Cat

They could be at a wedding, a ball, as much as the Tour de France. Do they actually realize where they are? I do. I couldn’t possibly eat – my stomach’s full of butterflies. God knows how the riders can eat – and yet they must.

Despite the opulence, variety and availability of all the hospitality, Cat took only a small nutty roll and a plastic cup of orange juice as she circumnavigated the village. She grinned at Channel 4’s Phil Liggett who had no idea who she was and she found the courage to say to his co-presenter Paul Sherwen, who also had no idea who she was, ‘I’m Cat McCabe – this is my first Tour.’ She glimpsed Josh with his notepad tucked under his arm so that he could hold a laden paper plate and plastic wine glass. She glanced at the roll from which she’d taken a few small nibbles and deposited it in a bin. Even the juice tasted too sharp to be pleasant and was no longer cool so she threw that away soon after. She was too excited to eat, too nervous to drink but too worried about missing a thing to phone home and recount her surroundings with glee. She checked her watch. Three hours to go.

Come on, come on – start!

Outside the hallowed area of the village, into which admittance was strictly by pass only and controlled by scrupulous sentries, the public was gathering along the Prologue route. The crowds were massive, holding flags that they’d wave frantically every now and then if any Tour vehicle should pass. Cat felt enormously privileged, being able to walk inside the snaking barriers, on the very surface that each of the 189 riders would soon be pedalling for position. Just then, she did not feel like a journaliste at all, merely an ardent admirer blessed with a pass and she felt extremely lucky. She would walk around for a while, soak up the atmosphere whilst noting specific details of the course. If she could infuse her article with her experience of the former, the details of the latter would surely interest her readers all the more.

‘I want to do eight thirty,’ Luca says to Ben. The doctor nods, just as he had for Travis, who wants to do eight thirty-two, and just as he did for Hunter, who wants to do eight twenty-seven.

‘You coming to watch?’ Luca asks. Ben hadn’t intended to but as both Hunter, Travis and two other members of the team had asked the same question, he has changed his mind.

‘Of course I’ll be there,’ he says to Luca, ‘just don’t make me scrape bits of you off the tarmac. Have a good ride. Go for your eight thirty but remember there’s tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow.’

‘Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,’ Luca says wistfully.

‘Fuck me!’ Ben exclaims, looking at Luca in genuine amazement. ‘You? Shakespeare?’

‘Fuck you,’ says Luca, frowning, ‘and I’ll tell you something for free, I’m not going at a creeping, petty pace. I’m going to ride for all I’m worth, race my heart out.’

Over an hour before the start, the colourful conga line of the 220 novelty vehicles in the publicity caravan was delighting the crowds, already six deep, with their flamboyance and freebies. The riders were arriving in their team buses and campers, parking en masse in the Place Victor Hugo. Bikes were held stationary on blocks and the riders were warming up, their fans gawping just inches away from their noses. Some riders stared fixedly at the frame of their machines, or their knuckles, or the ground, as they pedalled; others gazed, glazed, directly ahead, directly at some stranger without seeing them at all.

Cat caught sight of Alex chatting to a girl at the Zucca MV bus and walked over to see if chance might provide her with Massimo Lipari or Stefano Sassetta. Or even Vasily Jawlensky.

For a soundbite. OK, then, just for a glimpse!

She smiled quickly at Alex and the woman.

‘Cat, this is Rachel – the soigneur nine out of ten riders said they’d like to, er, have.’

This typical remark from Alex enabled Cat and Rachel immediately to share a look that shot heavenward and was followed by a conspiratorial smile apiece.

‘Cat McCabe,’ said Cat, holding out her hand.

‘Press?’ Rachel asked. Cat nodded. ‘First Tour?’ Rachel enquired. Cat nodded again, matching the girl’s smile with one of her own. ‘Me too,’ said Rachel. ‘Welcome.’

‘Thanks,’ said Cat. ‘It’s great to be here.’

She seems my type – I could have a good natter with her, but I’d better be a bit more journalisty.

‘How’s the team?’ Cat asked nonchalantly. Rachel looked over her shoulder to the closed door and blacked-out windows of the camper.

‘Tense,’ she said.

‘I’ll bet,’ Cat colluded. Massimo Lipari appeared and Cat had to ensure she did not break into a wild grin though a small smile crept out unannounced anyway.

