It's Not About the Bike: My Journey Back to Life (19 page)

again.

“I’m just not as competitive as before,” I told reporters. “Maybe I’m just a recreational cyclist now.” Even though I was back on my bike, I told them, “I’m a participant, not a competitor.”

The Tour, I said, “is most likely impossible.”

“Look,” I said. “Cycling for me was really a job. It was very good to me. I did it for five or six years, lived all over Europe, did all the traveling. Now I have time to spend with my friends and

family, do the stuff I missed doing my entire childhood.”

BY THE END OF THE SUMMER I RESEMBLED A HEALTHY

person. I no longer looked sick, and I had all of my hair. But I still worried constantly about a relapse, and I had continuing ghost pains in my chest.

I had nightmares. I had strange physical reactions; for no apparent reason I would break out in a sweat. The slightest stress or anxiety would cause my body to become shiny with perspiration.

While I was being treated I was actively killing the cancer, but when the treatment stopped, I

felt powerless, like I wasn’t doing anything but waiting for the other shoe to fall. I was such an active, aggressive person that I would have felt better if they’d given me chemo for a year. Dr.

Nichols tried to reassure me. “Some people have more trouble after treatment than during. It’s common. It’s more difficult to wait for it to come back than it is to attack it.”

The monthly checkups were the worst. Kik and I would fly to Indianapolis and check into the hotel adjacent to the medical center. The next day I would rise at 5 A.M. to drink a contrast dye

for the various MRIs and scans and X rays, nasty stuff that tasted like a combination of Tang and liquid metal. It was a grim experience to wake up in that hotel again, and to know that I

would have to sit in another doctor’s office and perhaps hear the words You have cancer.

Kik would wake up and sit with me as I choked down the cocktail of dye, slumped over and miserable. She would rub my back while I swallowed it down. Once, to make me feel better, she

even asked to taste it. She took a swig and made a face. Like I say, she’s a stud.

Then we’d walk over to the hospital to face the blood tests and the MRIs. The doctors would line the chest X rays up on the light box and flip the switch, and I would duck my head, afraid

that I would see those white spots again. Kik didn’t know how to read an X ray, and the tension was racking for both of us. Once, she pointed at something and said, nervously, “What’s this?”

“That’s a rib,” I said.

As we sat there, we both thought the same thing: I’ve finally found the love of my life, the person who means everything in the world to me, and if anything takes that away now I will

come unglued. It was a sickening sensation then, and it’s still sickening now, just to think about it.

But each X ray was clear, and the blood tests remained normal. With every passing month the chances of a relapse lessened.

I was no longer strictly convalescing. For all intents and purposes, I was healthy. As the one-year mark approached, Chris Carmichael began to urge me to race again. Finally, he flew to

Austin to have it out with me. He believed I needed to get on my bike in earnest, that I had some unfinished business in the sport and that I was starting to seem empty without it, and he

wasn’t afraid to say so, either.

Chris had a long conversation with Bill Stapleton and said, “Everyone tells him to do what he wants, and no one will talk to him about racing his bike.” He thought I needed a push, and our

relationship had always been based on his ability to give me one when I needed it.

I knew exactly why Chris had come to see me. I told John Korioth, “Carmichael is in town to try to get me to race again, and I don’t know if I want to.” Chris and I went out to lunch at my

favorite Tex-Mex place, Chuy’s, and my prediction was correct.

“Lance,” Chris said, “what is with this playing golf? Cycling is what you’re about.”

I shook my head skeptically. “I don’t know,” I said.

“Are you afraid?”

I was. I had been strong as a bull on the bike, and what if I wasn’t anymore? Or what if racing could make me sick again?

“None of your doctors will say that you can race again,” Chris said. “But none of them will say that you can’t, either. I think you should try it, give it a run. I know it’s a big unknown, a big

risk, a big challenge, and a big scare. There are no givens. But here you are, back to life, and now you need to get back to living.”

