In the summer of 2004, Lance Mania was in full swing. Lance
Armstrong was about to embark on a record-setting sixth straight Tour de France
victory and his dominance in the sport of professional cycling was unchallenged
by the rest of the pro peloton.
I was one of those who fell in line, ordering packs of the
ubiquitous yellow Livestrong wristbands that were more a symbol of being an
Armstrong fan than anything having to do with supporting cancer research. The
fact of the matter was Lance Armstrong was easy to root for. He had charisma,
he overcame cancer, he embodied that ballsy American arrogance swagger
that all Americans love but the rest of the world hates, and he rode the hell
out of his bike with a ferocity that even his greatest rivals admired. He was
in the same atmosphere as Michael Jordan and Tiger Woods. He was a sporting
god. A deeply flawed sporting god.
I have always loved watching the Tour de France, long before
I ever realized how much I loved to ride a bike. Back in the early 80’s when
CBS offered limited coverage on the weekend with John Tesh giving commentary
over his own synthesized musical score, I sat hypnotized by the coverage of the pro peloton winding and weaving through the undulating French countryside.
The scenes of Greg Lemond battling Bernard Hinault or Laurent Fignon for tour
supremacy while Claudio Chiappucci would make his fleeting yet heroic attacks made
me alternately gasp and cheer in amazement. And then there was the group of North
Americans sponsored by the corner convenient store, led by a burly Mexican named Raul Alcala, a scrappy
American named Davis Phinney, and the beautiful climber from Idaho, Andy
Hampsten, who gave all of us Yanks a few moments to cheer and dream that an
American on an American team would someday wear the maillot jaune in Paris.
After Lemond’s body gave way (after accidentally getting
shot by his brother-in-law on a hunting trip) and Hampsten never could piece
together that one, great tour, the American dream in France faded and the Tour
became dominated by Spain. Yet in 1993, word began spreading of a scrappy Texan
whose cockiness knew no end, nor did his talent. In 1996, Lance Armstrong,
still known more as a one-day classics rider than a grand tour contender, was
listed as a potential challenger for the yellow jersey but withdrew in the rain
after the sixth stage. I remember turning to my brother and adamantly saying, “Lance
Armstrong will win the Tour de France within the next two years.” About four
months later Armstrong was diagnosed with cancer.
I had mostly forgotten about Armstrong over those next
couple of years. Americans named Julich, Hincapie and Andreu had become the
names of note, and Armstrong’s return couldn’t be anything too serious. And
then he finished fourth in the 1998 Vuelta a Espana, Spain’s version of the
Tour. The field for the 1999 was considered incredibly weak – no Marco Pantani
or Jan Ullrich, both out for drug issues – and the Tour really was there for
Armstrong to take…and he did just that, winning by a staggering 7 and a half
minutes. The die was cast and America was hooked. Our cancer boy defied all
odds and won the most beautiful and challenging sporting event in the world.
In the following years we were treated to classic moment
after classic moment. The Look. The Field Crossing. The Musette. The Catch.
There were indications that performance enhancing drug use could have been happening
at the time. In 1999, Armstrong tested positive for cortisone, but he quickly
produced an approved prescription for cortisone cream for his chapped ass and
all was OK. His team was an infallible armada clad in the red, white and blue
kits of their US Postal Service sponsor, always hitting every impossible climb
with ferocious speed and undying relentlessness. It looked…impossible. But it
was real, and unbelievably impressive. Perhaps that was the problem that the
vast majority of us never acknowledged.
I defended Armstrong to those who would question his
legitimacy. I said “Why would anyone who came so close to death be so willing
to put such damaging chemicals in their body once back to full health?” I said “How
great is it that at a time when the world hates Americans they cheer for a team
with the US and US colors all over their uniforms.”
As we all now know and will get greater detail thanks to
(seriously?!?) Oprah Winfrey this Thursday, Lance Armstrong was a doper, like much
of the rest of the peloton during his racing career. What sets Armstrong apart
in terms of his guilt is how horribly he treated those around him who attempted
to tell the truth. Armstrong was and is a good old boy from deep in the heart of
Texas. In short, an ass hole.
To this fan, Armstrong’s admission comes as a total
surprise. Not that he actually doped. I think every fan realized this years ago
and most who truly followed the sport figured it out while he was still winning.
The surprise is that he is actually admitting to it. I figured he was taking
this to the grave, either because he grew to believe the lies or because he had
so much tied to it through litigation that financially he couldn’t let it out.
But looking back, as a cyclist, there are those great
moments that no amount of doping can replace. Armstrong was a truly great
cyclist and the fact that so many of his peers have confessed does speak to his
doping keeping him on a level playing field rather than giving him an advantage. Doping
did not help carry him across that rugged field outside of Gap. Doping did not
lift Armstrong from the tarmac to not only chase down but pass the entire field
after that fan’s musette pulled him to the ground on the Luz Ardiden. Doping
did not drive Armstrong to chase down Andreas Kloden after Armstrong tried to
gift the stage to his then teammate Floyd Landis, only to see Kloden snatch it
away. Each of those moments came courtesy of Armstrong’s amazing bike talent
and his unquenchable desire to win. Just like Michael Jordan. Just like Tiger
Woods.
Just like those ass holes.
