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.
