It's Not About the Bike: My Journey Back to Life (5 page)

I was getting tired of living in Piano. I was competing in bike races all over the country for a domestic trade team sponsored by Su-baru-Montgomery, but I knew the real racing scene was in

Europe, and I felt I should be there. Also, I had too much resentment for the place after what had happened before my graduation.

I was in limbo. By now I was regularly beating the adult men I competed against, whether in a triathlon, or a 10K run, or a Tuesday-night crit at the Piano loop. To pass the time, I still hung

around the Richardson Bike Mart, owned by Jim Hoyt.

Jim had been an avid rider as a young man, but then he got shipped off to Vietnam when he was 19, and served two years in the infantry, the toughest kind of duty. When he came home, all he

wanted to do was ride a bike again. He started out as a distributor for Schwinn, and then he opened his own store with his wife, RJionda. For years Jim and Rhonda have cultivated young

riders in the Dallas area by fronting them bikes and equipment, and by paying them stipends. Jim believed in performance incentives. We would compete for cash and free stuff he’d put up, and

we raced that much harder because of it. All through my senior year in high school, I earned $500 a month riding for Jim Hoyt.

Jim had a small office in the back of his store where we’d sit around and talk. I didn’t pay much attention to school principals, or stepfathers, but sometimes I liked to talk to him. “I work my

butt off, but I love who I am,” he’d say. “If you judge everybody by money, you got a lot to learn as you move through this life, ’cause I got some friends who own their own companies, and I

got some friends who mow yards.” But Jim was tough too, and you didn’t fool with him. I had a healthy respect for his temper.

One night at the Tuesday crits, I got into a sprint duel with another rider, an older man I wasn’t real fond of. As we came down the final stretch, our bikes made contact. We crossed the finish

line shoving each other, and we were throwing punches before our bikes came to a stop. Then we were on each other, in the dirt. Jim and some others finally pried us apart, and everybody

laughed at me because I wanted to keep duking it out. But Jim got mad at me, and wasn’t going to allow that kind of thing. He walked over and picked up my bike, and wheeled it away. I was

sorry to see it go.

It was a Schwinn Paramount, a great bike that I had ridden in Moscow at the World Championships, and I wanted to use it again in a stage race the following week. A little later, I

went over to Jim’s house. He came out into the front yard.

“Can I have my bike back?” I said.

“Nope,” he said. “You want to talk to me, you come to my office tomorrow.”

I backed away from him. He was irate, to the point that I was afraid he might take a swing at me. And there was something else he wasn’t too happy about: he knew I had a habit of speeding

in the Camaro.

A few days later, he took the car back, too. I was beside myself. I had made all the payments on that car, about $5,000 worth. On the other hand, some of that money had come from the stipend

he paid me to ride for his team. But I wasn’t thinking clearly, I was too mad. When you’re 17 and a man takes a Camaro IROC Z away from you, he’s on your hit list. So I never did go see

Jim. I was too angry, and too afraid of him.

It was years before we spoke again.

Instead, I split town. After my visit to Colorado Springs and Moscow, I was named to the U.S. national cycling team, and I got a call from Chris Carmichael, the team’s newly named director.

Chris had heard about my reputation; I was super strong, but I didn’t understand a lot about the tactics of racing. Chris told me he wanted to develop a whole new group of young American

cyclists; the sport was stagnant in the U.S. and he was seeking fresh kids to rejuvenate it. He named some other young cyclists who showed potential, guys like Bobby Julich and George

Hincapie, and said he wanted me to be one of them. How would I like to go to Europe?

It was time to get out of the house.

