Читать книгу Freya North 3-Book Collection: Cat, Fen, Pip - Freya North - Страница 21

‘Rachel – help.’

Vasily Jawlensky entered the Zucca camper van.

‘Oh dear,’ his soigneur said from behind an architecturally intriguing tower of energy bars. ‘Och Jesus – look at you!’

She looked at him. Vasily Jawlensky, her team’s key rider on whose shoulders the hope of the yellow jersey was today firmly placed. And yet, unlike the brooding Fabian Ducasse, currently barking and snarling at everyone, Vasily’s comportment was no different than if he was merely going out on a training ride. His tall body, on to which lycra had seemingly been sprayed, dominated the interior of the camper van. He regarded his soigneur steadily and shrugged at her almost apologetically. Rachel saw that his skinsuit was split from underarm to hip and was aware that his Time Trial start time was in half an hour. She helped peel her rider from the lycra and assisted him in slithering his way in to a pristine suit.

‘I go back to the blocks now,’ he said graciously, focusing so intently on her neck that Rachel found herself cupping her hand against it. ‘With thanks to you, Rachel.’

‘That’s good,’ his soigneur replied. ‘How are you feeling?’

‘Tight,’ Vasily replied, ‘tense – you know?’

‘I can imagine,’ Rachel said. She stood in the doorway of the van and watched Vasily place himself on his stationary bike. He clipped his feet in and started to pedal, soon leaning down to take the handlebars. Rachel winced. The skinsuit had torn again, this time around the shoulders.

Fucking supplier – I’ll kill them.

Vasily calmly dismounted, feeling the ripped material, his skin. He looked at his soigneur.

‘You have another, Rachel?’ he asked.

‘Sure,’ Rachel replied, closing the door on the fans craving every last glimpse, any glimpse, of the great Russian. Again, the two of them freed Vasily’s body from its colourful sheath and he stood naked and contemplative whilst Rachel delved around a bag for another.

‘Have you grown?’ she asked Vasily, eyeing him objectively, or as objectively as such a particularly fine specimen of masculinity could be viewed by a young woman.

‘No,’ Vasily said, ‘I am as I always am. No change.’

‘Bloody suppliers,’ Rachel elaborated with a thunderous frown.

‘Yes, bloody them,’ said Vasily ingenuously, liking the semantic taste of the word but intending no insult. Rachel puffed clouds of talcum powder over Vasily’s torso and patted his skin lightly. And then, momentarily, she wavered. She stroked him gently down his chest. Smoothing the talc. No, stroking his body. She turned him around. Again, she wavered. She looked at his back – no, gazed at his back – before applying more powder. Stroking gives better coverage than patting. Yeah, right, Rachel. She took the new lycra, assessing the material with much concentration, trying to pay no attention to the downy blond hairs furled about his forearms. She’d never noticed them before; she certainly wasn’t going to start noticing them now.

How can I not have noticed them before? How many times must I have massaged this rider?

Was Vasily staring at her? She didn’t think so. How could he be, with his Time Trial looming? His eyes might be focused on her, but she acknowledged that his mind was already engrossed in the Computaparc course. She’d obviously quite lost hers. She helped Vasily dress again, checked the seams of the new skinsuit and asked him to bend, to stretch.

‘Well,’ she said, ‘that’ll last you the 54 and a half k and the short trip to the podium this evening.’ She winked at him supportively, wished him good luck and told him to go and finish his tuning up.

‘Thank you, Rachel,’ Vasily replied, continuing to stare at her so intently that she wiped her hand across her chin to remove whatever it was that had so caught his attention.

‘Go!’ Rachel said, glancing at her watch and wanting Vasily to be warming up five minutes ago.

