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aggressive climber, could surely have attacked over the remaining inclines on the stage. That is, Hoogerland could have attacked, had he not ended up tangled in a barbed-wire fence. That kind of slowed him down.
    In short, if the peloton let the break go, that crash meant the yellow jersey. Seven years after his improbable defence of the race lead, which had entranced the watching world, Voeckler was suddenly at it again. He didn’t expect it. We didn’t expect it. And little Lila will be told about it for many years to come.
    The clockwork of memories rewound to 2004. Could it really have been 2004? A whole seven years ago? I was just thirty five! A mere, slightly podgy sapling, bending in the force-9 gale of events in just my second Tour de France. Armstrong was smashing the race apart. It was such a long time ago that people still thought Jan Ullrich might win. After a while, with this race ticking away in your heart, you start to measure out your life to its annual rhythm. Because it changes shape each year, more often than not with one defining feature, it tolls the bell of my irresistible ageing. 2007: London. 2008: Alpe d’Huez. 2009: Ventoux. 2010: Tourmalet. 2011: Galibier. The gaps in between are just so much padding. 2004: Voeckler.
    Now he stood in open disbelief on the podium in Saint-Flour, his face scrunched into a smile devouring his every feature. He grabbed a fistful of the Europcar (there, I’ve done it again) logo on his yellow jersey, and kissed it with a passion not usually accorded to nylon-based weaves. The consummate professional.
    Two Voecklers: this one, weather-beaten and scrawny. And that one: the ‘baby-faced’ little cheeky chappy Tommy V, who’d captivated the misty-eyed sporting sentimentalists some seven years ago. We drew breath, and wondered what the future would hold for Voeckler, Part II.
    There is stuff both to admire and to fear about the sporting comeback, the repetition of former glories. It seldom passes well, if truth be told. To watch on, as an act of greatness is repeated at the fag end of a career, carries with it the uneasiness of a warm October day. It cannot be enjoyed with the same insouciance, since it doesn’t contain promise in any measure, only fragility. So Voeckler’s moment of triumph in Saint-Flour gave rise to just one thought. This moment seven years on was just a pale yellow pretender. I yearned to go back in time, and to witness the authentic, unfolding drama of 2004 once again.
    * * *
    A few days later, I looked aimlessly around the pastel-coloured, echoing lobby of the Mercure hotel in Albi. I was weary. It was the morning of Voeckler’s third day in yellow. Behind me a French Eurosport crew were just putting the finishing touches to an edited feature on their laptop. In front of me, sitting patiently at a white plastic coffee table, Thomas Voeckler, already dressed from neckline to knees in acid lemon yellow, was being enthusiastically talked to by three besuited marketing reps. From what I could gather, they were pitching a new sponsorship deal for some kind of powdered glucose nonsense. Voeckler looked to be broadly delighted with their proposal. After a little while he shook their hands separately and, taking up a few free samples of the energy drink being discussed, he took his leave and headed back towards the breakfast room, where Julie was trying to get their son to eat yoghurt. This she was managing to do, whilst simultaneously rocking their new-born daughter back and forth in a pram. If she needed help, then it arrived in the form of the leader of the Tour de France.
    After breakfast, he went outside. I stood next to Liam, who was filming Thomas Voeckler playing with little Mahe in the chilly drizzle outside the hotel in Albi. Wearing matching yellow jerseys, albeit in different sizes, the two male Voecklers were running from one side of the courtyard to another. Mahe squealed with delight each time his father set off, waddling like a sped-up