For the most part, though, the good stuff did not come in following a break of three riders, nor sitting 20 metres in front of the peloton watching its arrow head glide across the plains of south-west France. It was at the back of the peloton, in the engine room, where things really got interesting. It is a remarkable thing, the peloton. In the distance, or from the aerial shots showing it stretching and contracting, or splitting down the middle to allow it to flow smoothly around a roundabout, the 175 individual cyclists resemble a single unit, a fluid, malleable whole.