The McCabe Girls Complete Collection: Cat, Fen, Pip, Home Truths. Freya North

stupid?

      Not stupid. But consider, on the one hand, how many come from small, rural, simple backgrounds. They join a team. They ride for all they’re worth, their bodies are ravaged, their spirits are exhausted. The directeur, the doctor, the soigneur say, ‘Take this, it’s recuperative, it will help, it will do you good.’ Why wouldn’t they? These are the rider’s mentors, their father figures. They trust them and they depend on them.

      And on the other hand?

       Some riders proclaim themselves victims duped into dope but these are the same shrewd guys who ruthlessly negotiate huge contracts.

      And you, Ben?

       ‘Trust me, I’m a doctor’ can be the most dangerous words in pro cycling and that frustrates and depresses me. Personally, I believe my duty as a doctor is ethical as much as medical. My obligation to my vocation, my employer and my riders is to ensure that my charges suffer as little and recover as quickly as possible. I study each man intensively and I administer a range of substances – nutritional, hormonal, anabolic – to maintain optimal balance. My scientific background enables me to do this – what the fuck and why the fuck would a rider know anything about how much beta-hydroxy beta-methyl butyrate and how often?

      And Didier?

       I can’t sleep, that’s why I’m in the corridor. Feeling impotent. Feeling pretty enraged. I can’t have drugs on my team. I will not tolerate such a flagrant abuse of the team ethos, of all the work I do to maintain my riders’ health. I fear Didier’s stupidity and selfishness – if he dares, if he even dares, he could put all our jobs, our credibility, the very future of the team, on the line – to say nothing of his health.

      And Vasily?

       Vasily has a checkered past. He is now a crusader. I’m hoping his experience and the respect he now has universally, will enlighten Didier.

      Why comes temptation but for man to meet

      And master and make crouch beneath his foot

      And so be pedestalled in triumph?

       But I don’t know how Robert Browning translates into Russian or French.

      Through breathtaking scenery, incredible overhangs of rock, tunnels burrowing through the mountains, stunning bridges old and new, the peloton of the Tour de France headed for its brief sojourn in Switzerland. Luca and Didier had woken in contemplative self-engrossed moods, having gone to sleep much the same the night before. Neither were aware that their doctor had eavesdropped on their slumber. Now they were cycling quietly side by side in a throng of yakking Spanish riders; through the beautiful town of Seyssel, elegantly atop a picturesque river, through the lovely flower-festooned old village of Billiat where Sassetta took the hot-spot sprint while aged men waved slowly and widely. The Tour de France – every year, since these septuagenarians were boys; defining their calendar, compounding their patriotism, affirming their past and confirming the futures of their grandsons. There would always be the Tour de France. A birthright. A heritage. An heirloom. Wave and smile and then a leisurely reminisce over Pernod about Louison Bobet, Jacques Anquetil, Thèvenet, Hinault, Fignon. Look forward to next year. Vive le Tour.

      After 126 kilometres, a sprint, a fourth-, a third- and a second-category climb, Didier and Luca snatched their musettes as they flew past the feed station.

      ‘I’m so tired,’ Luca said, ‘I’m not even hungry.’

      ‘Me too,’ Didier agreed. ‘Mind you, I’ve been fantasizing about a day-long MacDonalds binge when the Tour is over.’

      ‘I’m going to have oysters and champagne,’ said Luca, brightening up. It was the first thing either had said all day.

      ‘On Jules Le Grand’s expense account, no doubt,’ Didier tested.

      Luca regarded him and shrugged. ‘What would you do?’

      ‘What you mean is, what do I think you should do,’ Didier responded astutely.

      ‘What should I do?’ Luca asked quietly.

      ‘Are you tempted?’

      ‘Fuck, man! Système Vipère!’ Luca exclaimed, as if resting his case.

      ‘Loads of money, cool hi-fi, great bikes, cool team strip, the greatest team in the world,’ Didier defined nonchalantly while Luca cycled a few metres ahead. ‘So why,’ Didier asked, catching up, ‘are you asking me what to do? Why aren’t you telling me that you’re already signed up, that the cap fits, that you’re a Viper Boy in the making? Why do you even need to ask?’

      Luca sighed but decided instead to wonder why the spectators were waving ski poles. Didier let him sigh again before fixing him with a searching stare.

      ‘It’s blown my mind,’ Luca said honestly. ‘There has to be a catch.’

      ‘Did you see Le Grand this morning at the village?’ asked Didier, having waited for Jesper Lomers to overtake and be out of earshot.

      ‘Yeah,’ Luca replied, ‘talking to Magnus Backstedt.’

      ‘I saw him in a corner with Bo Hamburger,’ Didier remarked.

      Luca pedalled on ahead to reflect and, instinctively, Didier held back. Luca wondered whether those riders had also been told that it would be a travesty not to nurture talent, that they too had the makings of true champions and that Système Vipère would be honoured to have them? Two women bouncing ebulliently in bikini tops provided timely distraction and Luca cycled on, living for the moment, riding the day’s Stage, his body knackered, his soul exhausted. Eventually, he sat up and looked back to see Didier, his team-mate, room-mate and friend, riding alongside the yellow jersey. Neither Vasily nor Didier spoke but Luca could sense some deep communication between the two. Like yesterday. Intrigued, he dropped his pace and returned to the bunch at the same time as Vasily, Fabian and a clutch of final-week glory-seekers sped off the front.

      ‘Fuck! You’re going to Zucca MV, aren’t you?’ Luca asked Didier accusatorially. Didier looked confused. ‘You and your new best friend Vasily,’ Luca probed. ‘He’s been sent to lure you, hasn’t he?’ Didier looked resolutely ahead, picking up the pace to pursue the breakaway. Luca matched his speed. ‘We can’t be on rival teams,’ he bemoaned, ‘and anyway, I can’t believe he’s picked you and not me after I rode with him that day I won the Stage.’

      Didier glanced at Luca. ‘I’m not going to Zucca, I’m staying with Megapac.’

      ‘But Vasily asked – right? He’s been wooing you,’ Luca probed, ‘all that shoulder-rubbing yesterday. When I came by, he flicked me – stopped talking and his stare said it all, said for me to fuck off.’

      ‘It was a sensitive subject,’ Didier said.

      ‘He was trying to poach you,’ Luca said sulkily, ‘and I really thought he rated me.’

      ‘Listen to you!’ Didier snapped. ‘You’ve got transfer fever bad – it’s affecting your ride. It’s affecting me. I’m completely knackered but I’m away. Adieu.’

      Cat contemplated Didier’s ride. For a quiet rider, a bulwark for Megapac, a stalwart of the peloton, LeDucq was suddenly making a huge splash, pelting after the breakaway, dropping anyone attempting to take his wheel.

      ‘Blimey,’ Josh marvelled out loud, ‘what’s he on?’

      ‘Nothing, I hope,’ said Cat.

      Vasily is pleased to see Didier coming up to his group but instead of slowing the pace to welcome him, he accelerates forward causing Fabian to motor after him and the hangers-on to grip hard to hang on. It doesn’t offend Didier. He understands the Russian’s motive and Didier is motivated to reach them and ride on. There are 50 kilometres to go, Didier’s head is down and he is cycling strongly, attaining great rhythm and maintaining utter focus. Conversation is sparse