THE Tour de France, which sets off from Leeds tomorrow, is an iconic test of strategy, team work, individual skill and desire.

What is less talked about is that at any moment during the 2,277 gruelling miles from Yorkshire to the climax on the Champs-Elysees, a rider’s race — and career — can come crashing to an end and usually through no fault of their own. 

For me, one of the unexpected things about racing is how different everything looks and feels inside the bunch, compared to the vantage point of the spectator.

From the outside, the peloton looks like a model of co-operation and solidarity as it flows effortlessly around traffic islands, roundabouts and hairpin bends. 

In fact the bunch operates more like a “failed state.” Its occupants are at war with one another, alliances are continually formed and broken but somehow the entity keeps going.

Inside the peloton it is a battle for position and wheels, with the riders towards the front controlling the pace and able to attack or respond to breakaways. Swearing, pushing, shoving, leaning, elbows, head-butts even — it all goes on in the bunch especially during a sprint finish.

Cycling is a hard, cruel sport and if you’re not the cat, you’re the mouse.

Of course, just like from outside the pack, what you see from the inside is only a partial picture. You have some idea who is alongside you, a good idea of which riders are immediately in front of you and only a vague idea of who might be behind you, waiting to pounce. What you don’t get to see is the wide angle shot, the bigger picture. 

So when wheels touch and a crash concertinas through the bunch a rider only sees a fleeting image of the incident or its immediate aftermath.

You can sometimes recall a particular detail in garish technicolor, such as a flying spoke or a rider’s face on the tarmac but have no real sense of how the crash came about or who was responsible for the ensuing carnage.

Broken wrists, collarbones and hips — these are the classic cyclists’ injuries.

The unglamorous truth is that if you race, you will crash. It’s just a matter of when and how badly.

You could be lucky and just leave some skin on the road or, like Belgian cyclist Wouter Weylandt in the 2011 Giro d’Italia, you could pay the ultimate tragic price.

Most riders in this year’s Tour can expect to crash at least once. Bruised and bloodied, most will get straight back on their bikes and pedal to the finish. 

Although they might tell you otherwise, every competitive cyclist, from defending champion Chris Froome down to the lowly amateur in a 60-minute crit race, lives with the pervasive fear of crashing. 

I don’t believe there exists a cyclist who hasn’t woken up in the dead of night before a race and asked themselves whether the risks are worth the rewards.

If you want to know what it feels like to crash then strip down to your underwear, get into a car, accelerate to 30 or 40mph, open the door and roll out.

You try not to think about it too much because if you did, you probably wouldn’t pin a number on your back in the morning.