I thought it over for a couple of days. It’s one thing to undergo chemo and go back to work as an accountant. But to be a cyclist? I didn’t know about that. Chemo had made the worst climb

in the Alps seem flat.

There was another factor to consider: I had a disability policy that would pay for five years. But if I made a comeback, I would forfeit the policy. I would be jumping off a financial cliff to race

again.

Chris hung out and met Kik, and continued to badger me about getting back on the bike. I explained to him that I just wasn’t clear on what I was supposed to do with the rest of my life,

but he refused to believe it. At one point, he turned to Kik, and said, “Do you think he should race again?

“I don’t really care,” she said. “I’m in love with this man.”

Chris looked at me. “Okay,” he said. “You can marry her.”

FINALLY, I MADE MY MIND UP: I WOULD TRY TO RACE again. I got back on the bike, and this time, I felt good about it. I told Bill and Kik, “I think I can do this.” I asked Chris to

formulate a training program for me, and I began to ride hard. But oddly enough, my body refused to take its previous shape. The old me had weighed 175 pounds. Now I was 158, my

face looked narrow and hawkish, and you could see every sinew in my legs.

Bill called Cofidis and told them I was up and riding. “I want to talk to you about his racing program; he’s ready to make a comeback,” Bill said. The Cofidis people suggested that Bill

come to France for a meeting.

Bill flew to Paris overnight, and then drove four hours into the country to reach the Cofidis executive offices. He arrived in time for an elegant lunch. Among those at the table were Alain

Bondue and the Cofidis executive officer, Francois Migraine.

Migraine gave a five-minute speech, welcoming Bill to France. And then he said, “We want to thank you for corning here, but we want you to know that we’re going to exercise our right to

terminate his contract. We need to go in a different direction.” Bill looked at Bondue and said, “Is he serious?” Bondue looked down at his plate and simply said, “Yes.” “Is there a reason I had

to fly all the way over here for you to tell me that?” Bill asked.

“We thought it was important that we tell you person-to-person,” Bondue said.

“Look, you only have to pay him a minimal amount to ride,” Bill said. “Just let him race. He really wants to make a comeback. It’s serious. It’s not that we think he’ll ride, we know he

will.”

Cofidis wasn’t confident that I would ever ride at that level again, and what’s more, if I did ride, and I happened to get sick again, it would be bad publicity for Cofidis.

It was over. Bill was desperate. “Look, he’s been part of your team; you paid him. At least make us an offer.” Finally, the Cofidis people said they would consider it.

Bill left without finishing lunch, and got back in his car for the long drive back to Paris. He couldn’t stand to break the news to me, and he drove to Paris unable to make the call. Finally,

he found a little cafe by the Eiffel Tower, pulled out his cell phone, and dialed my number.

“What?” I said.

“They terminated your deal.”

I paused. “Why’d they make you fly all the way over there?”

Over the next few days, I held out hope that the Cofidis executives would change their minds. Finally, Cofidis called and offered me about $180,000, with a big incentive clause to pay more if

I earned International Cycling Union (ICU) bonus points based on performance in various races. The base salary they were offering was the equivalent of a league minimum, but it was all we

had.

Bill had a Plan B. In the first week of September, there was a large annual Interbike Expo in Anaheim, California, and all the top team representatives would be there. Bill felt that if I

showed up healthy and announced I was ready to ride, I was sure to catch on with someone. “Lance, we need to get in front of the press and tell everybody that you’re serious about this, and

you’re available,” Bill said.

On September 4, 1997,1 went with Bill to the Interbike Expo to announce my return to cycling for the 1998 season. I held a press conference and drew a roomful of newspaper writers and

cycling experts, and informed them of my plans to race. I explained the Cofidis situation and made it clear that I felt jilted. I had missed a full calendar year with cancer, and Cofidis doubted

me just when I felt healthy and ready to compete again, I said. Now the whole cycling world knew I was on the auction block. I sat back and waited for the offers to come in.

None did.

