It's Not About the Bike: My Journey Back to Life (26 page)

possible for the more crucial upcoming stage, a time trial in Metz. I gave up the yellow jersey for the time being.

These were some of the longest days of the Tour, and there was a sameness to the roads and scenery. We went from Nantes to Laval, to Amiens, but it seemed like we rode forever without

going anywhere. Mario Cippolini of Italy won four consecutive stages to tie a Tour record, and we conceded them without a fight. Cippolini was a great rider, but he wasn’t a climber and we

all knew he wouldn’t be a factor for the overall victory.

Each night we shared the same routine: massages for our sore legs, dinner, and then we would surf the six channels of French TV available in the hotel. Johan banned me from bringing my

computer, because I had a tendency to stay up too late fooling around online.

We sped on, across the plains, toward Metz.

I hung back, saving myself.

IT IS CALLED THE RACE OF TRUTH. THE EARLY STAGES

separate the strong riders from the weak. Now the weak would be eliminated altogether.

We arrived in Metz for the time trial, and in this one, unlike the brief Prologue, riders would have an opportunity to win or lose big chunks of time. It was 56 kilometers long, which meant

riding full-out for more than an hour, and those riders who didn’t make the time cut were gone, out of the race. Hence the phrase “Race of Truth.”

Kik came in from Nice. For much of the first week she had watched us on television at home, but she would spend the rest of the Tour traveling in Europe with her parents to keep the

boredom and tension at bay, while checking in with me periodically. The Tour wasn’t exactly the ideal situation for a conjugal visit, because I was sequestered with the team, but seeing her

for a day was better than nothing, and I got to check on how her pregnancy was progressing. Also, having her in Metz reminded me of how hard I had worked and studied for this

occasion.

Early in the morning of the stage, I went out and previewed the course, but I was already familiar with it, because we had scouted it during training camp. It had two very big climbs, one

1.5K long and the other 4K long. The early part would be windy, then came the hills, and the final flats would be into a strong headwind. It was a course that favored strength, a rider who

could drive a big gear into the teeth of that wind. It wasn’t enough to be fast; I would have to be fast for over an hour.

As I warmed up on a stationary bike, results filtered in. The riders went out in staggered fashion, two minutes apart, and Alex Zulle, the Swiss favorite who had suffered the unfortunate crash on

the Passage du Gois, was the early leader with a time of a little over an hour and nine minutes. I wasn’t surprised; Zulle was a strapping blond strongman without an ounce of give-up, as I

would continue to learn throughout the race.

The pre-race favorite, Abraham Olano, set off on the course just in front of me. But as I waited in the start area, word came through that Olano had crashed on a small curve, losing about 30

seconds. He got back on his bike, but his rhythm was gone.

My turn. I went out hard–maybe too hard. In my ear,Johan kept up his usual stream of steady advice and information. At the first two checkpoints, he reported, I had the fastest splits.

Third checkpoint: I was ahead of Zulle by a minute and forty seconds.

Ahead of me, I saw Olano.

Olano had never been caught in a time trial, and now he began glancing over his shoulder. I jackhammered at my pedals.

I was on top of him. The look on Olano s face was incredulous, and dismayed. I caught him–and

passed him. He disappeared behind my back wheel.

Johan talked into my ear. My cadence was up at 100 rpms. “That’s high,”Johan warned. I was pedaling too hard. I eased off.

I swept into a broad downhill turn, with hay bales packed by the side of the road. Now I saw another figure ahead of me. A rider was lying by the side of the road, injured and waiting for

medical attention. I recognized the colors of the Cofidis team.

Bobby Julich.

He had lost control and skidded out on the turn. I would learn later that he had badly bruised his chest and ribs. His race was over.

I went into a tuck around the turn.

From out of the crowd, a child ran into the road.

I swerved wide to avoid him, my heart pounding.

Quickly, I regained my composure and never broke rhythm. Ahead of me, I saw yet another rider. I squinted, trying to make out who it was, and saw a flash of green. It was the jersey of

Tom Steels of Belgium, a superb sprinter who’d won two of the flat early stages, and who was a contender for the overall title.

