Jimcs50
07-24-2005, 09:55 AM
After a tough ride, he's about to finish on top
Stage win sets Armstrong up to prove himself seven times over
By DALE ROBERTSON
Copyright 2005 Houston Chronicle
SAINT-ÉTIENNE, FRANCE - The image is that of a man riding a bicycle on a bitter gray day across the fallow farmlands of northern France. He's struggling terribly, this man. He wears his misery on his face. He shivers from the cold that pierces the Gore-Tex jacket.
Mostly, though, he hates his body, how it feels, how unwillingly it responds to his commands. It's weak, this body, so the bicycle moves too slowly for his taste. Snowflakes fall. His legs tighten, his breathing becomes labored. The effort, he thinks, may be futile. He beat cancer, fine. That's something to celebrate. Still, it's not enough. He wants to race again.
But, he wonders, cranking the pedals into the icy head wind, can he? Can he recapture the promise of his youth?
The year is 1997. It is January, and the elite French team, Cofidis, is holding a training camp outside of Lille, where the sponsoring credit-by-telephone company is headquartered. Lance Armstrong, enough of a prospect to have garnered a million-dollar contract from Cofidis before the cancer was found in one of his testicles, has begun his comeback.
He has no hair, revealing ugly scars on his scalp where cancerous tumors had been removed. He has no eyebrows. And he has no form or endurance.
But he rides and he rides. When he's exhausted, he straddles the bike and rides some more. Something is going on that nobody understands.
Except for one fellow, who is watching Armstrong more closely than the rest. Cyrille Guimard, a legendary figure in French cycling who has tutored the likes of Bernard Hinault, Laurent Fignon and Armstrong's American predecessor, Greg LeMond — all Tour de France champions multiple times — is Cofidis' new director. No one knows cyclists like Guimard, and he is amazed by what he's seeing.
"It's only 2 or 3 degrees (mid-30s Fahrenheit), but Armstrong is on the bike with everybody for a 40-mile training ride," Guimard recalls. "It was remarkable. A few weeks later, we are in Spain, and one of his friends, Kevin Livingston, calls me to one side and says, 'Listen, Cyrille, I don't know what's going to happen with Lance, but it looks like the team is going to drop him.' And this was the root of my first conflict with François Migraine, who was the boss of Cofidis.
"You know, when you see somebody suffering with cancer do that sort of thing, training ride in weather hardly above freezing, the first thing you do is extend his contract immediately. You need to show some confidence in him."
Migraine, of course, did nothing of the sort. Instead, Armstrong was released, and Guimard soon resigned in disgust. Migraine, who had no clue what he had in Armstrong, has suffered from a pounding in his head that lingers to this day. The Texan turned himself into a monstrous headache that would afflict the entire Tour de France.
"I always believed I'd get better, get my life back and get a second chance," Armstrong said after he won Saturday's Stage 20 time trial, securing his seventh yellow jersey unless there is an unprecedented disaster today.
In fairness to the insular world of cycling, nobody knew the Franken-strong who emerged from the hazy hospital neverland of intravenous tubes, slowly dripping fluids, beeping machines and surgeons' scalpels.
he guy who rejected death as an option wasn't the same guy who had fallen sick. No relation, in fact. The guy who had fallen sick never would have thought to say, "Dying and losing — it's the same thing."
Team CSC rider Bobby Julich calls himself a "longtime rival and now a fan" of Armstrong.
They have raced against each other since they were teenagers. Julich remembers the day in October 1996 when he got a phone call from a friend telling him about Armstrong's cancer diagnosis.
"I started crying, and I couldn't stop," Julich said. "Lance Armstrong, the strongest (guy) I'd ever met, had cancer? How could somebody like that get cancer? I felt lonely and extremely vulnerable personally. But then I went, 'Wait a minute. This is Lance we're talking about. Nothing can kill that guy.' So I knew he'd beat the cancer.
"But did I know he'd win the Tour de France seven times? No, I can't say I ever saw that coming."
As it happened, the disease cured Armstrong of his worst precancer affliction — laziness — and gave his industrial-sized heart a reason for beating. His fear of dying would be replaced by his fear of losing. The hard-eyed desperation continued, seamlessly. He rides his bike faster and more proficiently than anybody else because he needs to prove he's alive.
Johan Bruyneel, Armstrong's Discovery team manager and alter ego, has a better handle on Armstrong than anyone, and he said the moment the six-time Tour champion told him he would chase a seventh yellow jersey this summer was also the moment he stopped wondering whether there would be a seventh yellow jersey for Armstrong.
Bruyneel paid no attention to the sickly Armstrong who quit the Paris-Nice in March. Bruyneel lost no sleep over the puny Armstrong who couldn't measure up in the Tour de Georgia. Bruyneel didn't even wring his hands when the Dauphiné Libéré came and went in June with Armstrong still lagging.
"Lance in the Tour," he said, "is a different rider. His biggest motivation is that he's the champion, and he doesn't want to lose. He won't let himself lose the Tour."
It has become Armstrong's annual life-affirming event. The course changes precipitously, and obstacles are thrown up by the organizers to thwart him. Tour organizers take away his favorite uphill finishes. They eliminate time trials. They bunch the mountain stages together, or they spread them out.
"Nothing works," Bruyneel said, laughing.
