Cat. Freya North
I like him, he’s amusing – it might even be fun with the three of us in the car.
‘Morning, Cat,’ said Alex, right on cue and towering above her, ‘fucking shit night’s sleep last night.’
Cat wasn’t quite sure how to respond, because she had slept very well, so she gave what she hoped was a sympathetic tip of her head. Alex loped off. Cat returned her attention to her still ominously blank screen.
I have to write my piece – Taverner wants 800 words on the Tour de France in general for Saturday’s issue as a prelude to the daily reports on each Stage.
‘Coming for coffee?’ said Josh. ‘Then the Zucca MV press conference?’
‘Sure,’ said Cat, quickly exiting her empty file as if it was full of secret scoops; grabbing her notepad and dictaphone, checking her back pocket for francs. ‘Bugger,’ she said, looking aghast, ‘I’ve come with no money.’
‘Money?’ Josh laughed. ‘You won’t need it – did you not eat during the day yesterday?’ Cat shook her head. ‘Well, Cat, Christmas comes early for the salle de presse – follow me.’
Josh took her out of the main ice rink and through to a much smaller hall where three sides of the room were lined with tables heaving under what appeared to Cat to be a veritable banquet.
‘No one loses weight on the Tour de France,’ said Josh, assessing Cat openly and deciding, in her case, that was a good thing.
‘Apart from the riders,’ said Cat.
‘Huh?’ said Josh, looking at his watch and then taking some baguette and brie.
‘The riders,’ Cat repeated, sitting down beside Josh and Alex, ‘they lose weight – they can lose around 4 pounds of muscle alone when the body starts to use it for energy.’
The baguette Josh was about to eat stopped midway to his mouth. Alex had a mouthful of coffee but put the gulp on hold.
‘How many calories a day do the riders consume?’ Josh asked, as if merely interested though Cat could tell she was being tested.
‘Between six and eight thousand,’ she shrugged, ‘60 per cent from complex carbs, 20 per cent from protein and 20 per cent from fat.’
‘Liquid?’ Alex demanded, having swallowed his.
‘Well, on a long Stage, and if it’s hot,’ Cat recited, ‘they need about 12 pints – but you see, the body can only absorb around 800 millilitres an hour, so fluid is always going to be a major concern. That’s why the drinks must be cold and hypertonic – they need to be absorbed quickly and to work efficiently.’
‘Also—’ Alex started but Cat hadn’t finished.
‘All riders fear thirst,’ she said gravely, taking a contemplative sip of Orangina, ‘because if you’re thirsty, it’s basically too late.’
‘Who rode the most Tours?’ Josh enquired, as if he had temporarily forgotten.
‘Joop Zoetemelk,’ Cat reminded him kindly, ‘sixteen in all.’ She regarded Alex, who was obviously musing over some taxing question. She saved him the trouble. ‘Maurice Garin,’ she said, ‘won the first Tour in 1903. Of course, the free wheel wasn’t invented until practically thirty years later,’ she added as an aside.
‘How many hairpin bends on L’Alpe D’Huez?’ Alex asked.
‘Twenty-one,’ replied Cat.
‘Fastest time trial?’ Josh pumped, raising an eyebrow at Alex over Cat’s split-second silence.
‘I reckon that would be Greg LeMond in 1989 – I think he averaged a fraction under 55 kph.’
‘Name the infamous Uzbekistan rider who won the green jersey and was—’
Cat interrupted Josh: ‘and was thrown off the 1997 Tour for testing positive?’
‘Him,’ Josh confirmed.
‘In fact,’ Alex mused, ‘spell him!’
Cat laughed. ‘I’ve named my two goldfish after him. Phonetically speaking, “jam-ollideen abdoo-jap-arov” have to be the most delicious words to roll off the tongue. Ever.’
‘Want a coffee?’ Alex asked, a certain reluctant admiration on his face. She nodded. He went off and brought back just the one, just for Cat. Josh took another chunk of baguette, laid two slithers of brie within it and proffered it to Cat. She accepted graciously.
Respect!
Friday. Zucca MV press conference. 12 p.m.
‘Come on, guys, or you’ll be late. Massimo – where’s Stefano? And where’s Vasily?’ Rachel McEwen was irritated; swinging the keys to the Fiat loaned to Zucca by the Tour de France, around and around her index finger. She had so much to do. Retrieving errant riders was not on her list.
Vasily Jawlensky, last year’s winner of the Tour de France, walked in a leisurely way across the car park. Rachel could never be cross with Vasily as he never intended to upset anyone.
‘Vasily,’ she said in a theatrical whimper, ‘where have you been?’
‘Viz my bike,’ Vasily replied as if Rachel really should have known the answer. Rachel smiled, nodded and laid a hand on his shoulder. She should have known. The majority of riders finish a race or a Stage, dismount and have no idea, or interest, in what happens to their bicycles. Most riders have little technical knowledge of their machines. But not Vasily. His first love, no doubt his dying love, is the bicycle.
Frequently, after his massage, he will venture to the car park of the hotel, to the team truck, and see to the wash-down and check-over of his bicycle himself. It helps him relax. He loves the company of the team mechanics. He is relaxed among them. When he looks back at the newspaper cuttings, the photos and film of his brilliant career, he does not look at himself, at the grimace of pain or the expression of elation he might be wearing, he does not look at the colour of the jersey on his back, or which rider is in front of him or, more likely, behind him. Unlike his team-mate Stefano Sassetta, Vasily would never consider analysing the dimensions of his thighs, the condition of his physique, the aesthetic merits of his categorically handsome face. Vasily Jawlensky’s attention in such instances is purely for the bike that is carrying him. He is the jockey, they are his transport to success.
To women, Cat most certainly amongst them, Vasily Jawlensky is a most gallant, enigmatic knight in shimmering lycra. For Vasily Jawlensky, his cycles are his magnificent steeds, his high-modulus carbon fibre and titanium chargers. He salutes them.
‘Just Stefano now,’ said Rachel, looking at her watch and then at Massimo and Vasily, who looked a little sheepish for having upset his soigneur whom he respected and liked. She unlocked the car and ushered the two riders in to the back.
‘You two,’ she said sternly, as if to a pair of dogs, ‘stay!’ They watched her sprint back into the hotel and, a few minutes later, pelt out again. She ran around to the side of the hotel where the team trucks were parked, disappearing from view just as Stefano appeared from the front of the hotel. He sauntered over to the team car and slipped into the front seat.
‘Ciao,’ he nodded to his team-mates.
‘Buon giorno,’ Massimo said.
‘How are you?’ said Vasily with great thought. The two riders communicated warmly but sparely in pigeon English.
Rachel reappeared, her hair loose and all over the place. She saw the laden car and walked briskly to it, settling herself in to the driver’s seat, studiously ignoring Stefano.
‘Ciao, Rachel,’ Stefano beamed, ‘where the fuck you been, hey?’ Rachel knew this scenario well. Accordingly, she switched on the ignition calmly and drove away. However, the frequent screech of brakes, the taking