Amazon.co.uk Review
Cat McCabe is 29 and the youngest of three sisters brought up by their Uncle Django--a man with unusual culinary tastes ("I made pizza tonight," Django says proudly. "I had some bread that was going a bit off so I tore it up, added a little oil and beaten egg and a drop of ketchup, formed it into a base and baked the bugger. I added a topping of sardines, chicken liver, a little more ketchup and some Stilton.")--after their mother ran off with a cowboy from Denver.
A budding sports journalist obsessed with cycling, she's just been offered the chance of a lifetime--covering the Tour de France for the Guardian. But she's a little on the fragile side, having been dumped by her boyfriend of five years, and thus lost loads of weight and self-confidence. How will this English version of Ally McBeal survive the testosterone-fuelled cycling race? Will she succumb to the muscular thighs and obvious bulges of the sexy cyclists--and they to her slim English gorgeousness? How will she cope as one of only 12 women in the thousand-strong press corps? Will her Ex show up? Will he want her back? Does she want him back? And what about Ben York--team doctor for Megapac, the American outsiders? He seems to be flirting with her, and there's definitely Chemistry. But if he's after Cat, why was he looking deep into the eyes of Monique, the stunning Coca Cola podium girl? And, when the three gruelling weeks are over, will Cat get the features editorship she craves at Maillot magazine?
Lots of sex, angst, female bonding, cycling and lycra, plus a realistic smattering of wee and dysentery from the acclaimed author of Sally,Chloe and Polly. --Lisa Gee
Express
‘A breath of fresh air’
Independent on Sunday
‘An original, direct, funny new voice’
Book Description
Take a walk on the wild side with Freya North's irresistible bestselling fourth novel.
--This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.
Product Description
Set against the backdrop of the French countryside, with sex, drugs, lycra, oily shaved limbs, large bulges and even larger egos, the soap opera that is the Tour de France unfolds, with sports journalist Catriona McCabe's life mirroring the peaks, perils and pace of the race.
From the Publisher
From the bestselling author of Sally, Chloe, and Polly.
About the Author
Freya North holds a Masters Degree in History of Art from the Courtauld Institute. She has worked for the National Art Collections Fund as well as for a commercial sculpture garden and freelanced as a picture researcher before starting to write full-time. She lives in London.
Excerpted from cat by Freya North. Copyright © 2000. Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
'I know your mother ran off with a cowboy from Denver,' Django McCabe reasoned with his niece, 'but chasing through France after a bunch of boys on bikes - well isn't that taking the family tradition to new extremes?'
Cat McCabe, sunbathing, eyes closed, in her uncle's Derbyshire garden, smiled.
It feels funny smiling with eyes closed; like you can't really do both.
So she opened her eyes, stretched leisurely, sat up cross-legged, and picked blades of grass from her body, fingering the satisfying striations they had left on her skin.
'Lashings of lycra!' her elder sister fen offered from her position under the pear tree.
'Oily limbs a-plenty,' connived her eldest sister pip, suddenly cartwheeling into view.
Cat tried to look indignant but then grinned. 'The Tour de France is the World's most gruelling sporting event,' she said defensively, hands on hips, to her audience. 'It demands that its participants cycle 4,000k in three weeks. At full speed. Up and over mountains most normal folk ski down. Day after day after day.'
'And?' said Django, rubbing his knees, bemoaning that the sun wasn't doing for his arthritis what it did last year.
'And?' said Fen, an art historian who was much turned on by bronze marble renditions of Adonis than their pedal-turning doppelgangers her sister seemed so to admire.
'And?' said Pip courteously, more interested in perfecting her flikflaks across the lawn for her new act.
Cat McCabe regarded them sternly.
'A Tour de France cyclist can gave a lung capacity of around eight litres, a heart that can beat at least 200 times a minute at full pelt and then rest at a rate at which most people ought to be dead. They can climb five mountains in a row, descending them at up to 100 k per hour.'
'Wow,' said Fen with sisterly sarcasm, I bet they're really interesting people.'
'Greg LeMond,' countered cat, 'won the tour de France in 1989 by eight seconds on the final day.'
'Bully for him,' pip laughed , doing a handstand and wanting to practice her routine right the way through.
'And that was two years coming back from the brink of death when he was accidentally shot by his brother-in-law in a hunting accident.'
Now you're impressed!
Fen nodded and looked impressed.
Pip executed a single-handed cartwheel and said, 'Mister LeMond, I salute you.'
Django said, 'bet he's American.'
Cat confirmed that indeed he was.
'In what other sport would you have participants called Eros? Or Bo? Or teams called BigMat or OiMe or chicky World?'
'Topless darts?' Pip proposed.
'They can also pee whilst freewheeling,' Cat slipped in before anyone could change the subject. 'In their shorts?' Pip asked, quite flabbergasted.
