It's Not About the Bike: My Journey Back to Life by Lance Armstrong
Authors: Lance Armstrong
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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
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
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