‘Hullo,’ the girl from the press conference said, ‘are you hurt?’
Luca responded with his heroic shrug.
‘What happened?’ she asked, pen poised, eyes concerned.
‘One minute I’m sitting on the bike,’ Luca drawled, staring at her steadily, ‘next I’m sitting on Jalabert. Hey, but we both live to ride another day!’
‘Hullo, Catriona journaliste McCabe,’ said Luca’s doctor, suddenly at his side.
‘Oh, hi,’ said the girl with a swift but sweet smile. Luca’s doctor looked hard at her, Luca gazed at her almost imploringly. ‘Just checking the wounded soldier is all right,’ she said.
‘Er, that’s my job,’ his doctor teased.
‘Yes, of course,’ the journaliste said ingenuously. She tipped her head and regarded the rider. ‘Glad you’re OK – good luck tomorrow.’
‘Thank you, Catriona,’ Luca Jones replied, rolling his ‘r’s and disjoining her name with strange emphases.
‘Cat,’ the journaliste all but cautioned. Rider and doctor regarded her. ‘I’d better go,’ she said, brandishing her notepad. ‘Bye – see you.’ She walked away briskly, scribbling in her pad all the while.
‘Close your mouth,’ Ben said to Luca, who didn’t know his doctor had only just shut his. ‘Do you hurt?’
COPY FOR P. TAVERNER @ GUARDIAN SPORTS DESK FROM CATRIONA McCABE IN ROUEN
For the first time in the history of the Tour de France, the yellow jersey and the first five places in Stage One went to English-speaking riders. Chris Boardman, losing only 2 seconds off his lead, keeps the golden fleece of his Prologue win. Stefano Sassetta of Zucca MV was relegated to the bottom of this first group for a flamboyant swerve dangerously close to his sworn rival, Système Vipère’s Jesper Lomers. Whether plain careless or downright malicious, Sassetta was not given the benefit of the doubt. In the city of Rouen, Sassetta should think himself lucky – Joan of Arc was burnt at the stake here in 1431.
Nice opening paragraph, Cat. But you’re reading it to yourself today. Wouldn’t Alex rather like your next sentence – ‘As Samson lost his strength when his hair was cut, so it appears the sprinters lose their memories once their legs are shorn’? Oh, Alex is sitting nowhere near you. Nor is Josh. You have a pungent Belgian journalist on one side and a hirsute Spaniard on the other. The salle de presse seems a little like the peloton itself as you describe it in your next paragraph, somewhat fresh and disorganized at this early stage. Where’s your Luca quote? Have you woven it in?
As in all wars, the innocent are frequently victims. Laurent Jalabert (O.N.C.E.), an elder statesman of the Tour peloton, and Luca Jones (Megapac), a virgin soldier, were amongst the casualties brought down when wheels touched ahead of them at the last sprint point. Jalabert recovered to finish with the main bunch, his fingers bloodied and his brow dark. Jones, whose major injury was dramatically ripped shorts, took time out prostrate on a spectator’s picnic table, much to the delight of the public. ‘One minute I’m sitting on the bike,’ he recalled, ‘the next I’m sitting on Jalabert.’
Good work, Cat.
The green jersey, worn by the rider with the most points accumulated en route and for finishing in the top 25, is on the broad shoulders of Mario Cipollini. The true contenders for overall victory were hardly seen today. Just as the villages along the route cluster around their omnipotent churches, so Vasily Jawlensky and Fabian Ducasse were flanked at all times by at least 3 devoted team-mates. Wisely, they kept well away from the broiling at the very front yet still finished with the same times as that group.
And so began the week-long campaign by the audacious pure sprinters to retain the top positions. Soon enough, the Pyrenees will rip the peloton apart.
<ENDS>
Right, Cat, it’s gone nine in the evening and you’re only just leaving the salle de presse. Alone. You’ve positively slunk out, hoping no one’s noticed. Why? Didn’t you bond further with your colleagues last night whilst toasting Boardman’s superb win? He’s in yellow again today – isn’t that carte blanche for a celebratory evening tonight?
There are no plans for tonight. The only toast last night, literally, was the tough bread roll I ate by myself in my room. That’s my phone.
‘Hullo?’
‘Cat?’
‘Hey, Fen.’
‘Cat?’ she said. ‘You OK?’
‘Tired.’
‘Where are you? George Hincapie is gorgeous! Did I pronounce that right?’
‘Spot on.’
Cat listened to her sister enthuse about the day’s Stage. She closed her eyes, wishing she was in Fen’s house, settling in for an evening of wine and wittering.
‘Pip and I watched it together at her flat this time. We spoke to Django during the adverts and then had a major three-way analysis when the programme ended. I love that nice smiley man from Channel 4 – Leggings.’
‘Liggett,’ said Cat with a little laugh.
‘Do you know him?’
‘No.’
‘Have you met him yet?’
‘Almost.’
‘What did you do today? I’m fascinated. I mean, we’re only granted half an hour’s summary of the whole day – how does it pan out for you?’
‘Oh –’ Cat said breezily, swiping the air nonchalantly with her hand, a gesture of course lost on her sister.
‘Cat?’ Fen asked again. ‘You OK?’
‘It’s odd,’ Cat defined softly, ‘I’m finding it difficult. I’m fighting homesickness already. I was hopeful of a family atmosphere here. I think that was naïve. We didn’t even have a drink to celebrate Boardman’s win.’
‘It’s very early days,’ Fen said sensibly, ‘riders and everyone else finding their feet, surely. Anyway, I’m concerned that drink, or lack of, is the prime reason for your melancholy.’
Cat sighed. ‘Don’t be daft,’ she chastized her sister, ‘today I was sent flying in the finish-line scrum.’
‘God!’ Fen sympathised.
‘I was pushed and shoved, trodden on and ignored,’ Cat elaborated. ‘I don’t stand a chance. Now, I feel on the verge of floundering, of becoming lost amongst it all.’
‘Is it every man for himself, then?’ Fen asked.
Cat nodded and then said, ‘Yes.’
‘Who’s the gorgeous one who stopped off for a picnic?’ Fen probed.
Cat grinned and felt a softening of her tangled brow. ‘Luca Jones,’ she said, ‘and he gave me a super quote.’
‘There you go!’ Fen encouraged.
‘I know, I know,’ Cat conceded, ‘but I just feel a little, I don’t know – out on a limb. It’s only just started, I’m here for a long time – and yet this was supposed to be my fantasy incarnate and a world in which I’d find all the answers.’
‘You’ve only just arrived,’ Fen pointed out. ‘I bet you anything tomorrow will be fabulous.’
‘Fen, I feel too small and female.’
‘Bollocks, Cat,’ Fen said strongly. ‘Yes, you’re an anomaly out there – small and female – so you