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Zucca MV’s Vasily Jawlensky, last year’s yellow jersey and riding now with Number 1 on his back, had been awake, steeling himself for the day ahead, for hours before Cat arrived at the salle de pressé as soon as it opened. He had reviewed the Prologue Time Trial course again and again before retiring last night; had ridden it in his sleep and awoke with his legs twitching. Lying awake, yearning for dawn, he pelted the course in his mind’s eye, waiting for it to be light enough, for the roads to be closed to traffic, so that he could be on his bike analysing the route and his form for real. Resting his long limbs on top of the bedcovers, his hands clasped behind his head, he contemplated the day ahead. He knew well how all eyes would be on him and yet his sole focus would be on the tarmac unfurling ahead of his front wheel. Vasily is one of the sport’s great heroes. However, unlike Massimo or Stefano, the fair, blue-eyed Russian projects no secondary image as pop star or superhunk. Nobody really knows Vasily. His fame comes solely from the genius of his riding. Everybody wants to know him because he is such an enigma. A courteous yet non-committal character. Statuesque. As silent as a sculpture. As beautiful as one too. It’s a challenge that journalists and groupies, even his team-mates, relish; to get blood from a stone. That scar slicing his cheek – how did he come by it? No one has been able to find out. Did the sculptor’s chisel slip? Is it the only scar he carries? Are there any inside? His heart is huge, twice the size of a normal man of his build. It can pump at almost 200 bpm. It rests at an awesomely relaxed pace. Is that all it does? Is that all he commands it to do? Does it carry anything other than oxygenated blood? Memories? Hurt? Passion? Who knows? Who can find out?

As Cat begins planning her article, Vasily’s Zucca MV equipeur Stefano Sassetta is yawning leisurely, deciding to rise in a short while and ride the course once or twice. He shaved last night and is somewhat appalled that razor rash on his right leg sullies the sculptural beauty of his famous thighs. Massimo Lipari is singing in the shower. Their soigneur Rachel has already mixed the energy drinks, thrown out a box of energy bars a day off their sell-by date and prepared the panini – scooping out the centres of sweet rolls and packing in honey and jam.

The Megapac guys are breakfasting as a team, squashed around a long table, interrupting mouthfuls of pasta with the occasional ‘yo!’ and high five. Luca is positively hyper, Hunter is focused, Travis contemplative.

At the Système Vipère hotel, Jules Le Grand is having to recharge his mobile phone already. Jesper Lomers has phoned home but found no answer. Anya must be on her way to Delaunay Le Beau. He hopes. Fabian Ducasse is staring at himself in the bathroom mirror, giving himself a pep talk concluding with a quiet, prolonged chant proclaiming himself invincible. His brow is dark, his excessively fit heart is thumping its extraordinary resting pace of 30 bpm. To Fabian, it is like a portentous, growing drum roll. In the depth of his soul and absolutely out of earshot of the salle de pressé, he ranks Chris Boardman’s chances more than his own but he knows that public consensus fancies his adversary Vasily Jawlensky over Boardman. What can he do about it? He does not want the man who wore yellow in Paris last year to begin the race in yellow again tomorrow, but what can he do about it?

Fabian joins the rest of Système Vipère, along with many other teams, to ride the Prologue course, to learn the corners, the cobbles, the drag in the middle off by heart. He is focused and tense and his team know to give him a wide berth. He has sworn at the domestiques and he has snapped at his soigneur. He has said not a word to Jules Le Grand, even ignoring his directeur’s morning salutation.

Tour personnel are checking the barriers, hanging banners and liaising via walkie-talkies. They hardly notice the riders warming up. Spectators have already started to mill about, gazing almost in disbelief as riders zip by. The circus has come to town. This year’s Tour de France will soon be under way.

Jules Le Grand’s mobile phone lives again. He is wearing new shoes today, exquisite Hermes loafers. He has opened a new bottle of aftershave even though he has a bottle three-quarters full.