But Steels had started six minutes in front of me. Had I ridden that fast?

Johan, normally so controlled and impassive, checked the time. He began screaming into the radio.

“You’re blowing up the Tour de France!” he howled. “You’re blowing up the Tour de France!”

I passed Steels.

I could feel the lactic acid seeping through my legs. My face was one big grimace of pain. I had gone out too hard–and now I was paying. I entered the last stretch, into that headwind, and I

felt as though I could barely move. With each rotation of my wheels, I gave time back to Zulle. The seconds ticked by as I labored toward the finish.

Finally, I crossed the line.

I checked the clock: 1:08:36.1 was the winner. I had beaten Zulle by 58 seconds.

I fell off the bike, so tired I was cross-eyed. As tired as I have ever been. But I led the Tour de

France again. As I pulled the yellow jersey over my head, and once more felt the smooth fabric slide over my back, I decided that’s where it needed to stay.

I stepped down off the podium and handed Kik the flowers, and gave her a huge hug and a kiss. That evening, I told her, “I think I’m going to win this thing.”

Back at the team hotel, we Postal riders drank a glass of Champagne together. We only sipped it, because the day’s ride had taken so much out of us that a glass felt like a whole bottle. After

we completed the toast, Johan stood up.

“Okay, no more Champagne,” he said. “That’s the last time we drink it, because we’re going to win so many stages that we’d drink it all the way to Paris.”

The team cheered.

WE ENTERED THE MOUNTAINS.

From now on, everything would be uphill, including the finish lines. The first Alpine stage was a ride of 132.7 kilometers into the chalet-studded town of Sestriere, on the French-Italian border,

and I knew what the peloton was thinking: that I would fold. They didn’t respect the yellow jersey on my back.

I held a lead of two minutes and 20 seconds, but in the mountains you could fall hopelessly behind in a single day. I had never been a renowned climber, and now we were about to embark

on the most grueling and storied stages of the race, through peaks that made riders crack like walnuts. I was sure to come under heavy attack from my adversaries, but what they didn’t know

was how specifically and hard I had trained for this part of the race. It was time to show them.

It would be a tactical ride as much as a physical one, and I would have to rely heavily on my fellow climbers, Kevin Livingston and Tyler Hamilton. Drafting is hugely important in the

mountains: Kevin and Tyler would do much of the grueling work of riding uphill in front of me, so I could conserve my energy for the last big climb into Sestriere, where the other riders were

sure to try to grab the jersey from me.

Here’s how an “attack” works: some riders were more threatening than others, like Alex Zulle of Switzerland and Fernando Escartin of Spain, the men who trailed me most closely throughout

the race. If one of them, say Zulle, tried to break away, one of my Postal teammates, let’s say Kevin, immediately chased him down. A rider like Zulle could get away and be two minutes up

the road before we knew it, and cut into my overall lead.

Kevin’s job was to get behind Zulle and stay right behind his wheel, making it harder for Zulle to pull up the hill. It’s called “sitting on him.” While Kevin “sat” on Zulle’s wheel and slowed

him down, the rest of my Postal teammates pulled me, riding in front of me, allowing me to draft and catch up. If we could get through the day without succumbing to any major attacks, it

was called “managing the peloton” or “controlling” it.

We didn’t chase down every breakaway. Some riders were not a threat to the overall title, and we didn’t waste our energy chasing them down. At those times, my teammates just took care of

me. They surrounded me and made sure I was positioned safe from harm. If I needed a new water bottle, one of them went back to the team car and got it for me.

There were three big cols, or peaks, en route to Sestriere. The first was the Col du Telegraphe, then came the monstrous Col du Galibier, the tallest mountain in the Tour, then Col de

Montgenevre. Lastly, there would be the uphill finish into Sestriere.

For the better part of 150 miles that day, Postal was a machine, making seamless transitions and controlling the action.

The Spanish attacked us right from the start. Escartin launched a breakaway on the Telegraphe in a kind of sucker play, but we kept calm and refused to expend too much energy too early. On

the Galibier, Kevin Livingston did magnificent work, pulling me steadily to the top, where it was sleeting and hailing. As I drafted behind Kevin, I kept up a stream of encouragement.

