He attacked every hill in a rage of effort, as though at each pedalthrust to stamp on his own frustration and avenge an insult. Takethat and that and that!

Our settled domestic routine was paying dividends in results,and being licensed to a French club had immense advantages.Our racing programme was organised for us, and our travellingexpenses negotiated. Without the club’s provision of transport,the ambulance’s protracted breakdown would have cost us dearin lost opportunities to race. The big bonus though was being ableaccess our prize money. By mid-May our cash was running low.Few ordinary people then possessed chequebook bank accounts andthere was no such thing as the credit card. Cash was king. Jock, in

particular, felt the nancial strain and before the Tour de Champagnehad his suitcase packed ready to return home. Without afliation

to the BCR, his £100 prize-money would have passed direct to theNCU and remained out of reach until the season’s end. But now,inside the month, our winnings awaited claim from the Rheims branch of the

Federation Française du Cyclisme

. We simply presentedour licences, signed on the dotted line and emerged clutching our

wad of banknotes. The joy of that rst big payday! It was morethan money. It was tangible evidence of a success that no one could

gainsay. That day we walked on air.Annie and Francine, two very attractive

demoiselles,

worked behindthe counter at the FFC where, to the envy of all their friends, they gotto meet lots of bronzed, muscular, sexy Frenchmen, racing cyclistsall. But we were special, or so we thought. We were English, the

only English, and they seemed to enjoy having us chat them up. It

was bold-as-brass Jock who suggested inviting them for an eveningmeal in the ambulance. ‘Have a drink, have a drink, have a drink on me,’ he sang, an out-of-key Lonnie Donegan, as heads together

behind a ling cabinet they pondered their decision. The idiot’sgoing to scare them off, I thought, and was astonished when they

emerged to say, ‘

Oui, ça va.’

As the great day approached our anticipation gave way to anxiety.What would these chic French girls make of our rudimentary livingquarters – especially the greasy stove and kitchenette littered with bottles and cans? And what had swayed their decision? Was it justcuriosity – the chance to go slumming in a menagerie? We went

into an absolute frenzy of tidying and cleaning, swabbing the oor,

scrubbing the grime-encrusted pans, folding our blankets and

stufng them with all our other meagre possessions out of sight

under the bunks. Remember, as ex-squaddies, we were trained inthe arts of ‘bull’. But nothing we did could disguise the fact that ourambulance was simply a boys’ hostel on wheels.We strove mightily to impress. A big questionmark surroundedthe choice of meal. Our self-appointed master chef Jock volunteeredhimself to prepare his

pièce de résistance

of steak and spaghetti,preceded by a hors d’oeuvres of grated carrot in an oil and vinegar

dressing, with dessert of fresh fruit salad. Finger-kissing superb!

Such unexpected

quasi-français cuisine

would knock them cold withits calculated sophistication. Furthermore, to demonstrate howdeeply we were embedded into French culture, we purchased a bottle of cheap

vin de table

We showered, shaved, dressed in our best clothes, Brylcreemed our hair and with increasing nervousnesssat on our bunks to await their coming.

Haute cusine nomade style

They arrived by car, late, heralded by peals of laughter. Nerves,we assumed charitably, – unless, of course, clapping eyes on the

ambulance for the rst time, they were in real hysterics. Maybe

they were more scared of us than we of them, since they wereaccompanied by an apologetic driver/chaperone, somebody’s brother or cousin, who hung back, smiling fulsomely, whilst lookingrepeatedly over his shoulder as though ready to do a runner if wetook offence at his uninvited presence. We all shook hands ratherawkwardly. Then the giggling recommenced as we gave them a

guided tour of the ambulance, bumping bottoms in the conned

space. We demonstrated the folding table and bunks doubling as benches, on which they were expected to sit and eat.

‘It’s very basic!’ I apologised. ‘Absolutely!’ said Annie. ‘But fullmarks for effort. You are, after all, men living alone.’ It sounded like

a well-rehearsed comment and, exchanging glances, they suddenlydoubled up again into paroxysms of uncontrollable laughter.

‘Oh, you must excuse us, please!’ they spluttered. But the more

they excused themselves, the more they laughed over whateversecret it was they shared and had no intention of disclosing. Andthe more they laughed and tossed their heads and their luscious hairglinted in the soft glow from the storm lantern, the more beautiful

they appeared. How could we possibly take offence? In fact, the

comedy was so infectious that extrovert Jock unashamedly beganto play himself for laughs.The girls observed his preparation of the meal with criticalamusement, as he pretended to count each stick of spaghetti likea miser, demanding, ‘

Combien en voulez-vous exactement?’

and then,with a pantomime gesture, tossed the steak in the pan as if it werepancake.

‘Attendez!’

exclaimed Francine.

‘J’ai quelque chose.’

She dashed off to the car and returned with a covered dish, whichshe revealed as the most exquisite quiche decorated with tomatoesand olives. The appearance of competition distracted our chef longenough for his steak to curl up and burn, something we were onlyalerted to when smoke began drifting into the ambulance. Vic triedto waft it out and tripped over the table-leg. Cutlery and plates

slid onto the oor. Nothing was broken, but for a while hysteria

reigned and then redoubled as, to demonstrate our high standards

of hygiene, I washed the oored items in a bucket of cold, soapy

water and wiped them on our one stained tea towel. The steak wasn’t