‘Hey, Massimo,’ said Alex. The rider tipped his head in recognition, asking Alex, in Italian, how he was and Alex, in Italian, rabbiting away until he had achieved an obvious goal of making the rider chuckle. Rachel was gladly telling Cat about how she came by her job – she’d never had a journalist express interest in her career, she’d never actually talked directly to a female journalist – when Massimo tapped Rachel on the shoulder, stood for a moment before tapping her again, staring intently at Cat all the while.

‘Rachel, I need the jacket, yes, for here?’ he proffered his left elbow displaying a glistening and pretty grave graze acquired from a careless fall whilst training yesterday.

‘Jacket?’ Rachel asked, shooting a glance at Cat. ‘You mean the gauze tube? Excuse me,’ she said to Cat with an apologetic shrug, ‘it’s been nice talking. Pop by again some time, hey?’

‘Brilliant,’ Cat enthused. Massimo stared at her again. It was only when Rachel had turned from her and led the cyclist into the secret interior of the van that it struck Cat that Massimo had actually stared at her quite accusatorially.

And why shouldn’t he? I was hogging his soigneur. How awful of me.

Alex had disappeared. Josh was nowhere to be seen. Cat turned and decided that to walk around with purpose even if she hadn’t a clue what to do next, was a sensible option. Everywhere she looked, she now saw the faces and bodies of the men she had previously known only second-hand, behind the glass of a television, or two-dimensionally in print. Now they were surrounding her, life size, in the flesh, en masse. It was so overwhelming, she found herself unable to establish eye contact with any of them. In turning away from the awesome Mario Cipollini whom she could see from the corner of her eye, hands on hips and a vision in a red lycra skinsuit, she found herself by the Megapac vehicles. By concentrating on not catching sight of her best friends of yesterday – Hunter or Travis or Luca (whose eyes were in any case shut as he pedalled the course in his mind whilst his bike remained stationary on the blocks), her eyes went instead to someone else. Or were they pulled there? Or were they caught?

It’s that guy. The one who sat by Luca at the medical. Oh blimey, what a smile. Hey! I didn’t say that I could smile back.

The man stepped towards her and fingered her pass. ‘Hullo, Catriona McCabe,’ he said, ‘journaliste, the Guardian.’

‘I’m, er,’ she cleared her throat, ‘Cat.’

‘Are you now?’ he said. ‘I’m er doctor.’ Cat regarded him. He gave her an open smile.

‘I’m Ben. York. Hullo.’

Cat nodded rather enthusiastically because she had no idea what to say. She then smiled fleetingly but not directly at Ben York, sweeping it instead quickly and non-commitally over the riders, the Megapac vehicles, and Dr York’s shoes before nodding, biting her lip and moving away, rifling through the pages of her pad whilst chastizing herself silently.

He’s English. That’s nice.

It was gone three o’clock and she thanked God that it was. Cat made her way slowly to a vantage point near the starting ramp and gazed at Travis Stanton as he and his bike were held steady or, Cat felt, perhaps embraced, by a blue-blazered official. She watched another official count the rider down, she observed the rider’s face, the focus, the deep inhalation and exaggerated exhalation. The official’s fingers had finished the count and he sliced the air with his hand. Off. Go. The rider swept down and away towards a lonely, strenuous eight and a half minutes. Cat found that she was holding her breath and had her fingers crossed.

‘My legs. My heart. My mind. My soul.’

Hunter Dean chants the familiar phrase to himself as he pedals slowly through the mêlée around the team cars and on towards the starting ramp.

‘My legs. My heart. My mind. My soul.’

He spits. He is wearing his burgundy and green skinsuit and space-warrior style helmet.

‘I am aerodynamic. My legs. My heart. My mind. My soul.’

He spits again. He does not notice the crowds, nor does he hear them banging on the barriers, cheering. He does not listen to the fading, megaphone drone from a team car out on the course yelling ‘Allez! Allez! Allez!’ at the rider it is following. Hunter notices in a glance that his own team car is ready and he sees his name, printed on a board positioned above the front bumper. Dean.

‘Hunter Fucking Dean. Strong legs. Strong heart. Strong mind. Strong soul.’

He sweeps his bike through two controlled circles and ignores a fellow competitor leaving the ramp.

‘I am fit for this. I am prepared. I am built for this Time Trial. Legs to pump. Heart to pump. Mind steady. Soul ready.’

He takes his position, aware there is a man’s arm under his saddle, which presses lightly against his back.

‘Backbone – strength. Legs – stamina. Heart – power. Mind – focus. Soul – commitment. I am good. I am ready.’

The official is counting him down.

‘Open, lungs – fill. In. Out. Ready.’