“You’re doing great, man,” I said. “These guys behind us are dying.”

We descended the Galibier in sweeping curves through the pines. Let me describe that descent to you. You hunch over your handlebars and streak seventy miles an hour on two small tires a

half-inch wide, shivering. Now throw in curves, switchbacks, hairpins, and fog. Water streamed down the mountainside under my wheels, and somewhere behind me, Kevin crashed. He had

tried to put on a rain jacket, and the sleeve got caught in his wheel. He recovered, but he would be sore and feverish for the next few days.

Now came Montgenevre, our third mountain ascent in the space of six hours, into more freezing rains and mist. We would ride into a rain shower, then out the other side. At the peak it was so

cold, the rain froze to my shirt. On the descent, it hailed. Now I was separated from the rest of the team, and the attacks kept coming, as if the other riders thought I was going to crack at any

moment. It made me angry. The weaker riders fell away, unable to keep up. I found myself out in front among the top climbers in the world, working alone. I intended to make them suffer

until they couldn’t breathe.

All I had for company was the sound of Johan’s voice in my ear. He was in the follow car. Riding shotgun was Thorn Weisel, the chief patron of the team.

On the descent from Montgenevre, Ivan Gotti and Fernando Es-cartin gambled on the hairpin turns through the mists, and opened up a gap of 25 seconds. I trailed them in a second group of

five cyclists.

We went into the final ascent, the long, hard 30K climb into Ses-triere itself. We had been on the bikes for five and a half hours, and all of us were struggling. From here on in it would be a

question of who cracked and who didn’t.

With eight kilometers to go, I was 32 seconds behind the leaders, and locked in the second group of five riders, all of us churning uphill. The others were all established climbers of various

nationality, the best of them Zulle of Switzerland, burly and indefatigable and haunting me.

It was time to go.

On a small curve, I swung to the inside of the group, stood up, and accelerated. My bike seemed to jump ahead. I almost rode up the backs of the escort motorcycles.

From the follow car, a surprised Johan said, “Lance, you’ve got a gap.” Then he said, “Ten feet.”

Johan checked my heart rate via the digital computer readout, so he knew how hard I was working and how stressed my body was. I was at 180, not in distress. I felt as though I was just

cruising along a flat road, riding comfortably.

He said, “Lance, the gap’s getting bigger.”

I ripped across the space.

In one kilometer I made up 21 seconds. I was now just 11 seconds back of the leaders. It was strange, but I still didn’t feel a thing. It was… effortless.

The two front-runners, Escartin and Gotti, were looking over their shoulders. I continued to close rapidly.

I rode up to Escartin’s back wheel. He glanced back at me, incredulous. Gotti tried to pick up the pace. I accelerated past him, and drew even with Escartin.

I surged again, driving the pace just a little higher. I was probing, seeking information on their fitness and states of mind, how they would respond.

I opened a tiny gap, curious. Were they tired?

No response.

“One length,” Johan said.

I accelerated.

“Three lengths, four lengths, five lengths.”

Johan paused. Then he said, almost casually, “Why don’t you put a little more on?”

I accelerated again.

“Forty feet,” he said.

When you open a gap, and your competitors don’t respond, it tells you something. They’re hurting. And when they’re hurting, that’s when you take them.

We were four miles from the finish. I drove my legs down onto the pedals.

“You’ve got thirty seconds!”Johan said, more excitedly.

In my ear, Johan continued to narrate my progress. Now he reported that Zulle was trying to chase. Zulle, always Zulle.

“Look, I’m just going to go,” I said into my radio. “I’m going to put this thing away.”

IN A HOTEL ROOM IN ITALY, KlK SAT TRANSFIXED IN

front of the TV. As I jumped out of my seat and charged, she leaped up out of her chair.

“Haul ass!” she yelled.

In Piano, Texas, later that day, my mother would watch a tape delay of the stage. Because of the time change, she didn’t yet know what had happened.

“Look out!” she yelled. “There he goes! He’s got it!”