I DON’T CHECK MY MOTHER AT THE DOOR

THE LIFE OF A ROAD CYCLIST MEANS HAVING

your feet clamped to the bike pedals churning at 20 to 40 miles per hour, for hours and hours and days on end across whole continents. It means gulping water and wolfing candy bars in the

saddle because you lose 10 to 12 liters of fluid and burn 6,000 calories a day at such a pace, and you don’t stop for anything, not even to piss, or to put on a raincoat. Nothing interrupts the

high-speed chess match that goes on in the tight pack of cyclists called the peloton as you hiss through the rain and labor up cold mountainsides, swerving over rain-slick pavement and

jouncing over cobblestones, knowing that a single wrong move by a nervous rider who grabs his brakes too hard or yanks too sharply on his handlebars can turn you and your bike into a heap of

twisted metal and scraped flesh.

I had no idea what I was getting into. When I left home at 18, my idea of a race was to leap on and start pedaling. I was called “brash” in my early days, and the tag has followed me ever since,

maybe deservedly. I was very young and I had a lot to learn, and I said and did some things that maybe I shouldn’t have, but I wasn’t trying to be a jerk. I was just Texan. The “Tore de Texas,”

the Spanish press named me.

In my first big international race, I did everything my coach told me not to do. It was at the 1990 amateur World Championships in Utsunomiya, Japan, a 115-mile road race over a tough course

with a long, hard climb. To make matters more difficult, it happened to be a sweltering day with temperatures in the 90s. I was competing as a member of the U.S. national team under Chris

Carmichael, a sandy-haired, freckled young coach who I didn’t know very well yet–and didn’t listen to.

Chris gave me strict instructions: I was to hang back in the pack for much of the race and look for his signal before making any kind of move. It was too hot and the course too arduous to try

to race in front, into the headwind. The smart thing to do was to draft and conserve my energy.

“I want you to wait,” Chris said. “I don’t want to see you near the front, catching any wind.”

I nodded, and moved to the start area. On the first lap, I did what he told me to and rode near the back. But then I couldn’t help myself; I wanted to test my legs. I began to move up. On the

second lap, I took the lead, and when I came by the checkpoint, I was all by myself, 45 seconds up on the field. I streaked past Chris. As I went by, I glanced over at him. He had his arms

spread wide, as if to say, “What are you doing?”

I grinned at him and gave him the Texas Longhorn sign: I waved, my pinky and forefinger extended in the air. Hook ‘em, horns.

Chris started yelling to the U.S. staff, “What is he doing?”

What was I doing? I was just going. It was a move that would become known as classic early Armstrong: a contrary and spectacularly ill-advised attack. I proceeded to go solo for the next

three laps, and built a lead of about a minute and a half. I was feeling pretty good about myself, when the heat started to get to me. Next thing I knew, 30 guys came up and joined me. With

half the race still to go, I was already suffering. I tried to keep riding at the front, but I didn’t have enough left. Sapped by the heat and the climbs, I finished llth.

Still, it was the best American finish in the history of the race, and by the time it ended, Chris was more pleased than angry. Afterward, we went to the hotel bar and drank a beer together

and talked. I wasn’t sure how I felt about Chris. When I first came out of Piano he had split the U.S. national team into two groups, and placed me with the “B” team, and I hadn’t quite

forgiven him for the slight. I would learn, however, that his easygoing manner came with a brotherly loyalty and a vast amount of cycling wisdom; he was a former Olympian, and had

competed with Greg LeMond as a young cyclist.

We sipped Kirin and went over the events of the day, laughing about them. Then suddenly Chris turned serious. He congratulated me for the llth-place finish, and said he liked what he saw.

“You weren’t afraid to fail,” he said. “You weren’t out there thinking, ‘What if I get caught?’ ” I absorbed the praise happily.

But then he added, “Of course, if you had known what you were doing and conserved your energy, you’d have been in the medals.”

Here I had done better than any American ever before, and Chris was suggesting it wasn’t good enough. In fact, in his subtle way, he was telling me that I had blown it. He kept talking. “I’m

serious. You can do a lot better,” he said. “I’m convinced you’re going to be a world champion. But there’s a lot of work to do.”

Chris pointed out that the top riders, the Marco Pantanis, the Miguel Indurains, were all as strong as or stronger than I was. “So is everybody you’re racing at this level,” he said. What

would separate me would be my tactics.

