‘Brake, brake, brake!’: a white-knuckle ride on the back of a motorbike at the Tour de France

My eyes instinctively close shut as the wide roads flanked by vibrant sunflower fields give way to grass and then the stone outskirts of a village, which we’re fast approaching.

I’m on a motorbike and I trust my driver Gaëtan implicitly; I’ve been his passenger before and know he’s a pro when it comes to manoeuvring in the convoy at the Tour de France, which isn’t for the faint-hearted.

It’s as close as I’m going to get to the Tour de France without riding in the peloton myself.

My arms, which had been hanging loose by my sides, are now tense, my knuckles turning white as I grip the passenger handles by the seat. As I open my eyes there is a team car to my right, so close that if I extended my knee out even slightly, I’d hit it. The people inside don’t seem to register that I’m there.

The windows of the car are all up. One sports director is driving, and another is sitting in the passenger seat with a computer tablet in their hands. In the back is a mechanic, his arm over spare wheels that have taken up the remaining space in the sedan. Spare bikes are firmly attached to the roof of the vehicle as it pushes ahead of us, closer to the village.

The sound of idling engines has given way to the roar of fast accelerations, and then abrupt braking. My ears start to ring as the tooting of car horns is drowned out by the five or six helicopters now circling above us to broadcast the race. I look ahead to see the single lane entry into the village the peloton is passing through, under bunting that is zigzagging from rooftop to rooftop across the town.

My driver weaves in and out around the convoy, which now resembles a rally car race more than a procession. The lane doesn’t seem big enough for one sedan, let alone two.

‘Brake,