‘Yes,’ said the rider. And then Vasily Jawlensky kissed Rachel McEwen. Quite quickly but very intensely. Too swiftly for her to have pulled away; too adeptly for her to have wanted to. He encircled her waist, lowered his head and took his lips to hers, slipping his tongue into her mouth immediately on contact. She’d never had a kiss like it. His eyes were open and so were hers. Their tongues danced slowly. It lasted seconds yet it was luxurious and measured rather than urgent. Then Vasily went directly to his bike and continued to warm up in earnest. Rachel closed the campervan door and sat down heavily on the bench. She placed her head in her hands and took deep breaths. She could smell talcum powder. She inhaled deeply.

Then she wiped her hands urgently on her jeans.

What the fuck just happened?

There had been no warning, no prior hints, no clues at all in all the time she’d known Vasily. Not from him. She knew so little about the person behind the champion cyclist. Not within herself; she’d rarely thought about the personality behind the body which raced bicycles.

Have I ever fancied Vasily? Have I ever thought he’s fancied me? Hand on my heart, no. I’m his soigneur. He’s my charge.

What just happened?

I have absolutely no idea.

How can that be?

I don’t know. I hardly know Vasily. Few people do. He’s such a closed book – one so many are desperate to read. Not me. I know his joints and muscles off by heart but I’ve never really stopped to contemplate the man they belong to.

Why did you stroke and not pat?

I don’t know. But I don’t think it was me, if you see – I don’t think he meant to kiss Rachel. Maybe it was an instantaneous reaction to me stroking, not patting – a chemical, hormonal, non-cerebral, male response. Shit, maybe it was the talcum powder itself. Maybe there’s a substance in it that’s banned. But it wasn’t me. It can’t have been. I’m just his soigneur. How can he know me as Rachel? He does not know Rachel at all.

You should get moving. You have a million and one duties to attend to.

I need to sit a while.

‘I know what I need,’ Rachel said, standing, glancing around the interior of the van, ‘I need a girlfriend – I need the insight of a woman. I need female company, complicity – a confidante.’

Contre la montre.

What a lovely phrase. It was Cat’s chant that morning as she gathered together her wits and her work effects. She was running late, having not been able to leave her bed for all the reliving of the night before and the projected ponderings for the day ahead. Sex? Perhaps. More than likely. Hurry up! Contre la montre. Against the clock. Morning, Josh. Morning, Alex. Hurry up, Cat. Sorry. Sorry. Allons!

‘You’re perky,’ Josh remarked, pleased that she was.

‘I had,’ Cat reasoned, ‘a very good – night.’

‘Moi aussi,’ Alex said, ‘like a fucking log. Out for the count.’

‘I slept really well too,’ Josh added, glancing in gratitude at Auberge Claudette before driving away.

‘Me too,’ Cat recapitulated.

I am going to sleep with Ben tonight and I’ll be most wide awake.

‘I’m interviewing Luca this afternoon,’ Cat said. ‘He’s riding early so I’ll disappear for an hour or so. Will you fill me in?’

‘Sure,’ Alex said, looking to the back seat where Cat was sitting and staring out of the window with an inordinately expansive smile on her face, ‘as long as you share any juicy Luca-isms.’

‘Where are you going to do him?’ Josh asked, curtailing any insinuation from Alex by stamping on the brakes to allow the race commissaire’s car priority.

‘In his hotel room,’ Cat replied. Alex tittered. The others didn’t.

The only time Jules Le Grand was going to leave Fabian Ducasse’s side was when the Système Vipère rider and overall contender for the maillot jaune was actually on his bike riding the course. The rider had all but sleep-walked to his directeur’s room at four in the morning to say one thing.

‘The Time Trial is a test of truth.’

For all Fabian’s outward arrogance and confidence, he needed the support of his directeur if he was to take yellow at the Time Trial that afternoon and define the ultimate outcome on the podium in Paris a fortnight later. Though Fabian had returned to bed and, amazingly, to a deep sleep, his directeur stayed awake for him. In silk pyjama bottoms, Jules had gazed out of the window witnessing night simper into dawn.

Fabian needs me to yell ‘Allez allez allez!’, to torment him, to demand that he ride harder for fuck’s sake.

Jules showered and shaved and treated his underarms and cheeks to liberal applications of Gucci toiletries.