They didn’t want me. One of France’s top cycling managers talked to Bill briefly, but when he heard what Bill was asking for my services, $500,000, he said dismissively, “That’s a champion’s

wage. You’re expecting the money of a big rider.” Another team, Saeco–Cannondale, said they might make an offer, and scheduled a meeting with Bill for the following day. No one showed

up. Bill had to go hunting for the guy, and finally found him in another business meeting. Bill said, “What’s going on?”

The executive replied, “We can’t do it.”

No European team would sign me. For every twenty calls Bill put out, maybe three were returned.

As the days went by and no one made a solid offer, I got angrier and angrier. Bill Stapleton caught the brunt of it, and it put a severe strain on our friendship. For a year and a half, he was

the guy who had nothing but bad news for me. He was the person who had to tell me that I had no health insurance, that Cofidis had cut my contract. Now he had to tell me that no one

wanted me.

I called my mother and told her about Cofidis, and I explained that no other team would make an offer. Not one. I could hear her tense up on the other end of the line, and the old feistiness

crept into her voice.

“You know what?” she said. “That’s all they’ve got to tell us. Because, by golly, you’ll show them. They’ve made a terrible mistake.”

All around, I encountered people who had given up on me, or who thought I was something less than I had been. One night, Kik and I went to a cocktail party with a bunch of people from the

new high-tech firm she worked for. We got separated at the party, and Kik was talking across the room from me with two executives at the firm, when one of them said to her, “So that’s your

new boyfriend?” and then made a vulgar reference to my testicles.

“Are you sure he’s good enough for you?” he said. “He’s only half a man.”

Kik froze. She said, “I won’t even dignify that with a response, because it is so beyond not funny.” She turned her back on him, and found me across the room, and told me what had

happened. I was beside myself. To say something like that to her he had to be incredibly stupid, or maybe he was just a fool who drinks too much at cocktail parties, but I wasn’t going to let

him get away with it. I went to the bar on the pretext of getting another drink, and as I walked by him, I shouldered him, hard.

Kristin objected to my behavior, so then we got into an argument. I was angry way past the point of conversation. After I dropped her off at her house, I went home and sat down and

composed a scathing e-mail to the guy, explaining the nature of testicular cancer and some of the statistics. I wrote dozens of different versions. “I can’t believe you’d say this to anybody, let

alone my girlfriend,” I wrote. “And you’ve got a real problem if you think something like this is funny. This is a life-and-death situation. It’s not about whether I have one ‘nut,’ or two, or fifty.”

But when I got done I was still upset, so I went over to Kik’s house in the middle of the night, and we had a long discussion. By now she was worried that the guy would try to fire her, and

we talked for a while about principles versus employment.

BlLL CONTINUED TO SEARCH FOR A TEAM THAT WOULD

take me on. He felt like he was running around as the agent for some B-rate swimmer that nobody wanted to talk to. People treated him like a pest. Bill just kept at it, and sheltered me

from the more brutal comments. “Come on,” one person said. “That guy will never ride in the peloton again. It’s a joke that he could ever ride at that speed.”

Finally, Bill had what he thought was a good possibility with the U.S. Postal Service team, a new organization that was American-funded and -sponsored. The chief investor in the team was

Thomas Weisel, a financier from San Francisco, an old friend of mine and the former owner of the Subaru-Montgomery team.The only catch was the money. Postal, too, was offering a low

base salary. Bill flew to San Francisco, and negotiations with the team’s general manager, Mark Gorski, seesawed back and forth over several tense days. We were unable to reach an

agreement.

I was on the verge of giving up. We still had the offer from Cofidis, but my resentment had reached the point at which I almost preferred not to race at all rather than to race for them. My

disability policy was worth $20,000 a month for five years, which amounted to $1.5 million, tax-free. If I tried to race again, Lloyds of London informed Bill, I would forfeit the policy. I

decided that if I was going to risk a comeback attempt, my heart should be in it. Otherwise it just didn’t make sense to jeopardize my disability.

Before Bill left San Francisco, we decided he should swing by Thorn Weisel’s office just to say goodbye and to speak with Thorn face-to-face to see if there was any chance we could work