by Freya North
It’s strange. I suppose I presumed the entire ferry would be peopled by those going to the Tour – that we’d all be recognizable as a club of sorts and, of course, that there would be this wonderful familial feeling amongst everyone. And yet now I’m here, I have no idea who is who. Most of the passengers look like standard holidaymakers. But what specifically distinguishes cycling followers? I don’t even see any of the stalwart, anoraked, club cycling crowd that spend their Sundays traipsing the Trough of Bowland or struggling in Snowdonia. I mean, there’s a small group over there in tracksuit bottoms who look young and sporty – but they’re just as likely to have hired a villa in Brittany.
Though Cat half wants to be recognized – as a cycling aficionado of the non-anorak genus if not as the sports journalist she is hoping to become – the other half of her is quite content to be invisible. She ventures inside the ferry and queues for rubber sandwiches and plastic coffee, trying not to scan the tables too obviously for that elusive quiet spot, a hiding place. She spies one that might suffice and heads for it, looking at no one and trying to look nonchalant herself despite her bulky rucksack and wobbling tray.
‘The Prologue will definitely be Boardman.’
The sentence causes Cat to slow up instinctively.
Brilliant! I think it’ll be Boardman too!
‘I’d say Jawlensky,’ comments another voice.
No, I think your colleague and I have it with Boardman. And it’s Yav-lensky.
‘Yav,’ says the first voice.
‘Hey?’
‘Yavlensky.’
See!
‘I hardly think my pronunciation will make much difference to the outcome. Jawlensky is going to take the Prologue from Boardman, thus ending his reign.’
‘Bollocks.’
Yeah – bollocks!
Cat aborts her journey for a place squeezed in at a table neighbouring that of the two men discussing the Prologue Time Trial, which forms the inauguration of the Tour de France. She eavesdropped as subtly as she could, listening without looking.
‘Did you go to the Giro?’ the man au fait with Russian pronunciation asks the other.
‘Nah. Actually, I haven’t covered a race since the Tour of Britain.’
But I was there! Cat starts to herself with pleasure superseded by dread. Oh God, who are you though? I did the whole of the Tour of Britain for Cycling Weekly – up and down the UK for seven days. Did I meet you? Have you already seen me today and decided not to say hullo? Or seen me, perhaps, hut not recognized me at all because you didn’t notice me on the Prutour?
She regards her sandwich as if staring at food might nourish her nerve.
Do I dare turn around? Nonchalantly or with intent? Brazenly or with contrived innocence?
She scrunches her hands into fists, digging her nails reprimandingly into her palms.
Come on Cat, get a grip.
She grips herself hard.
Right, I’ll turn around, pretend I’m looking for a – for a clock – then I’ll shift my gaze and say, ‘Oh hi! Weren’t you on the Tour of Britain?’ Or maybe just regard him like I know I know him but can’t figure out where from, and then snap my fingers and say, ‘Tour of Britain?’ Or maybe—
‘Shall we go on deck?’
No! Wait! I haven’t turned round yet.
‘Yeah, sure – another beer?’
‘Yeah – start as we mean to carry on.’
‘You’re telling me! Come on, let’s split.’
Wait – I’m going to turn around right now and say, ‘Hi, I’m Cat McCabe, I’m reporting for the Guardian – I think I met you at the Tour of Britain.’ See – now!
But it is too late. The backs of two men are all Cat sees and she cannot deduce whether or not she has met one of them.
Tomorrow. I’ll find them tomorrow and I’ll introduce myself then. And if they ask when and how I arrived, I’ll feign surprise that ‘No way! I was on that ferry too!’
Oh God.
Me, myself and I for over three weeks in France.
Wednesday. Hôtel Splendide, Delaunay Le Beau. 2.30 p.m.
Rachel McEwen banged her clenched fist down on the concierge’s counter. Her treacle-coloured hair was loose and rather wild and her eyes were ablaze with fury and indignation.
‘Mademoiselle?’ said the clerk, with a superciliously raised eyebrow that made Rachel clench and reclench her fist as if she was about to aim a blow.
‘Look,’ Rachel said in a cold, courteous voice that served to accentuate her outrage more descriptively than any physical attack, ‘it is not my room I want changing, but room 46. I am not having one of my riders sleeping on a camp bed in a cramped room with crap curtains.’