'Nope,' Cat replied in a most matter-of-fact way. 'They just whip it out, twist their pelvis and pee as they go.'
'So,' said Django, 'you're off to France to experience a great sporting spectacle performed by superhuman athletes with great bike skills and no sense of urinary decorum?'
'Partly,' said cat with dignity, 'and because hopefully there'll be a job at the end of it.'
Fen raised her eyebrow.
Pip regarded her youngest sister sternly.
Well aware that her sisters continued to stare at her, cat looked out over Darley Dale and wished she had her mountain bike with her.
'Oh, all right!' she snapped whilst laughing and covering her face. 'I'm not pursuing the peleton because there's a job at the end of it if my freelance work is good enough.'
I wish I had my bike. I could just ride and ride and be on my own.
'You are pushing the peleton-' started fen.
'Because there's a-' continued Pip.
'Hope of Adventure?' Cat tried contemplatively, still covering her face.
'Lashings of lycra,' Fen shrugged as if resting her case.
'Silky smooth shaven thighs,' pip said in utter agreement. 'Big ones.'
'over the sea and far away,' Django mused. Everyone mused.
Everyone mused.
Cat nodded. 'It's time to move on,' she said thoughtfully. Everyone agreed. No one had to say anything more.
Cat McCabe, sunbathing, eyes closed, in her uncle's Derbyshire garden, smiled.
It feels funny smiling with eyes closed; like you can't really do both.
So she opened her eyes, stretched leisurely, sat up cross-legged, and picked blades of grass from her body, fingering the satisfying striations they had left on her skin.
'Lashings of lycra!' her elder sister fen offered from her position under the pear tree.
'Oily limbs a-plenty,' connived her eldest sister pip, suddenly cartwheeling into view.
Cat tried to look indignant but then grinned. 'The Tour de France is the World's most gruelling sporting event,' she said defensively, hands on hips, to her audience. 'It demands that its participants cycle 4,000k in three weeks. At full speed. Up and over mountains most normal folk ski down. Day after day after day.'
'And?' said Django, rubbing his knees, bemoaning that the sun wasn't doing for his arthritis what it did last year.
'And?' said Fen, an art historian who was much turned on by bronze marble renditions of Adonis than their pedal-turning doppelgangers her sister seemed so to admire.
'And?' said Pip courteously, more interested in perfecting her flikflaks across the lawn for her new act.
Cat McCabe regarded them sternly.
'A Tour de France cyclist can gave a lung capacity of around eight litres, a heart that can beat at least 200 times a minute at full pelt and then rest at a rate at which most people ought to be dead. They can climb five mountains in a row, descending them at up to 100 k per hour.'
'Wow,' said Fen with sisterly sarcasm, I bet they're really interesting people.'
'Greg LeMond,' countered cat, 'won the tour de France in 1989 by eight seconds on the final day.'
'Bully for him,' pip laughed , doing a handstand and wanting to practice her routine right the way through.
'And that was two years coming back from the brink of death when he was accidentally shot by his brother-in-law in a hunting accident.'
Now you're impressed!
Fen nodded and looked impressed.
Pip executed a single-handed cartwheel and said, 'Mister LeMond, I salute you.'
Django said, 'bet he's American.'
Cat confirmed that indeed he was.
'In what other sport would you have participants called Eros? Or Bo? Or teams called BigMat or OiMe or chicky World?'
'Topless darts?' Pip proposed.
'They can also pee whilst freewheeling,' Cat slipped in before anyone could change the subject. 'In their shorts?' Pip asked, quite flabbergasted.
'Nope,' Cat replied in a most matter-of-fact way. 'They just whip it out, twist their pelvis and pee as they go.'
'So,' said Django, 'you're off to France to experience a great sporting spectacle performed by superhuman athletes with great bike skills and no sense of urinary decorum?'
'Partly,' said cat with dignity, 'and because hopefully there'll be a job at the end of it.'
Fen raised her eyebrow.
Pip regarded her youngest sister sternly.
Well aware that her sisters continued to stare at her, cat looked out over Darley Dale and wished she had her mountain bike with her.
'Oh, all right!' she snapped whilst laughing and covering her face. 'I'm not pursuing the peleton because there's a job at the end of it if my freelance work is good enough.'
I wish I had my bike. I could just ride and ride and be on my own.
'You are pushing the peleton-' started fen.
'Because there's a-' continued Pip.
'Hope of Adventure?' Cat tried contemplatively, still covering her face.
'Lashings of lycra,' Fen shrugged as if resting her case.
'Silky smooth shaven thighs,' pip said in utter agreement. 'Big ones.'
'over the sea and far away,' Django mused. Everyone mused.
Everyone mused.
Cat nodded. 'It's time to move on,' she said thoughtfully. Everyone agreed. No one had to say anything more.