Fabian also needs me to listen attentively when he repeats his concerns arid strategy for the course.

‘Often he does so in silence but it is always audible to me,’ Jules said out loud, wondering if 6 a.m. was too early to phone Système Vipère’s eponymous sponsor. He would leave it half an hour. No doubt his favoured journalist on L’Equipe would be glad to take a call.

‘Ultimately, it is the paternal support of the directeur sportif that the rider requires after a Time Trial,’ Jules said down the line to the reporter, ‘to lift his spent body from his bike, to be there for him whatever the outcome.’

‘Merci,’ said the journalist, hoping Jules Le Grand had not heard him stifle a yawn, could not envisage him as he was, crumpled, in bed and still half-asleep.

Jules was dressed in Gucci top to toe. He phoned the team sponsors.

‘Whatever the outcome, today,’ he told them, ‘Ducasse will ride the Stage as if his life depends on it which, to him, it does. The team are pleased that you will visit today to watch the Stage. It will be good for Jesper Lomers to see you.’ There was a pause. ‘Yes, yes, he is on the verge of renewing his contract – of that I’m sure.’

He’d better be – or Anya will have me to answer to. Not that she’s answered any of Jesper’s calls, I am informed. At the moment, that is not good for my rider’s morale. But I can turn it to the team’s advantage, I’m sure of it. When the time is right.

Jules Le Grand plucked at grapes from the fruit bowl and sipped at Evian from the minibar. He phoned L’Equipe again, making a well-rehearsed soliloquy sound positively conversational; so eloquent that the journalist could quote him word for word.

‘Today, Fabian Ducasse will not be merely going to work, doing his job, earning his salary. For Fabian, this Time Trial will determine his purpose on this mortal coil. He will challenge the demons within himself. He will emerge triumphant.’

Jules ended the call.

If not – then what? he contemplated quietly, bursting a grape against the roof of his mouth. What will it all mean? Who would Ducasse be? What would be the point?

‘He needs me,’ Jules said, leaving his room at 7 a.m. to check on the soigneurs, the mechanics and the weather.

Cat McCabe saw Fabian and Jules on her way to the village. Full of the bounce and confidence that the headiness of new passion can instil, she approached the two men.

‘Bonjour,’ she said, turning back on herself so she could walk their way a while. ‘How are you feeling? What is your optimum time? If you don’t take yellow today, can the Tour still be yours?’

Fleetingly, Fabian looked at her darkly, frowning, turning to his directeur for support, to make her go away. Intrusion. Distraction. Pointless. Jules Le Grand glanced at Cat. He’d seen her around. English journaliste. Any other day, he would have granted her a suave smile, an audience with himself, with his riders. Today, though, at this time, he regarded her with undisguised contempt.

‘Leave Fabian,’ he commanded, his hissed order rooting her to the spot while the men walked away from her and ever onwards towards their fate.

Josh looked up from his laptop.

‘Hullo, Rachel,’ he said in amazement, ‘what brings you here? Fugallo had a great ride. Are you here to watch Vasily?’

‘Actually,’ Rachel said, ‘I was looking for Cat.’

‘She’s interviewing Luca,’ Josh informed her. He glanced at his watch. So did Alex.

‘She’s been bloody hours,’ Alex remarked, ‘little minx.’

‘Is she coming back here?’ Rachel asked, eyeing the unmanned laptop next to Josh.

‘She has her report to file,’ Josh said, glancing at his watch and shaking his head. ‘You bet she’ll be back.’

‘We’re all going out tonight,’ Alex said thoughtfully, distracted from his work by the sight of Rachel’s bottom which he thought very nice indeed, ‘why don’t you come too?’

Rachel swiftly assessed all she had to do, then she nodded. ‘Cool,’ she said, ‘that would be great. Will Cat be there?’

‘Of course,’ Josh said, ‘she’s one of us.’

‘Vasily’s about to start,’ Alex said, twisting his chair to focus on the screens. ‘Watch it here.’