‘Wait,’ said the clerk witheringly, dropping the one eyebrow and then twitching the other, along with a slight smirk, as he disappeared. He returned with his smirk and also a smartly dressed woman.
‘Good afternoon,’ said Rachel. ‘I was trying to explain to your colleague that I find it unacceptable that there is only one decent bed in room 46. I have two riders sharing and I will not have either one sleeping on a camp bed.’
‘Miss?’ the manageress, as she transpired to be, enquired.
‘Mc–Ewen,’ said Rachel briskly, breaking her name as she only ever did when she was deadly serious and very annoyed. ‘I am soigneur for Zucca MV.’
‘Zucca!’ the lady marvelled quietly, flushing slightly. ‘Miss McEwen, I am terribly sorry. I will of course rectify this problem immediately.’ She rustled through an index file, tapped officiously at a computer and gabbled at the clerk who scurried off, the smirk wiped from his face. She raised an eyebrow in a much more impressive way than her male junior. ‘Room 46 – Massimo Lipari? Ah, and Gianni Fugallo – a good domestique.’
Rachel smiled.
Here’s the link. Here’s the bond. A passion shared is a problem solved.
‘I shall put them in room 40 – I don’t know how this could have happened and I apologize.’
‘Thank you,’ Rachel said, the relief in her voice softening her tone, her hair no longer seeming wild but, rather, merely unkempt through stress and a devotion to priorities in which concerns for coiffure were too petty to feature.
‘Miss McEwen,’ the manager cleared her voice, ‘if it is possible, an autograph? From Massimo? For me – Claudia?’
‘Bien sûr,’ Rachel nodded.
Funny how I know just enough idioms in French, Spanish, Italian – even Portuguese and Flemish – to get by! If we ever raced in Latvia, no doubt I’d learn the lingo for ‘no problem’, or ‘cheers’, or ‘put your hands away I’m not interested in sleeping with you’.
Rachel marched back to the lifts, back to room 46 and told a dejected-looking Gianni not to worry. Then she made two trips to room 40, transferring the riders’ bags and belongings while they sat on the one good bed, resting their legs and feeling the minutes ebb away and the Tour loom ever nearer.
Wednesday. Hôtel Splendide, Delaunay Le Beau. 5.30 p.m.
‘Yes?’ said the manageress to, remarkably, another British girl.
‘MissMcCabe,’ Cat strung in a rushed whisper, looking around the foyer, her heart still racing from the excitement of spying the cars of three different teams in the hotel car park, emblazoned with logos and crowned with the bike racks.
Cofidis! Banesto! Zucca MV!
‘Ah, Miss McCabe, your room is on the fifth floor. Number 50.’
When Cat arrived at the lifts she grinned, for there, as in all races, regardless of prestige, a list of the teams and their rooms was pinned unceremoniously.
Jesus – what a perfect, God-given sandwich I have become!
Temporarily flabbergasted, Cat scanned the list over and again, pinching herself that what she saw was correct.
It says so! Massimo Lipari and Gianni Fugallo directly below, Jose Maria Jimenez directly above. If Jimenez and Lipari want to vie for pin-up of the peloton, they can always meet half-way at room 50 and let me be the judge!
The fact that room 50 turned out to be rather small, with the teak veneer fittings and meagre chewing-gum-grey towels typical of a sub-2-star hotel, was of no consequence to Cat.
I’m here in France surrounded by the boys!
Wednesday. Hôtel Splendide, Delaunay Le Beau. 11.29 p.m.
Stefano Sassetta is delighted. Thanks to Rachel, his soigneur, he does not have to share a room. He had a great training ride this morning and is confident he will attain peak form during this first week, be invincible in the sprints and start hoovering up bonuses for the points in the green jersey competition. His thighs feel good and, after Rachel’s incomparable massage and Stefano’s lengthy scrutiny in the bathroom mirror, they look sublime to him. Stefano has been zapping through the television channels. His French is poor so he continues to flick the remote control, stopping awhile at MTV, enjoying a few minutes of boxing on Eurosport before it becomes tractor racing or dominoes, or some commensurately poor excuse for a sport. On he zaps. He is tired. He should sleep. But he is too psyched. If his manager came in and suggested a night ride, he’d be on his bike in a flash. He feels powerful and proud. And now he is delighted, for, two channels on from Eurosport, a porn movie is in its throes. Now he’ll be able to sleep. Masturbation is a great idea. Masturbation is better than sex – no energy wasted, as an ejaculation uses only sixty calories. No energy thrown away on pleasuring anyone but himself.
