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

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