She was round a corner, parked. An orange quadricycle, with a stripey awning and smiley face on the front. She had seven seats, one reserved for me. It should have been fun but she was soooo heavy, like a Mini with a boot-load of bricks. A TDF bike weighs in around 6.8 kg, Rosalie felt like 6.8 tons. She was a big girl and the lactic acid built up in my quads as my legs pumped up and down. Vincent was training me the hard way.
Staggering like a still-drunk-the-morning-after, I dismounted Rosalie to be told a ‘treat’ was waiting. What could it possibly be! The Rack, Iron Maiden, Thumbscrew? No. Treatments. “No tricks this time, Vincent…please” I said. True his word he took me to Thalasso Valdys for a Pause Cocoon which involved some ‘Zen Modeling’ (a body massage) with seaweed kelp cream; Hydromassage bath with seaweed jelly (better than it sounds) finishing off with ‘marine rain’ (a seawater shower).
By now I’d lost all track of where the Tour had been. Bye-bye to Vincent and my doped-motor, and into my taxi for the one hour transfer to Les Sables-d’Olonne which the riders passed through during stage 1.
My new steed was black with white spots and came fully equipped with a seat squishy enough to sooth the sorest undercarriage, and, casting aside all pretence at weight-saving, a sturdy metal shopping basket into which I stowed my camera bag. For the first time I joined a peloton (tour-speak for a pack of riders who save energy by riding behind other riders). The dynamic of the peloton is more complex than a John Le Carré spy novel. Teams sacrifice lesser members to get their Wiggins, Froome, or Evans on to the podium. Bitter rivals work together until push literally comes to shove in the race to the finish.