I had to learn how to race, and the only place to do it was on the bike. That first year, I must

have spent 200 days overseas, riding around Europe, because the true test was on the road, where there was no hiding in a 160-mile race. In the last part, you either had it or you didn’t.

At home, I settled in Austin, in the Texas hill country where stony, dark-green banks surround the town lake that’s fed by the wide, uneasy waters of the Colorado River. In Austin, nobody

seemed to care what I wore, or whether I “belonged” or not. In fact, I couldn’t find two people dressed alike, and some of the wealthiest people in town looked like vagrants. It was a town

that seemed to be made for the young, with an ever-evolving selection of bars and music clubs on 6th Street, and hole-in-the-wall Tex-Mex joints where I could eat chili peppers for sport.

It was also a great town for training, with endless bike trails and back roads to explore for miles around. I rented a small bungalow near the University of Texas campus, which was fitting since

I was a student, not in the classroom, of course, but on the bike.

Cycling is an intricate, highly politicized sport, and it’s far more of a team sport than the spectator realizes, as I was discovering. It has a language all its own, pieced together from a

sampling of European words and phrases, and a peculiar ethic as well. On any team, each rider has a job, and is responsible for a specific part of the race. The slower riders are called

domestiques–servants–because they do the less glamorous work of “pulling” up hills (”pulling” is cycling lingo for blocking the wind for the other riders) and protecting their team leader through

the various perils of a stage race. The team leader is the principal cyclist, the rider most capable of sprinting to a finish with 150 miles in his legs. I was starting as a domestique, but I would

gradually be groomed for the role of team leader.

I learned about the peloton–the massive pack of riders that makes up the main body of the race. To the spectator it seems like a radiant blur, humming as it goes by, but that colorful blur is rife

with contact, the clashing of handlebars, elbows, and knees, and it’s full of international intrigues and deals. The speed of the peloton varies. Sometimes it moves at 20 miles an hour,

the riders pedaling slow and chatting. Other times, the group is spanned out across the road and we’re going 40 miles an hour. Within the peloton, there are constant negotiations between

competing riders: pull me today, and I’ll pull you tomorrow. Give an inch, make a friend. You don’t make deals that compromise yourself or your team, of course, but you help other riders if

you can, so they might return the favor.

The politics could be ambiguous and confusing to a young rider, even upsetting, and I got a harsh lesson in them in early 1991. My plan was to race as an amateur through the 1992

Olympics in Barcelona, and to turn pro right afterward. In the meantime, I continued to race in the U.S. for Subaru-Montgomery. Technically, I was a member of two different teams:

internationally, I raced for the U.S. national team under Chris Carmichael, but domestically I competed for Subaru-Montgomery.

While I was overseas with the national team in ‘91, we entered a prestigious race in Italy called the Settimana Bergamasca. It was a pro-am stage race, a ten-day ride through northern Italy, and

some of the best cyclists in the world would be there. No American had ever won it–but our U.S. team under Chris had great morale and teamwork, and we felt we might just pull it off.

There was an awkwardness, however. The Subaru-Montgomery team was also entered, and I would be racing against them, riding in my stars and stripes, while they would wear their

Subaru-Montgomery jerseys. Nine days out often, they were my teammates, but for this race, we would be competitors.

Early in the race, a Subaru–Montgomery rider and friend of mine, Nate Reese, took the overall lead. But I was riding well, too. I moved into second. I was exultant; it seemed like the best of

both worlds to have the two of us riding at the front. But the Subaru-Montgomery team director didn’t feel the same way. He was not happy to see me in contention, and he let me know it.

Between two stages, he called me over. “You work for Nate,” he said to me. I stared at him, uncomprehending. Surely he didn’t mean I was supposed to hang back and play the role of

domestique to Nate? But that’s exactly what he did mean. “You’re not to attack,” he ordered. Then he told me straight out that I was obliged to let Nate win.

