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By now, I knew how much I liked the Tour of California. I’d been there five times and come back with five green jerseys. The people were always pleased to see you, but they were never in your face. The air smelled clean and held the scent of oranges. The roads were good, the racing was fast but laid-back . . . what wasn’t to like?

My road manager, Gabriele, always says that there is something to remind me of Giovanni there, too: The biggest climb was called Mount Baldy. Thanks, Gabriele. Don’t worry, I’m sure Lomba will never read this.

Oleg, Bjarne, and Bobby were a world away, as were the disappointments of Roubaix, Flanders, and San Remo.

Mark Cavendish was here, though, and he was on fire, sprinting in that explosive way that only he can and reminding me what a pure sprinter looks like. He showed me a clean pair of heels on the first two stages, and I began to think that my green jersey count would be likely to stick on five. Never mind. It’s good to have a plan, but when your plan doesn’t work out, you find another way.