‘Oh God no, I can’t,’ Rachel smiled, shaking her head, ‘I’m far too nervous for him. I’d better go, I’ll see you all later. Tell Cat I stopped by – that I’ll see her later too.’

No one responded and Rachel left a hushed salle de pressé, suddenly loving all the journalists for being so focused on Vasily’s ride.

Why did the sod kiss me? Why am I giving it so much thought? Do I want more? But where the fuck did it come from?

When Luca told Cat that Ben had offered his own hotel room for the interview, Cat had to stop herself from leaping into the air, hugging the rider and saying come on, let’s get it done quickly then.

‘I’m rooming,’ Luca had shrugged. ‘Didier might want to rest. Ben will come back in an hour because then I must rest. But hey! I did well, no?’

‘You,’ Cat had responded, walking alongside Luca down the corridor to the doctor’s room, ‘are a star. It was a great ride – I’d say this is going to be a really fabulous first Tour for you.’

‘You’re a babe, Cat McCabe,’ Luca had said as they entered Ben’s room. ‘Hey! I’m a poet! Let me be your boyfriend,’ he had continued, ‘we can make beautiful babies. Or we can practise anyway.’

‘Work first,’ Ben had cautioned the rider whilst glancing at Cat, ‘play later. No sex during the Tour.’

‘Fuck you,’ Luca had protested.

‘Fuck you,’ Ben had responded, staring at Cat. With a sly smile he had left the room, informing them he would return in an hour. Luca took to Ben’s bed. Cat set her dictaphone on the bedside table and coiled herself into the armchair.

‘So, Luca,’ she had said, ‘let’s talk about you.’

‘Love and sex, Luca?’ Cat asks, glancing at her watch and seeing that the hour is almost up.

‘Sure,’ Luca shrugs, ‘both – sometimes separately, occasionally together. This is off the record, right?’

Cat nods, regards the dictaphone but does not switch it off.

‘I’m a young guy,’ the rider shrugs, ‘and I’m horny. I do a job where you can be superhero to many women. They don’t know you – but they think they do. It’s flattering, you know? If they offer, I’ll take it – but only if I can make it the next day. So, even if there was a chick yesterday with tits out and legs open, I would have refused because the Time Trial was today. Yes? But tonight – tonight is different.’

‘So you’re going on the prowl?’ Cat jests.

‘If I can stay awake,’ Luca responds ruefully, ‘cos you know something? Soon the only humping for me will be going up and down those fucking mountains.’

‘Are you nervous?’

‘That is not a question for me to answer.’

‘Are you?’ Cat asks tenderly, as a friend. Luca regards her. Cat thinks how young he suddenly seems, how his body so lithe and virile in front of her is also one that could be destroyed without notice; a body, a spirit, whose strength is supreme and yet continually on the brink.

‘Are you scared, Luca?’ Cat repeats.

Luca observes her again. She has come to the edge of the bed and laid a hand over his wrist.

He nods, knowing it won’t come out on dictaphone. She strokes his forehead and smiles down on him. He nods again.

Darling boy. Please be careful.

‘Time’s up,’ says Ben. ‘Luca, how’s your pulse?’

‘It’s good,’ the rider replies, unfurling himself from the bed. ‘I’ll go rest and bring it down further.’

‘Thanks, Luca,’ Cat says, her hand on his shoulder.

‘Cat-the-Babe-McCabe,’ says Luca, standing up, suddenly clad in the colourful public persona everybody loves and expects, ‘my pleasure.’ He kisses her three times and then leaves.

‘Was that good?’ Ben asks, going to Cat directly and lifting her T-shirt off.

‘Great,’ Cat replies, unbuttoning his jeans.

‘How long do you have?’ Ben asks, nuzzling his way down from her neck to her right nipple. ‘Because I have about seven inches.’

‘I have to write my report,’ Cat says huskily. She takes his cock in her mouth.

