‘Exactly,’ Josh replied. ‘How does your bloke feel about you being out here? Surrounded by menfolk away from their womenfolk?’
‘He’s not bothered,’ Cat said quickly, wondering quite what Josh was trying to ascertain, ‘he knows that consummate athletes have very low levels of testosterone.’
Josh roared with laughter. ‘Should have! We’re in cycling – the levels should be low but most of the peloton probably have pretty normal levels.’
‘Hmm,’ Cat acted, holding her finger to her lip in exaggerated contemplation, ‘how can that be? Can you imagine! If all that training depletes their testosterone level to that of a normal man – imagine their levels if they weren’t pro cyclists. Stallions!’
‘Oh my God,’ Josh feigned, ‘Cat McCabe, is that sarcasm? You wouldn’t be suggesting that their testosterone levels are unnaturally enhanced?’
‘Doping?’ Cat gasped theatrically. ‘In cycling?’
‘Where does medical care end and doping begin?’ Josh said with a serious edge. ‘Low testosterone can cause osteoporosis.’
‘Too true,’ Cat replied honestly, ‘let’s not talk about it.’
‘You sound like the UCI,’ said Josh accusatorially, referring to an accusation frequently levelled at cycling’s international governing body.
‘Doping is cheating,’ Cat defined, ‘but health is another matter altogether. How does the UCI set this arbitrary level? They’re sayi
ng that if the cyclists take stuff to boost their levels to within a hair’s breadth of the set line, it’s not doping. But they’re taking stuff – period.’
‘There’s the rub,’ Josh said, ‘let’s not talk about it.’
‘More banned substances than any other sport,’ Cat continued quietly, looking out of the window at wheatfields winking in the sudden sun after the rain, ‘and more dope controls too. Let’s not talk about it. Not today.’
‘Sure,’ Josh said, ‘because there’ll be many occasions when we will.’
‘Is it still rife?’ Cat asked.
‘Some do, some don’t,’ Josh said, ‘it’s difficult to quantify, what with sophisticated masking agents and the fateful turning of blind eyes – which I would rank as being more criminal than substance abuse itself.’
‘Let’s not talk about it,’ Cat said for him.
Don’t fall from grace, heroes mine. Don’t shatter my admiration. Or that of that lovely old boy by the roadside over there with his grandson, waving. Don’t bring shame on your beautiful sport. Don’t harm yourselves. Ride well. Ride from the heart, but use your heads.
They drove on, noting banal agricultural details of the route that would nevertheless add essential colour to their reports.
At least I’ve deflected attention away from my love life.
‘Anyway,’ Josh said, ‘before diving off on such an unsavoury tangent, I do believe we were talking about testosterone and your bloke.’
‘Who?’
‘Your boyfriend.’
No he’s not. Not any more. I don’t have a boyfriend. I’ve lied and I don’t know why and I don’t know how to get out of it.
Cat, you should say something. Your silence is too loaded. Josh might read into it; might think he’s in with a chance if that’s what he’s into.
‘Does he not mind you being in such a vastly male-dominated world?’
‘Oh,’ said Cat, noticing with great interest that the blue tone to the land had changed to lime green over the last few miles, ‘I can look after myself.’
Get yourself out of it – tell him ‘Actually, we just broke up’. Say ‘Sorry, Josh, I don’t know why I said that because, in truth, my boyfriend left me’.
Yes, but if I do, he’ll know I’m available. It will be hassle I don’t need and I’ll be judged on my sex first, my journalistic skill second.
Luckily for Cat, Josh was suddenly far more interested in the race report coming through on Radio Tour. ‘Did you hear that?’ he asked, turning up the volume. ‘Fabian Ducasse and the Viper boys are still at the front – I don’t know why they’re putting on pressure today.’
‘It’s probably like an army parading tanks and weaponry,’ said Cat. Josh agreed.
‘One six three,’ Josh said, quoting riders’ numbers off the radio, ‘thirty-one, seventy-five.’
Cat checked her list of riders. ‘Thirty-one is Cipo,’ she said, ‘seventy-five – Tom Steels. Hey! 163! Go Travis!’ she cheered for the victor of the first hot-spot sprint. With the memory still vivid of Hunter Dean’s wink, of her quote from Luca Jones, US Megapac had swiftly become her personal team.
‘Stanton’s good,’ Josh nodded, ‘maybe not quite a Stage winner but his riding’s already respected.’
‘Look at this road,’ Cat remarked. It ribboned out before them, seemingly for miles, straight and mostly flat.
‘Meaning?’ Josh tested.
Why are you still testing me, Josh?
Why not ask him?
No. I’ll just answer him. Obviously I still need to earn my wings.
‘Well, a road like this hardly encourages anyone to attack – it would be much ado about nothing. The pack would just watch such a rider peg off. He might manage around 45 kph but the bunch could stream after him at 60. Of course, there was that Stage where—’
‘Jesus!’ Josh whispered, his hand on the volume control. Cat concentrated hard.
‘Fuck!’ she exclaimed. Josh had been about to say the same.
‘Two-thirds of the bunch have gone down,’ he murmured.
‘Shit!’ said Cat and Josh in unison.