Thursday. Delaunay Le Beau. 10 a.m.
In the timescale of the Tour de France, Thursday is the dawn of two days of medicals for the riders, accreditation for the journalists and press conferences for both.
The previous evening, though Cat had tried valiantly to stay awake and recline demurely on her bed reading, neither Jose Maria Jimenez or Massimo Lipari had come to see her. She had woken in the early hours, dejected and still clothed.
As if they would have come to my bloody room.
Feeling a little foolish, she had crawled under the bedcovers, still clothed, for a few more hours of exhausted sleep.
Now, showered, changed twice, breakfasted and disappointed that there were no riders in sight, Cat left the hotel; the whirlwind of butterflies in her stomach at odds with the balmy climate outside. The trees, lampposts and road signs in the town of Delaunay Le Beau, which was hosting the Prologue and housing the Tour entourage, were bedecked with arrows pointing the colour-coded way for anyone who had anything to do with the Tour de France. For Cat, to follow the green pressé arrows was like being led on a treasure hunt.
Somewhat circuitously (the prerogative of the town’s chambre de commerce), the route took her past picturesque squares, the main shopping area, the university and the hospital – anyone who was anything to do with the Tour de France was to be subliminally persuaded that Delaunay Le Beau was a pretty town with excellent facilities. For Delaunay Le Beau, paying to play host, the Tour meant Tourism. Eventually, she arrived at the Permanence, an ironic title for the eternally temporary headquarters of the Société du Tour de France. In Delaunay Le Beau, it was housed in the grandiose town hall.
Cat McCabe had no idea what to expect – from Thursday, from the Permanence, from anything at all. For Ben York, however, an anxious female chewing her lip while her eyes darted as if on a pinball course was certainly not what he expected to see when he escorted his Megapac riders to the Permanence for their physical assessments. His groin gave an appreciative stir and his lips a flit of a smile at the sight of her. He felt almost privileged, as if spying the first swallow of summer before anyone else.
Here comes Cat, trying to saunter down the sweeping staircase of the town hall, hoping her grip on the banister seems nonchalant. She has been queuing for her accreditation in a vast room throbbing with strangers. Now she is wearing her green pass and she displays it with pride; it hangs from her neck and is as precious to her as pearls. It is the reason for her heightened state of excitement and the resulting lack of composure. It is her access to the real Tour de France; this year she has backstage privileges. Last year, and the years before, the cyclists were one step removed behind her TV screen.
I’m a journaliste. See? It says so: Cat McCabe, Journaliste, Le Guardian. That’s me. That’s what I do and who I am.
Ah, but Cat, how many journalists hover half-way down a staircase, fixated by the middle distance and gripping the banister with both hands?
I hate stairs. Please emphasize the ‘eeste’ – journaliste sounds far more delicious, much more prestigious than the English pronunciation.
All right, Cat McCabe, journaliste, walk on down the stairs and do your thing.
See her taking the stairs slowly, trying to absorb everything that is going on around her without looking quite the goggle-eyed devotee that she in fact feels?
I hate stares. Someone down there is looking at me. Keep walking. Oh Jesus! It’s Luca Jones! I’m going to have to stop again. That’s the medical check. Shit shit – what should I do? What am I allowed to do? What do journalists-istes do? Dictaphone? Yes, of course I have it with me. Ditto notepad. I have everything a journalist on the Tour de France could possibly need. But what I have most in abundance is nerves.
Establish eye contact with Luca, Cat. Why don’t you give him a smile? You needn’t say anything, but a smile today might mean recognition tomorrow, perhaps another smile the following day and huge familiarity thereafter.
I know. I know. I’m metaphorically kicking myself already for being so stupidly shy. But I have over three weeks. I won’t go home till Luca and I are on first-name terms.
We’ll hold you to that.
Don’t. Oh! It’s Hunter Dean! Dark, handsome and utterly Hollywood.