‘Jesus, Cat,’ Ben pants. They gaze glazed at each other. Cat unzips her shorts and lets them fall. Ben cups his hand between her legs and can feel the heat and moistness seep through her panties. He moves his fingers as if he is playing a trumpet and watches as Cat sways with desire. He slips a finger inside the elastic and finds her flesh, burrows in a little and teases her. Her heightened breathing, audible, urgent, turns him on. The sight of his cock, stiff and straining and impatient, turns her on.

‘I want you now,’ he murmurs.

‘You can have me now,’ she replies. They wriggle out of their clothing, intermittently gorging themselves on each other’s mouths. Breathing is deep and desirous, interspersed with a little laughter. The bed is creaky in places. Cat loves the sound of Ben, that he sucks in his breath when she runs her hands over his torso, that he gasps when her fingertips skim his balls. Ben loves the sounds of Cat, the little inadvertent moans she gives when he tweaks her clitoris, he likes the sudden gasp he causes when he treats her nipples to a bite or a suck. She’s a sight to behold as he looks up her body while his mouth is buried in her sex. Her figure is trim and pert. She tastes delicious. He could drink her for hours. She doesn’t have hours.

‘Don’t stop,’ she pleads, moving against his mouth. But he takes his face away and now he is hovering over her, his cock probing at her bush, her stomach, her thigh, teasingly.

‘Later,’ he informs her, dipping down to kiss her.

‘Now!’ Cat remonstrates, smelling her scent on his face.

‘Such matters should not be rushed,’ Ben reasons, closing his eyes and groaning as Cat grasps his cock and starts to masturbate him. He steadies her wrist to his favoured pace and then holds it tight, motionless.

‘Stop,’ he tells her. ‘We both have jobs to do.’

‘But I want you,’ Cat pleads, opening her legs, ‘I do. Now.’

Ben smiles down at her, all lovely and soft and supine beneath him. ‘Look on this as a taster,’ he says, propping himself up next to Cat and slipping his hand between her legs. ‘I’m going to whisk you away tonight, I know of a place.’ He has two fingers inside her and her eyes are closed with the exquisite pleasure of it all. ‘It’s private and beautiful and we’re going to have sex there.’

Cat’s breathing is fast, she is moving herself against his hand, finding his fingers inside her, his thumb pressing lightly at her clitoris. She is feeling his cock. They are staring hard at each other, dipping faces close to tongue and bite, pulling away to breathe and gasp. Ben takes his hand away when he feels Cat’s sex start to quiver.

‘Don’t go – oh God, Ben!’

He sucks on his fingers as he watches and listens to her coming, her hand between her legs, her body bucking gently.

‘Tonight,’ he tells her, despite the post-orgasmic vision of her all languid and soft making him harder still. ‘Go now. I’ll find you.’

I can’t wait for tonight, Ben decides once Cat has left. Literally, I can’t wait. His erection has hardly subsided. He returns to the bed. Cat’s intoxicating scent lingers on the pillow. Ben breathes deeply and wanks to an explosive, vociferous reward.

‘What a day!’ Josh exclaimed, distributing bottles of Seize in an intimate bar near the Auberge, refreshingly if anomalously devoid of Tour personnel.

‘What a day!’ Rachel echoed, taking a hearty swig, closing her eyes and leaning back in her chair.

‘One fuck of a day!’ Alex said, raising his bottle and drinking most of it down in one.

And it isn’t over yet! Cat thought to herself whilst nodding in agreement with the others. They relived the Time Trials of the key players and asked Rachel how the Zucca boys had reacted. She was discreet and, when Vasily’s ride came under analysis, gave away even less. Cat observed her friend and thought she seemed quiet. She didn’t look tired, but preoccupied, distant – a little down, perhaps. Cat followed when Rachel went to the toilet.

‘Hey, Rachel,’ Cat said when she emerged from the cubicle to find Rachel staring at a streaming tap. Rachel regarded Cat, and then the water, and then the floor and then her friend again.

‘Are you all right?’ Cat prompted gently, busying herself by washing her hands and then drying them meticulously, not wanting to pressurize Rachel.

‘No yes no yes – fuck knows!’ Rachel declared almost miserably.