"Because," Armstrong said back in February, "the best man always wins the Tour de France."
Stage win sets Armstrong up to prove himself seven times over
By DALE ROBERTSON
Copyright 2005 Houston Chronicle
SAINT-ÉTIENNE, FRANCE - The image is that of a man riding a bicycle on a bitter gray day across the fallow farmlands of northern France. He's struggling terribly, this man. He wears his misery on his face. He shivers from the cold that pierces the Gore-Tex jacket.
Mostly, though, he hates his body, how it feels, how unwillingly it responds to his commands. It's weak, this body, so the bicycle moves too slowly for his taste. Snowflakes fall. His legs tighten, his breathing becomes labored. The effort, he thinks, may be futile. He beat cancer, fine. That's something to celebrate. Still, it's not enough. He wants to race again.
But, he wonders, cranking the pedals into the icy head wind, can he? Can he recapture the promise of his youth?
The year is 1997. It is January, and the elite French team, Cofidis, is holding a training camp outside of Lille, where the sponsoring credit-by-telephone company is headquartered. Lance Armstrong, enough of a prospect to have garnered a million-dollar contract from Cofidis before the cancer was found in one of his testicles, has begun his comeback.
He has no hair, revealing ugly scars on his scalp where cancerous tumors had been removed. He has no eyebrows. And he has no form or endurance.
But he rides and he rides. When he's exhausted, he straddles the bike and rides some more. Something is going on that nobody understands.
Except for one fellow, who is watching Armstrong more closely than the rest. Cyrille Guimard, a legendary figure in French cycling who has tutored the likes of Bernard Hinault, Laurent Fignon and Armstrong's American predecessor, Greg LeMond — all Tour de France champions multiple times — is Cofidis' new director. No one knows cyclists like Guimard, and he is amazed by what he's seeing.
"It's only 2 or 3 degrees (mid-30s Fahrenheit), but Armstrong is on the bike with everybody for a 40-mile training ride," Guimard recalls. "It was remarkable. A few weeks later, we are in Spain, and one of his friends, Kevin Livingston, calls me to one side and says, 'Listen, Cyrille, I don't know what's going to happen with Lance, but it looks like the team is going to drop him.' And this was the root of my first conflict with François Migraine, who was the boss of Cofidis.
"You know, when you see somebody suffering with cancer do that sort of thing, training ride in weather hardly above freezing, the first thing you do is extend his contract immediately. You need to show some confidence in him."
Migraine, of course, did nothing of the sort. Instead, Armstrong was released, and Guimard soon resigned in disgust. Migraine, who had no clue what he had in Armstrong, has suffered from a pounding in his head that lingers to this day. The Texan turned himself into a monstrous headache that would afflict the entire Tour de France.
"I always believed I'd get better, get my life back and get a second chance," Armstrong said after he won Saturday's Stage 20 time trial, securing his seventh yellow jersey unless there is an unprecedented disaster today.
In fairness to the insular world of cycling, nobody knew the Franken-strong who emerged from the hazy hospital neverland of intravenous tubes, slowly dripping fluids, beeping machines and surgeons' scalpels.
he guy who rejected death as an option wasn't the same guy who had fallen sick. No relation, in fact. The guy who had fallen sick never would have thought to say, "Dying and losing — it's the same thing."
Team CSC rider Bobby Julich calls himself a "longtime rival and now a fan" of Armstrong.
They have raced against each other since they were teenagers. Julich remembers the day in October 1996 when he got a phone call from a friend telling him about Armstrong's cancer diagnosis.
"I started crying, and I couldn't stop," Julich said. "Lance Armstrong, the strongest (guy) I'd ever met, had cancer? How could somebody like that get cancer? I felt lonely and extremely vulnerable personally. But then I went, 'Wait a minute. This is Lance we're talking about. Nothing can kill that guy.' So I knew he'd beat the cancer.
"But did I know he'd win the Tour de France seven times? No, I can't say I ever saw that coming."
As it happened, the disease cured Armstrong of his worst precancer affliction — laziness — and gave his industrial-sized heart a reason for beating. His fear of dying would be replaced by his fear of losing. The hard-eyed desperation continued, seamlessly. He rides his bike faster and more proficiently than anybody else because he needs to prove he's alive.
Johan Bruyneel, Armstrong's Discovery team manager and alter ego, has a better handle on Armstrong than anyone, and he said the moment the six-time Tour champion told him he would chase a seventh yellow jersey this summer was also the moment he stopped wondering whether there would be a seventh yellow jersey for Armstrong.
Bruyneel paid no attention to the sickly Armstrong who quit the Paris-Nice in March. Bruyneel lost no sleep over the puny Armstrong who couldn't measure up in the Tour de Georgia. Bruyneel didn't even wring his hands when the Dauphiné Libéré came and went in June with Armstrong still lagging.
"Lance in the Tour," he said, "is a different rider. His biggest motivation is that he's the champion, and he doesn't want to lose. He won't let himself lose the Tour."
It has become Armstrong's annual life-affirming event. The course changes precipitously, and obstacles are thrown up by the organizers to thwart him. Tour organizers take away his favorite uphill finishes. They eliminate time trials. They bunch the mountain stages together, or they spread them out.
"Nothing works," Bruyneel said, laughing.
"Because," Armstrong said back in February, "the best man always wins the Tour de France."