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Lori

Most of tomorrow’s ride would be non-competitive by tradition, with the sprinters contesting the win in the final kilometres.

But while the men had an early piss-up with the champagne popped before they even crossed the finish line, the women were actually racing the first day of our Tour.

My brain was shooting off in a million directions.

When he finally replied, while Leesa and I were watching a cheesy Netflix romcom, the relief, the joy, the utter frustration shook me.

We had a lot to talk about, problems to iron out – at least I hoped he wanted to iron them out too.

But silly text messages were our love language and I felt tears pricking when he reached out in that small, but significant way.

There was a rap at the door and I was so jittery I leaped up and wrenched it open before Leesa could even press ‘Pause’.

One of the members of the hotel staff stood there with a small box that made my stomach flip.

‘This just arrived for you, mademoiselle. It’s from—’

I grabbed for it rather rudely but, as I tugged open the lid, the end of the man’s sentence made me freeze.

‘… your brother.’

‘Merci,’ I managed to respond, closing the door after him. Slumping onto my bed, I glanced into the box with a little less enthusiasm.

‘Did you think it would be a diamond ring from Seb?’ Leesa teased.

‘No!’ I was pretty sure it would take me several more years to convince Seb we could do that .

I would probably drag him to Gibraltar for a quickie wedding next week if he’d let me, but I was also only twenty-six and I didn’t want to give him even more of a complex. ‘I thought it might be another hint.’

‘You’re more excited about a hint of getting back together with Seb than with a lovely pair of earrings? Although if they’re from Colin, maybe they’ll shoot water in your eye.’

‘Maybe my little brother is finally growing up – a bit.’ I studied the gift with a smile. The hoops were thick, but small enough not to get caught on anything. Sending Colin a quick text in thanks, I slipped them in. He was a bit of a dick sometimes, but he was all right. He texted back quickly.

I’m sorry I didn’t notice you’d lost one. Lucky someone tipped me off. Looking forward to catching up after you slay the others in the women’s Tour.

A grin stretched on my face and lightness expanded in my chest. Everything was going to be all right. Racing was hard. My family a bit fraught. Things were up in the air with Seb, but he’d been wrong and I’d been wrong and I could convince him to give it another go when I saw him.

But it would be a whole lot easier to convince him if I won…

‘Leesa, do you have a chain I can borrow? I broke mine, but I want to wear something tomorrow.’

As the men headed for the Champs-élysées on Sunday for the final sprint and the podium, our Grand Départ was 500 km away in Lyon.

Feeling like myself with my earrings in, Saint Francis and Joan of Arc against my chest and a redback drawn on my forearm, I hit the race hard, loving every second of attack and every breather in the peloton.

I spent most of the stage with a grin on my face, not only from the warm air, the surge of adrenaline and the taste of victory, but also because the crowds were large, a real Tour de France moment, although the Tour had been men-only for so many years.

It didn’t hurt that my old rival, Laura Colombini, moved in and out of my peripheral vision.

Loredana ‘Folklore’ Gallagher was full of fondness and respect as well as the ruthless desire to win and, if I got the chance, I would wrap my arms around her after the finish.

I spotted a little round Cochonou saucisson van with its red-checked paint job.

I saw people draped in national flags, raising a hand every time I saw the Australian one and even managing a few high fives: with a group in sumo suits, another in bikinis – the men and the women.

Someone had even scrawled my name in enormous chalk letters on the road, making my vision blur with tears.

A month ago, I might have panicked about bursting into tears in the middle of a race, but that day I wasn’t focusing on what could go wrong – only on what felt right.

I would always have the scars, but my skin and muscle had grown over them – and I had grown more emotional soft tissue to protect my fearful heart.

I was strangely glad neither Mum nor Dad was there that day.

I was racing for the new me, the one who loved a dorky Star Wars fan and occasionally ate waffles and cuddled goats.

When Laura surged out from behind her support riders and went on the attack, I inwardly celebrated, hopping on her wheel and following easily. We took turns in the lead and I apparently freaked her out with my cheerful camaraderie, if her flummoxed looks were anything to go by.

As we hurtled towards Grenoble, through the sun-drenched valley of the Isère river, with rocky outcrops ranging on either side, a spectator shaking a sign up ahead gave a whoop loud enough to draw my attention.

