by Freya North
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.
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 a fucking hero,’ Luca yelled and Tommy nodded vigorously.
‘Let’s not let 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 t
o 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 700 metres to go she started jumping up and down. As he crossed the line, she leapt high into the air and cheered and squealed.
‘Luca!’
She kissed the person closest to her, which happened to be Josh, whispered, ‘Luca’s done it!’ and ran with the pack from the gymnasium requisitioned by the salle de pressé. Luca, of course, was swamped by a mass of men but she hugged Hunter, cycling to his soigneur hot, wet and ecstatic himself. Then she bounced on tiptoes at the edge of the swarm around Luca before skipping off merrily towards she didn’t know where. Just skipping. High. Delighted. Skipping towards – ah! The team cars.
She slowed her pace to a reverential walk as she neared the Zucca MV bus. Rachel was wiping down Vasily’s legs with a green flannel.
‘Thank you,’ Cat said, bowing her head at the rider. ‘How is Gianni?’ she asked Rachel.
‘He’s OK,’ Rachel nodded, ‘he’s OK. Exhausted. But he can rest a little tomorrow.’
‘Tell him he’s an absolute star,’ Cat said.
‘Ms McCabe,’ said Rachel, stepping away from Vasily and tipping Evian water on to the flannel, ‘have you done your work?’
‘Taverner says I can only have 400 words,’ Cat rued.
‘I meant,’ said Rachel, ‘your work. Ben? Josh? He Who No Longer Exists?’
‘Almost,’ Cat said, imploring her friend not to give her a hard time at such a joyous moment. Rachel raised her eyebrows. ‘Imminently,’ Cat promised. Rachel allowed her eyebrows back down. Cat walked away but within a few yards she was jigging triumphantly again. She practically collided with Fabian Ducasse talking with Jules Le Grand, but she gave them only a cursory ‘Pardon’; for her, Luca Jones might have been 42 minutes behind the yellow jersey in the overall classification but he was the true hero of the Tour de France that day.
Team cars were already whisking riders to their hotels, though the Megapac entourage was besieged by press men and TV crews. Cat changed direction and went to the podium instead, beaming and applauding extravagantly when Luca took to the dais to claim his fame, his trophy, his kisses from the Coca-Cola girls and adulation from the crowds.
Kiss him again, Cat implored them, whilst whistling hard through her thumb and little finger (a skill painstakingly learnt aged nine from Django and put to use only on the most special occasions).
Kiss him some more, he’ll like that and he deserves it.
She left for the salle de pressé while Fabian received his fifth yellow jersey of the Tour and his fifth Crédit Lyonnais toy lion and his fifth round of kisses from the sleek Crédit Lyonnais podium girls.
And then she saw Ben from behind and she felt her body swoon at the sight of him; his shoulders, the backs of his ears, his bottom, his walk. And she forgot about resolutely not phoning him last night, she forgot that she had decided he was not a very good idea, she forgot that she had work to do, she forgot that Rachel had told her she had work to do, she forgot Rachel, and Josh, and Him. She jogged to Ben, put her arms around his waist and spun herself around him as if he was a maypole. She threw her arms around his neck, kissed
him clumsily and then proclaimed, ‘He did it! He did it!’ to Ben’s startled expression.
Only Ben’s startled expression did not abate, in fact it transmuted into one of polite irritation which Cat misread immediately.
‘He did it,’ Cat said earnestly, should Ben have missed her point. ‘Luca did it.’
Ben smiled and walked on, with Cat inviting herself to accompany him. She jabbered nineteen to the dozen, mainly analysing the race, until they reached the salle de pressé.
‘Can I see you later?’ she asked, a twinkle in her eye reflecting the sparkle of her intent, merely a glint of the shine that enveloped her.
‘I don’t think so,’ Ben said. Cat jerked. ‘It’s a bit –’ Ben continued, his hands churning the air in front of him for want of words, ‘it’s just – well.’ Cat’s focus was on him entirely but the only response she could give was via the immediate disappearance of her sparkle which Ben could not see as he was studiously not looking at her. ‘It’s a bit too complicated, wouldn’t you say?’ he said, though Cat was too dazed to detect the patronizing edge to his voice.
‘No!’ she whispered, ‘you don’t understand – I need to talk to you.’
‘Oh,’ said Ben nonchalantly, ‘actually I do understand. But it’s cool. It’s fine. Don’t worry about it.’
‘No,’ Cat said, ‘you don’t understand.’ Ben’s reply was a raised eyebrow; his aloof expression rendering him at once so unobtainable, and yet attracting Cat to him all the more, hopelessly, helplessly.
‘Listen,’ he said, ‘I have to shoot – we’ll have a drink some time. No hard feelings.’
As he walked away from her, as she found her legs taking her to her occupation, both of them touched upon the irony of hard feelings. Feelings had of course been there, over and above the physical evidence that Cat had aroused Ben to a level no woman had for ages; that Cat herself had not been made love to for a long, long time by a man so hard for her.