‘Everything starts again. Today is the first day of this year’s Tour de France and our lives begin anew. There is no continuation with last year’s race. No link. We start afresh. Jawlensky taking yellow last year is now history, I see it as a gauntlet he threw to us last year. We accept. We take it. Jawlensky can only defend what he took last year. It is us who attack. We are the aggressors. We are ready to duel. He should be afraid. En garde.’

Jules regrets the fact that it is only to himself, to his reflection in the team car’s rear-view mirror, that he has just spoken.

‘L’Equipe would have loved that. Never mind, I can regurgitate it at will for the salle de pressé and I shall be sure to do so later on.’

COPY FOR P. TAVERNER @ GUARDIAN SPORTS DESK FROM CATRIONA McCABE IN DELAUNAY LE BEAU

The Prologue Time Trial, the inauguration, the thrilling fly-past, of this year’s Tour de France will take each of the 189 riders in turn 7.3 km around the pretty town of Delaunay Le Beau, hosting the race for the first time (check with Alex or Josh how much tourist blurb is the norm). Today’s distance, from the total of over 3,500 km, might seem insignificant but with no great time gaps achievable, a rider’s placing today can have a psychological bearing on himself and his competitors. Prologues are won and lost in fractions of seconds so the riders must race on the rivet. They are set to race at an average of 51 kph to complete the challenge in around 8½ minutes (check with Josh), confronting a couple of taxing corners (two or three – check), dealing with a drag quite soon after the start, a stretch of cobbles half-way and then a 400 m straight run to the end. Whether Vasily Jawlensky wins today or not, the pressure will be firmly on his back regardless of the colour of jersey he will wear tomorrow for Le Grand Départ.

‘I really can’t do any more,’ Cat decides, after reading her paragraph, ‘not until it’s all over.’ She lays her hand on her diaphragm. She is brimming with adrenalin. How on earth must the boys feel?

Her Tour de France is about to start, her sense of anticipation is as much for her own race as for the riders for whom she feels so much.

None of us can do more just now – it’s a waiting game. First rider on the course in just under four hours’ time. Vasily goes last at 18.33. How on earth can they be feeling?

‘Coming to the village?’ says Josh.

‘Sure,’ says Cat.

Josh had to contend with Cat stopping still every now and then to focus on riders warming up along the circuit.

‘You’ve got three weeks of them,’ he said, over his shoulder as Cat focused on Bobby Julich until he was round a corner and out of sight, ‘you’ll be sick of the sight by the end of it.’ He laughed, knowing that she wouldn’t, nor would he, or any of the entourage of the Tour de France. ‘In truth, Cat,’ he said surreptitiously, ‘we’re a bunch of frauds. First and foremost, we’re fans. This isn’t a job, it’s pleasure for which we’re paid.’

‘Jalabert!’ Cat, giving immediate flesh to Josh’s theory, gasped and clapped as the legendary French cyclist zipped past them. ‘Allez, JaJa!’

If Cat had been surprised by the lavish buffet provided for her and the other journalists at the ice rink, the village had her positively gobsmacked. The large courtyard at the Hôtel de Ville, through which she had walked last night to the team presentation, was now plotted and pieced by a vast array of marquees, canopies and awnings, each commandeered by a sponsor and bedecked with an array of refreshments, brochures and promotional merchandise. The air was perfumed with the smell of coffee, of meat, of wine and cheese. There was an entire suckling pig gracing a table on which cold cuts from surely a whole herd of suckling pigs were laid artistically amidst a tapestry of fruit. Further on, an enormous omelette pan was being put to great use by three moustachioed chefs. Tables heaved under huge cartwheels of soft cheese amidst forests of baguette, counters groaned under the weight of local wines and liqueurs and all the Coca-Cola in the world seemed to be available right there. Everywhere Cat looked, people were eating and drinking.

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.’

Away. Allez.

‘Corner. On. On. Go go go. Corner. Done. Propel me, legs. Drive me, back. Cobbles. Take them. Take them. On. On.’