After the supporter who took down half the peloton with a cardboard sign that just said, ‘Hi Granny and Grandpa’ a few years ago, we all had a healthy fear of unpredictable fans, so I flinched and ignored him, even though he waved the sign more frantically as I passed him.

At the last minute, I caught sight of the writing on the cardboard, messily handwritten, and I almost did a double take. Glancing over my shoulder before I could stop myself, I read the text again, still in disbelief.

‘Allez, Lori!’ he called out with a grin and I snapped my attention back to the road.

Three kilometres later, approaching Grenoble, I saw another one, then a cluster of three together, held by a group of women who whistled and cheered as I zoomed past. But no one knew I had used the handle Folklore99 – or, only one person knew.

Prickles of anticipation shuddered up my spine as more signs appeared in the crowd the closer we got to the finish at the top of the old fort in Grenoble. The stage ended with a gruelling climb, which gave me ample time to spot more signs as my heart expanded as though filled with helium.

Laura tried to drop me several times, nearly succeeding on the flat, but I was still within reach as we headed for the finish.

‘Go, Lori! Colombini looks like she’s struggling. Go for the win if you can!’ I heard Alf over my radio.

As the lead rider, I was supposed to be saving my strength for the later stages, but I felt so damn good that I went for it, catching and then shooting past Laura 100 m before the finish.

Time slowed down as the momentum of my bike hurled me towards the line.

My heartbeat echoed in my ears – lavish and powerful.

As I stretched to raise my arms above my head in victory, for the first time since I’d crashed and hit bottom, the future opened up in my mind, bright and shiny and new.

And I bellowed from the depths of my stomach.

Coming to a stop and leaning heavily on my handlebars, time sped up to its normal pace.

The burn in my lungs and shooting pain in my muscles were familiar, but the elation…

I wanted the whole world to be as bright as this.

I’d just fought my first victory as a woman in love – with a man who’d pulled a stunt that gave me every hope of fixing things between us.

Pushing to the barrier, I beckoned for a fan holding one of the signs to hand it over, stopping to give a couple of autographs, which nearly made me cry again.

The cardboard rectangle tucked under my arm – probably getting sweaty, but I didn’t have time to care – I paused for jubilant hugs from the swannies and from Doortje and Leesa and Bonnie when they rolled in a few minutes later.

I briefly wondered if Mum would see my finish, but she’d have to do a lot more than congratulate me on a good result to be allowed back into my head. Today was for me. Regardless of her feelings and sacrifices, it was my career – my life.

‘What was the story with all those signs?’ Doortje asked, making me laugh all over again.

‘I’ll tell you later,’ I promised, as a race organiser shepherded me behind the barriers for the post-race podium protocol.

Then it hit me: I would wear the yellow jersey. Even if I lost it again over the course of the next week, I’d wear it tomorrow. Every disappointment of the past year fell away and I burst into ugly tears, right in front of the cameras.

The reporters were going to freak out to see ‘Top Gun’ bawling, but between the pain and uncertainty of the past few months and the wonderful sign under my arm, I was a different rider – a different person. And that was okay.

I only had time to wipe the sweat off my face before someone was zipping me into a yellow jersey over the top of my team kit, slapping a little cyclist’s cap with a flat visor over my sweat-soaked hair, and then I was shoved out onto the stage to confront the cheering crowd.

Clutching the sign, I dipped my head to receive the stage win medal, sobbing again and swiping at my nose with the back of my hand.

Someone else handed me a floral bouquet and I held it up high, blubbering and grinning. Fumbling with the slightly damp sign, I turned it towards the cameras and hugged it to my chest. I’d have to answer questions later, but I wanted Seb to see me holding it in the pictures – in the yellow jersey.

He was in Paris drinking champagne – as he deserved after three weeks of fighting his own fight.

But he must have mobilised the fan groups in his absence to remind me of everything we’d shared, as though I needed any reminders, when everything from those early weeks – his patience, acceptance and even his bad jokes – was still fresh in my memory.

I had no idea what he’d told them, but I kind of hoped it was the whole story of how we’d found each other.

I was more than ready for the world to know how I’d struggled after my injury and how that vulnerability had brought me to this moment. No matter what happened during the rest of the Tour, I was the luckiest person in the world.

I held up the sign, decorated with hand-drawn hearts and bearing my new favourite hashtag: #FolkyDunes4ever.