‘Do you want to talk?’ Cat asked. ‘Anything I can help you with?’

‘No yes – ditto ditto,’ Rachel smiled forlornly, ‘fuck knows.’

The women’s toilet was almost as large as the bar, airy, clean and really quite conducive to female revelations. There was a bentwood chair and a deep window-sill. Rachel chose the former and Cat happily settled herself into the latter.

‘Vasily,’ Rachel said quietly.

‘Well,’ Cat said supportively, ‘for what it’s worth, I think he’ll still do it. Fabian isn’t as strong in the mountains – but he won’t want to let go of the yellow jersey so he might well be spent by the last Time Trial.’

‘No,’ Rachel said, looking up at Cat, ‘I mean, Vasily.’

‘I know,’ said Cat eagerly, missing the point that Rachel wasn’t making very well. Cat slithered down off the window-sill and shuffled alongside Rachel on the chair. Rachel was about to speak when Cat’s mobile phone intruded.

It’s Ben!

‘Hullo?’ she said.

‘Where are you?’ Ben said. ‘You can talk, you can’t talk? Are you near the hotel?’

‘Yes,’ Cat responded, thinking she ought to dampen her elated grin.

‘Are you more or less than a five-minute walk away?’

‘Yes,’ Cat said again.

‘Yes, more?’

‘No.’

‘Ah! Less. Good. Meet me round the back of your hotel in five minutes.’

Ben hung up. Cat turned to Rachel. What had Rachel been saying? Something about Vasily. Poor sod who missed the maillot jaune by so little. He must have dumped the burden of it all on his soigneur, poor girl. Cat tipped her head and smiled at Rachel. She held up her mobile phone.

‘I can’t believe it,’ she said, careful not to lie, ‘I’ve been summoned – in context of this afternoon. I’m going to have to go.’

Rachel nodded, hiding her disappointment well. ‘Sure,’ she said to Cat, ‘you have a job to do.’

And this is one of the perks, Cat did not say out loud.

She observed Rachel still looking somewhat discomfited. ‘Rachel,’ she said, ‘can I shadow you tomorrow?’

Rachel looked at Cat. ‘Sure,’ she said, ‘but there’s no feed as it’s a short Stage – how about the day after?’

‘That would be great,’ Cat enthused. ‘I might pop by in the morning as the start isn’t till one-ish.’

‘Sure,’ said Rachel. ‘You’d better go,’ she continued, suddenly wanting to be alone anyway. Cat went. Rachel remained in the toilet a few minutes more. She stared at her reflection.

Saved by the bell – if Cat hadn’t had that call, I’d be deep into revelation by now.

‘Fuck it,’ she said softly, ‘there’s nothing to discuss really anyway. It probably didn’t mean anything to Vasily – he’s more than likely forgotten it already.’

And for you, Rachel? What did it mean? You’ve thought of little else.

‘The clear light of tomorrow, after a night’s sleep, will render whatever it was insignificant.’

But you’re not speaking for yourself, that’s just your conjecture for Vasily.

‘It was just somewhat disconcerting, that’s all.’

Rachel returned to the bar. Alex and Josh had replenished her Seize and were on to their fourth apiece, aided and abetted by a packet of Gauloises with a fair few missing.

‘Are you all right?’ Josh asked, leaving the chair that had been Rachel’s and taking his place back on a stool.

‘Got the shits?’ Alex asked in his inimitable way.

‘I’m fine,’ Rachel said.

‘Where’s Cat?’ Josh asked.

‘Has she got the shits?’ Alex asked.

‘She got a call through,’ Rachel shrugged, ‘she went directly to work.’

‘Oh,’ said Alex.

‘Oh,’ said Josh. Both men wondered how the novice journaliste could possibly have usurped them in the scoops stakes. It was just somewhat disconcerting, that’s all.

