STAGE 1

       Delaunay Le Beau-Rouen. 195 kilometres

      When Luca Jones tripped on the stairs of the start podium to sign in, he did not see it as an omen for his ride but as cultivation of his popularity. He recovered his composure, signed the vast chart and beamed and waved at the crowd as his name was blasted out by the PA system.

      ‘Stage 1 of the fucking Tour de France,’ he marvelled to Travis as if he might not have realized, while, astride their bikes, they waited for the ceremonial off.

      ‘Watch yourself,’ Travis laughed.

      ‘Everyone’s watching!’ Luca responded. He felt absolutely ready for the day’s racing and was looking forward to enjoying himself. ‘It’s fairly flat today,’ he had reasoned to his soigneur who was slapping his legs warm earlier, ‘I’m just going to hang out with the bunch, turn and tune my legs. I’m going to clock the crowds, even the landscape – perhaps there’ll be some gorgeous scenery along the way, softly undulating and bikini-clad – you know?’

      Luckily for the riders around Luca, the weather was dry, bright but too cold for bikinis. Crashes were a foregone conclusion without the added jeopardy of roadside distractions on Luca Jones. The peloton rode in unison for a while, teams happily dispersing to chat in native tongues to fellow riders.

      ‘You’re a tart, Luca,’ Stuart O’Grady teased when Luca came back to the English contingent, having ridden leisurely with an Italian posse for a few miles.

      ‘Yeah, but my tan, man,’ Luca reposted, ‘better than you, Stu.’ After tapping on for a few miles more, the bunch stepped up the pace and began to race. For over two hours, the only view Luca examined was the colourful contours of the mass of torsos around him. He was well prepared therefore when a Banesto rider took down four others just far enough ahead and to the left to avoid the pile up. Lucky Luca, he said to himself. He worked his way to the front forty for a while, rode alongside Vasily Jawlensky who gave him a nod of recognition, which served as fuel injection to the legs. Lucky Luca, he said to himself, Vasily fucking Jawlensky.

      Then what happened? To be suddenly staring at the still mass of blue sky after concentrating for so long on the multicoloured movement of the peloton was momentarily disconcerting and dazzling. It was not Lucky Luca who found himself all but sitting directly on top of JaJa. The famous Frenchman Laurent Jalabert had Fucking Luca Jones sprawled over the top of him.

      ‘Merde!’ Jalabert swore as he and Luca extricated themselves amicably enough from one another.

      ‘Wank,’ said Luca, seeing blood on his shin and wondering where his bike was.

      ‘Ça va?’ someone asked.

      ‘Oui,’ Luca muttered, ‘wank.’

       There’s my bike. There goes Jalabert. Skill. How come I’m bleeding? Do I hurt? I don’t think so.

      Riders were picking their way cautiously around Luca and a few other floored men. Luca was aware of the thrum of the TV helicopter overhead, of the whirr of press cameras near by, of the yellow-clad Mavic neutral service personnel swarming around like helpful worker bees. After so long in the saddle, to stand upright felt a little odd. To the French family previously enjoying their annual institution of picnic and peloton, the stooped Luca looked injured enough even before they saw his ripped shorts. It was time to do their bit; what an honour, what a conversation piece. Luca was bent over with hands on knees, collecting himself and his Oakleys, when someone put an arm around his shoulders.

      ‘Monsieur?’

       Fuck, look at my shorts. Where is the blood on my leg coming from?

       ‘Monsieur – ici.’

      Luca was gazing at the sky again.

       I’m lying on a picnic table. I’m being photographed.

      He sat up. On the road, riders were remounting. He looked to his right and stared blankly at he photographer. He looked to his left and a small child stared at him whilst sucking hard on a straw in an empty bottle of Coke. He looked down and regarded a pile of picnic victuals hastily dumped on a chair. He looked at his left thigh and observed slivers of baguette crust speckling his skin with shards of gravel.

      ‘Ça va?’ a photographer said perfunctorily, looking around for another photo opportunity.

      Luca shrugged, got to his feet, set his bike upright, spun a wheel and grinned through 180 degrees. ‘Yeah – I’m fine.’ He saluted the family who nodded humbly. Off he went, shorts in shreds, left hip stinging, reputation intact, popularity increased.

      ‘It’s not your blood,’ said his soigneur, sponging Luca down at the team car when he arrived an hour or so later.

      ‘Huh?’

      ‘Not yours,’ the soigneur said, almost accusatorially.

      ‘Jeez, must be Jalabert’s,’ Luca muttered as if he ought to return it.

      ‘Great butt,’ Hunter laughed, raising his eyebrows at Luca’s flank on view through his tattered shorts.

      ‘You want to change?’ his soigneur asked.

      Luca nodded initially but then said, ‘Nah.’ Narrowing his eyes, he correctly deduced that the three girls hovering would prefer him this way.

      ‘From Denmark,’ said one, holding out her T-shirt for an autograph and exchanging three kisses.

      ‘Me too,’ said the other, proffering a felt tip and her forearm for signing and her lips for direct osculation.

      ‘And