Gratitude to God spread through the sixth of the peloton ahead of the crash like a united whisper. Luca Jones, however, thanked Rudyard Kipling. Walt Disney, rather. The Jungle Book was still his favourite film (joint first with The Exorcist, followed closely by 9½ Weeks). He especially loved the scene where Kaa hypnotizes Baloo. He had been riding in the middle of the bunch when the magnetic pull of the nine Système Vipère riders leading the race had lured him through the pack. The Viper boys rode in a long sinewy formation, taking turns at the front to confront the headwind before peeling off to take a rest in the slipstream of the eight team-mates. Judging the wind like migratory birds flying long haul, they chevroned themselves across the road when the wind decreed it. It was textbook team riding. To ride in such formation brings a rhythmic security, even a certain vicarious peace. To observe a team working so adeptly is thrilling – for spectator, seasoned hack or fellow racer. And so it was for Luca Jones. With the ‘Bear Necessities’ song on his mind, his eyes were drawn to the snakes slithering around the lycra torsos of the accomplished team. His directeur would want to know what the fuck he was doing, taking chances at the front, especially after his tumble the previous day. Hunter and Travis would have liked him to have looked over his shoulder to locate them. What if they needed him? But Luca was fixated on Système Vipère. For a few miles, he eschewed his Megapac colours and imagined himself to be a Viper Boy, a member of the highest-ranked team in the world. He did not feel a traitor to Megapac but an honoured young citizen of the peloton. The fantasy not only sustained him on the long, arduous Stage, it kept him out of danger too.
‘How on earth does one relate the drama of six hours, twenty-four minutes and sixteen seconds in only 500 words?’ Cat complained, mainly to herself but loud enough to amuse Alex and touch Josh.
‘Practice,’ Alex defined.
‘Passion,’ Josh added.
COPY FOR P. TAVERNER @ GUARDIAN SPORTS DESK FROM CATRIONA McCABE IN VUILLARD
Chris Boardman gladly relinquished his yellow jersey today. On a day when crashes made nightmares of the dreams of a handful of key riders in the Tour de France, Jesper Lomers won the 260 km second Stage from Rouen to Vuillard and took the yellow jersey. ‘He’s welcome to it,’ Boardman said. ‘Sprint mayhem and mass pile-ups? I’d rather make it to Paris in one piece.’ With the long straight roads which dominated the Stage discouraging lone attacks, the peloton surged forward together at a high speed, riders occasionally going for a sortie at the front merely to give their fresh legs a stretch and their sponsors a few metres’ exposure before slipping back to the pack. A touch of brakes can cost a rider up to twenty places, but to keep off the brakes keeps the pace fast and dangerous. As the peloton journeyed from Rouen through the Eure to Calvados, a consistent north-easterly wind propelled the bunch even faster and Lomers won a clean sprint to take the Stage in 6 hours, 24 minutes and 16 seconds. Consuming two out of the three intermediary sprint bonuses, Cipollini retains the green jersey on points, today resplendent in matching shorts.
For five riders, the Tour de France ended way before the Stage finish in the heart of Basse-Normande. Jalabert and Olano most notable among them, retired gracefully. Pietro Calcaterra, an esteemed domestique for Zucca MV and key lead-out man for Stefano Sassetta, was scraped off the road and helped back to his team car, too devastated to cry. He had landed heavily on a knee already bandaged from his collision with Kelme’s Fernando Escartin yesterday. ‘Though the pain from his knee must be excruciating, it doesn’t even register against the agony he feels at the termination of his race,’ said Rachel McEwen, his soigneur.
Lomers’s victory is a popular one. Though the crowds love Stefano Sassetta for his flamboyance, it wins him few friends in the peloton. Jesper Lomers, universally respected, may find that his triumph today is redefined by Sassetta as a veritable gauntlet. Demoted yesterday for dangerous riding
and held up today by the crashes, Sassetta will be tasting blood tomorrow; primed, charged and desperate for a good ride.
‘Brilliant!’ Cat says quietly to herself, stretching her fingers out and glancing around the salle de pressé, the majority with heads down, cigarettes hanging from lips, fingers scooting in organized chaos across keyboards. ‘I’m pretty pleased with that. I had a good day. I hope Rachel likes her soundbite. Oh God, poor Pietro Calcaterra.’
Poor Pietro Calcaterra indeed. But his girlfriend was waiting for him at the team hotel. Her tenderness dressed his injuries far more curatively than the stitches from the Zucca MV doctor; her support settled his psyche much more quickly than his meeting with his directeur; her embrace was infinitely more soothing than Rachel’s massage.
Poor Jesper Lomers, therefore. On paper, as all the journalists were busy lauding, Jesper won not just the Stage but the yellow jersey too. However, though he has a wife, she is not here. Nor was she at home. She had left no message on his mobile phone. Jesper craved her congratulatory embrace but he had to settle for his directeur’s praise, his team’s delight, the deluge of attention from the media. Though Jules Le Grand did not particularly like Anya Lomers, banned mere girlfriends of riders from the Tour and actively disapproved of the presence of wives during the race, today he would have welcomed her. The key sprinter of his Système Vipère team should be euphoric, buoyed by his victory and hungry to keep the maillot jaune for the team. Instead, Jules observed him at the team supper looking detached.
If I offered him the maillot jaune in one hand, Jules contemplated, his wife in the other, I fear I know which he’d choose. Wives are more disruptive, more harmful to my Viper Boys than the crashes. They can cause my riders more pain, more suffering, than back-to-back mountain Stages.
‘Women!’ he hissed with venom under his breath.
Fabian Ducasse heard him. Women indeed! he smirked to himself. I am Ducasse. I am a national hero. I can have any woman I want.
Système Vipère are having supper when Cat gathers her laptop and cables and goes to send her article down the line.