Ben took Cat to Arcachon, where the sand dunes were emphatically moonlit and all was gloriously private and, though a short car ride from Bordeaux, a million miles from the Tour de France, from the times and trials of journalism and medicine. Foreplay hardly figured. The last twenty-four hours had seemed to both Cat and Ben to have been a prolonged preparation for penetration.

The sand was cool and though Ben had thoughtfully brought a towel, they did not lie on it. They undressed themselves; standing naked and silent, Ben passed Cat a condom which she unwrapped and placed on him. They knelt, kissed and he entered her smoothly, easily. The feeling of being filled by a man whom she so desired, the sensation of a cock inside her after a barren few months, the sensitivity with which he kissed her eyelids, licked her neck, slipped his tongue into her mouth, the adeptness with which he moved his body into hers, made her come almost immediately. He let her orgasm subside. The feeling of a tight pussy of a girl he was mad for, the pleasure of hearing her gasp, the excitement of sensing her sex quiver and pulsate around him, the surprise of her tongue dipping in and out of his nostrils, his ears, made him come soon after.

The towel did come in useful. Ben and Cat skinny dipped, talking to each other with ease, embracing in the water. Ready for more sex. No more condoms though. No matter – there would be tomorrow. And there really would be tomorrow. This wasn’t to be a one off. Neither of them knew what it was to be but they were aware that tomorrow they would be together, the day after too, and the notion thrilled them privately.

What happened today, Cat? Apart from your fair share of orgasms, a head full of daydreams and a heart newly nourished and beating hard for more? The Tour de France? The Time Trial? Who won? What’s happening?

Read my report, I’m tired. I want to go to sleep. I can taste salt water on my skin. I can taste Ben still. Good night.

COPY FOR P. TAVERNER @ GUARDIAN SPORTS DESK FROM CA TRIONA McCABE IN BORDEAUX

Against the setting of Computaparc, where a massive turnout of cycling aficionados rubbed shoulders with a huge crowd of somewhat nonplussed techno-geeks, the 54.5 km Time Trial of the Tour de France was run today and won in outstanding style by Fabian Ducasse of Système Vipère. Vasily Jawlensky, last year’s winner of the yellow jersey and contender for overall victory this year, rode brilliantly but Fabian rode better. It took 1 hour 9 minutes and 38 seconds for the French heart-throb to claim the maillot jaune and a 1 minute 18 second lead over the Russian defender, who now lies second.

Though there is no certainty that Ducasse will ride every day in yellow from here to the podium in Paris, the golden fleece will assist his passage and he will not relinquish it without the fight which many anticipate will take place between him and Jawlensky in the looming mountain Stages.

Fabian set his pace and held it, averaging just under 51 kph. He chose a huge gear and stuck to it, enabling his bike to gulp as much tarmac with each turn of the pedals as possible. He maintained his prawn-like position all the way; folded aerodynamically, his head tucked lower than his shoulder blades, his knees close to the frame, shoulders steady. Technique, however, went only part of the way in securing his victory today, determination played much the key role.

A Time Trial is lonely to ride and heart-wrenching to watch. Tarmac is ever unfurling and the wind seems to relish buffeting a cyclist out there alone, with no shelter, no slipstreams, no stretch where he can ease the pressure. How was it for Megapac’s Didier LeDucq, standing on his pedals to contend with the climb an evil 15 km from the finish, to have Ducasse power past him sitting deep and steady on the saddle? Time Trialling requires supreme strength, it needs calculation and brains and, ultimately, dogged determination to discredit suffering. Acknowledging pain does not win Time Trials. If your pulse is racing at 180 bpm and lactic acid is forming in your muscles but there are only a few kilometres to go – so what? Your soigneur, glucose and electrolytes can help later. Health does not matter to a rider midway through a Time Trial. A rider who can calmly dismount and walk himself to his soigneur did not Time Trial. Jules Le Grand, directeur sportif of Système Vipère, literally carried Ducasse from his bike. Similarly, Rachel McEwen, Jawlensky’s soigneur, eased the rider away from his machine, her supportive embrace holding him up, holding him together, as she escorted him to the privacy of the team bus.

<ENDS>