Hunter appears from his medical and beams at the loitering media consisting of six or seven tall men. Hunter really is the personification of his mission statement. Tipping his sunglasses up on to his head, courteously, he permits the clutch of journalists to surround him and systematically attends to all questions and answers them well, with considered replies and great charm.
Fuck fuck!
Cat is in a quandary. She has reached the bottom of the staircase and is so overcome by her proximity to her heroes that she feels much more like running from the building and hyperventilating somewhere in private, than in doing her job extracting soundbites.
What should I do?
They won’t bite.
Shall I just breeze up to the group and stick my dictaphone under Hunter’s mouth?
She ventures over and does just that. It’s the kind of thing a journalist does, Cat deduces from the bouquet of hand-held recording equipment already thrust at Hunter’s lips. She stares unflinchingly at the Megapac logo on the breast of Hunter’s tracksuit top. Hunter speaks, his voice pulls Cat’s gaze to his face while her dictaphone scrounges for soundbites with the best and rest of them.
Hunter’s lips. God, he has a beautiful neck.
Six male journalists stare at Cat who is incapable of controlling a creeping blush.
Oh shit, I didn’t just say that out loud, did I?
Cat nods earnestly at whatever it is that Hunter is saying. She praises gods of all creeds for the invention of the dictaphone because whatever he is saying, that the current thrill of it all prevents her from hearing, she can listen to later anyway. She focuses hard on the bridge of Hunter’s nose, to discipline her desperate-to-flit gaze.
‘Initially, Megapac may be an unknown quantity in terms of the Tour de France,’ Hunter is expounding, ‘but we’ll be the team on the tip of y’all’s tongues by the end – that I can assure you. You can quote me on that. We’re the best thing to happen in American cycle sport since Greg LeMond and Lance Armstrong.’
‘Bonne chance!’ Cat surprises herself by responding unchecked, anticipating that Hunter might very well start to sing the Star Spangled Banner or quote the Constitution.
‘Hey, yeah, right!’ Hunter responds.
With a wink! Did you see that? A wink! I’ve died and gone to heaven. Does a wink come out on a dictaph
one?
‘Cute,’ Luca nudges Ben, out of Cat’s earshot. Ben gives Luca an exasperated look that prevents him having to agree and thereby present himself as a contender. Fortuitously, Luca is called through for his medical and Ben can regard the lone female with a certain private pleasure while Luca creates a diversion. He sees her redden as she focuses on Luca.
Bastard boy racer, he frowns to himself, but why on earth wouldn’t she blush? There’d be something wrong with her if she didn’t. And, anyway, it’s proof to me that she’s a healthy, sexual person. And that’s good.
A couple of journalists call greetings to which Luca replies with the victory sign before disappearing into the open arms of the Tour’s medical team.
I should have called out something, Cat reprimands herself. Wouldn’t my voice have stood out, made him stop and perhaps notice me?
Cat looks a little forlornly at the space on the bench Luca has left. Her gaze shifts to the right and clocks a nice pair of Timberland boots, good legs clad in black jeans, a white shirt. Her eyes travel automatically upwards, over a strong neck, ditto chin, to a pair of just parted lips. She finally alights on very dark brown eyes which won’t let her go. She notes a handsome face enhanced by a wry smile, crowned by dark hair cut flatteringly close to the head and quite strikingly flecked through with grey. Momentarily, Cat wonders who he might be. But she knows he’s not a rider so her interest wanes.
Anyway, I have to go. I have to find the salle de presse. I’m working. It’s my job.
Ben watches her leave, rather gratified by the fact that he’ll see her again over the next three weeks.
Thursday. Salle de presse. 1 p.m.
Starving hungry, Cat’s appetite disappeared on entering the press room. Dread instead filled her stomach until fear was a hard lump in her throat and panic was a terrible taste to the tongue. She felt immediately that she had been transported back to Durham University, that she had just entered a vast exam hall and was ten minutes away from the start of her finals. The comparison was apposite but, as in an anxiety dream, disconcertingly twisted too. Noise. Too much of it. You can’t sit the test of your life amidst such a din. There again, you wouldn’t really sit your finals in northern France, in an ice rink requisitioned by the Société du Tour de France.