I was deeply loyal to the national team. Compared to the rest of the field, we were underdogs, a ragtag crew staying in a tiny hotel, three guys to a room, with no money. We were on such a

tight budget that Chris washed our water bottles each night and recycled them, while the pro teams like Subaru–Montgomery would throw theirs away after one use. If I could win the

Settimana Bergamasca, it would be a huge victory for the U.S. program, and for American cycling in general. But my trade-team manager was telling me to hold back.

I went to Chris and confessed that I was being told not to ride hard by the Subaru-Montgomery director. “Lance, this is your race to win,” Chris said. “You can’t not attack. It’s yours.”

The next day, I rode hard. Imagine: you’re going up a hill with 100 guys in the peloton. Gradually, 50 guys get dropped, then 20 more get dropped, and then 10 more. You’re down to

15 or 20 guys. It’s a race of attrition. To make things even harder on your competitors, you attack–raise the tempo even more. Those remaining riders who can’t keep up get dropped, too.

That’s the essence of road racing.

But I was supposed to wait for Nate. The more I thought about it, it was not even an option. I said to myself, If he’s strong enough to stay here, fine. If he gets dropped, I’m not waiting for

him. He got dropped. And I didn’t wait for him.

I went with the leaders, and at the end of the day I wore the leader’s jersey, while Nate had lost about 20 minutes or so. The Subaru-Montgomery team director was furious, and afterward, he

angrily confronted Chris and me. “What are you trying to do?” he asked. Chris jumped to my defense.

“Hey, this is a bike race,” Chris said. “He’s riding to win.”

As we walked away, I was deeply upset. On the one hand I felt betrayed and abandoned by the team director, and on the other, I still struggled with guilt and conflicting loyalty. That night,

Chris and I sat down to talk again. “Look, if people are saying you shouldn’t attack, they aren’t thinking about what’s best for you,” Chris said. “This is a historic race and an American has

never won it, and you’re riding it with the best pros in Italy. If you win, it’s great for your career. What’s more, you’re riding for the U.S. national team. If you don’t do your best, what message

does that send?”

In my opinion, it would have been the worst possible message: “Sorry I’m in the lead–I have to let this other guy win because he’s a pro.” I couldn’t do it. Yet I was worried that the team

director could damage my future as a pro by bad-mouthing me.

Chris said, “Don’t worry, you just do what you think is right. If you win this race, you’re going to be set.”

I wanted to talk to my mother. I could barely figure out the phones and how to dial the States, but I finally got through to her.

“Son, what’s going on?” she said.

I explained the situation, so upset I was practically stuttering. “Mom, I don’t know what to do,” I said. “I’m in one of the leading positions, but the Subaru director is telling me Nate Reese is

going to win, and I have to help him.”

My mother listened, and then she said, “Lance, if you feel like you can win the race, you do it.”

“I think I can.”

“Then to hell with them,” she said. “You’re going to win this race. Don’t let anybody intimidate you–you put your head down, and you race.”

I put my head down, and I raced. I was an unpopular leader, and not just with Subaru-Montgomery; the Italian race fans lining the course were so incensed that an American

was in front that they scattered glass and thumbtacks in the road, hoping I would blow a tire. But as the race wore on, the Italians steadily warmed to me, and by the time I crossed the finish

line, they cheered.

I was the winner. I had done it, given the U.S. national team a victory in a European race. Our team was ecstatic, and so was Chris. That night, as I came down from the podium, Chris told

me something I’ve never forgotten.

“You’re gonna win the Tour de France one day,” he said.

CYCLING is A SPORT THAT EMBARRASSES YOUTH, rather than rewards it. As I had

planned, I turned pro immediately after the Olympics–and immediately finished dead last in my very first race.

I’d had a disappointing performance in the Barcelona Games, finishing 14th in the road race, but somehow I managed to impress one of the most influential men in American cycling, a man

named Jim Ochowicz, who took a chance and signed me to a pro contract. “Och,” as everybody called him, was the director of a team sponsored by Motorola, made up primarily of American