Hunter is riding well. He is surrounded by noise, but that of the ecstatic crowd is but a sub layer deep in the recesses of his awareness. What he hears is his breathing. As he sweeps the wide arc which takes him to the finishing straight, he does not listen to the growing clangour of the spectators thumping the barriers, he hears instead the pounding of his heart banging in his chest and in his mouth and in his stomach, flat out.

‘Legs. Legs. Legs. Eight twenty-seven. Eight twenty-seven. Come on, you fucker, go.’

Hunter is out of the saddle, stamping down hard, making a great sprint of his final metres. His head is down as he thrusts forward for the line, then it is up and over his shoulder immediately, to clock the time.

Eight minutes, twenty-seven point six eight seconds.

‘Point six eight. Shit.’

Django McCabe took three plain chocolate digestive biscuits and carefully swiped a lick of Marmite over the chocolate sides. He steeped three tea-bags in a small teapot, added three spoonfuls of sugar to the inch of milk in the china cup, selected a non-matching but china saucer and put everything on a tray. He went into the Quiet Room and turned it into the Family Room merely by way of flicking on the television set. He selected Channel 4, muted the volume on the closing scenes of Brookside and made to telephone both his nieces, sipping tea but saving the biscuits until later.

‘Fen, darling, Django here – are you switched on? The bike race is starting in five minutes or so.’

‘God, I almost forgot,’ said Fen, untying and then rebunching her pony-tail two or three times, the telephone receiver tucked under her chin. ‘Does Pip know?’

‘Isn’t she with you?’ Django enquired, a little perturbed. For some reason, Fen actually looked around her flat before replying.

‘No, she isn’t – should she be?’

‘Well, you two live in the same town, I thought perhaps you’d be sharing the experience together.’

‘Django,’ Fen laughed, ‘London’s a sprawling metropolis. I don’t think the bike race is an experience I, or Pip, have been waiting with bated breath for.’

‘I didn’t really mean that,’ said Django, ‘not those shiny boys and bikes themselves, I meant your sister. I meant Cat. This is her experience – I think we should take an interest.’

Fen felt humbled. Suddenly, she wished Pip was here. ‘You’re right,’ she said quietly, ‘maybe we might catch Cat on screen. She’s there, after all, in the thick of it. So we should switch on and tune in.’

‘And share,’ mused Django, quite relieved he was on his own and could have his biscuits to himself.

‘Don’t worry about phoning Pip, I’ll do that right now,’ Fen said. ‘You warm the TV up,’ she told her uncle, using a phrase Cat had frequently employed in childhood.

(‘Cat? Where have you disappeared to? Pip’s clearing the table. Fen’s washing up and there’s a tea towel with your name on it.’

‘Oh. Sorry. I was just warming the TV up.’)

‘Hey, Pip, it’s me.’

‘Hi, Fen. Get off the phone. The Tour de France is about to start.’

Half an later, the phone lines of Django, Fen and Pip were jammed engaged as each tried to contact the other. Ten minutes on, Pip arrived at Fen’s flat and they called Django together.

‘Wasn’t that exciting!’ Django boomed, wishing they could see the two uneaten biscuits as proof.

‘It was,’ Fen agreed, ‘I had no idea!’ Pip, bobbing up and down on the spot, took the phone from her.

‘That famous bloke won!’ she exclaimed breathlessly. ‘I remember Cat talking about him.’ She handed the telephone back to Fen and executed a handstand against the wall in celebration.

‘Josh,’ Cat asked, ‘might you cast your expert eye over my piece?’ Though she was confident about the quality of her copy, her request had a twofold function. She was rather proud of her first race report and felt it warranted immediate approval before she wired it to London. Also, she still wanted to consolidate her new colleague’s respect for her journalistic abilities and her cycle sport knowledge. Josh was flattered, more so when Alex looked up from his laptop, regarded Cat with a ‘Why not me?’ glance and bestowed on Josh a glare that said ‘Wanker!’ a little enviously.

‘I like it that you’ve explained the gap of 53 seconds between first and last rider being in contrast to the hours that will develop as the race progresses,’ Josh defined and read on, sometimes to himself, sometimes out loud.