It's Not About the Bike: My Journey Back to Life (29 page)

A time trial is a simple matter of one man alone against the clock. The course would require roughly an hour and 15 minutes of riding flat-out over 57 kilometers, a big loop through

west-central France, over roads lined with red tiled roofs and farm fields of brown and gold grass, where spectators camped out on couches and lounge chairs. I wouldn’t see much of the

scenery, though, because I would be in a tight aerodynamic tuck most of the time.

The riders departed in reverse order, which meant I would be last. To prepare, I got on my bike on a stationary roller, and went through all the gears I anticipated using on the course.

While I warmed up, Tyler Hamilton had his go at the distance. His job was to ride as hard and fast as he could, regardless of risk, and send back technical information that might help me.

Tyler not only rode it fast, he led for much of the day. Finally, Zulle came in at 1 hour, 8 minutes, and 26 seconds to knock Tyler out of first place.

It was my turn. I shot out of the start area and streaked through the winding streets. Ahead of me was Escartin, who had started three minutes before I did.

My head down, I whirred by him through a stretch of trees and long grass, so focused on my own race that I never even glanced at him.

I had the fastest time at the first two splits. I was going so fast that in the follow car, my

mother’s head jerked back from the acceleration around the curves.

After the third time check I was still in first place at 50:55. The question was, could I hold the pace on the final portion of the race?

Going into the final six kilometers, I was 20 seconds up over Zulle. But now I started to pay. I paid for mountains, I paid for the undulations, I paid for the flats. I was losing time, and I could

feel it. If I beat Zulle, it would be only by a matter of seconds. Through two last, sweeping curves, I stood up. I accelerated around the corners, trying to be careful not to crash, but still

taking them as tightly as I could– and almost jumped a curb and went up on the pavement.

I raced along a highway in the final sprint. I bared my teeth, counting, driving. I crossed the line. I checked the time: 1:08:17.

I won by 9 seconds.

I cruised into a gated area, braked, and fell off the bike, bent over double.

I had won the stage, and I had won the Tour de France. I was now assured of it. My closest competitor was Zulle, who trailed in the overall standings by 7 minutes and 37 seconds, an

impossible margin to make up on the final stage into Paris.

I was near the end of the journey. But there had been two journeys, really: the journey to get to the Tour, and then the journey of the Tour itself. In the beginning there was the Prologue and

the emotional high, and that first week, uneventful but safe. Then there were the strange out-of-body experiences at Metz and Sestriere, followed by the demoralizing attacks by the

press. Now to finish with a victory gave me a sweet sense of justification. I was going to Paris wearing the maillot jaune.

As I took the podium my mother clapped and waved a flag and wiped her eyes. I hadn’t seen her before the stage, but immediately afterward I grabbed her in a hug, and then took her to lunch.

She said, “You’re just not going to believe what’s going on back home. I know it’s hard for you to understand or even think about right now. But the people in the U.S. are going crazy. I’ve

never seen anything like this before.”

Afterward, we went back to the hotel, and another throng of press was in the lobby. We worked our way through the crowd toward my room, and one of the French journalists tried to interview

my mother. “Can we talk?” he asked.

I turned around and said: “She’s not speaking to the French press.” But the guy continued to ask her a question.

“Leave her alone,” I said. I got my arm around her and steered us through the crowd up to my room.

THAT NIGHT, I BEGAN TO GET AN IDEA OF THE RE-sponse back home in the States. A journalist from People magazine arrived and wanted an interview. Sponsors streamed into our

team hotel to shake hands and visit. Friends began to arrive; they had jumped on planes overnight. Bill Stapleton took me to dinner and explained that all of the morning shows and

late-night talk shows wanted me to appear. He thought I should fly to the States for a day after the Tour for a series of TV interviews.

But traditionally, the Tour winner travels to a series of races around Europe to display the yellow jersey, and I wanted to honor that. “It’s not up for discussion,” I said. “I’m staying here to

do these races.”

“Okay, fine,” Bill said. “Great.”

“Well, what do you think?”

“I think you’re being really stupid.”

“Why?”

“Because you have no idea what’s going on back there, and how important it is. But you’re going to find out. The day this thing is over, you cannot hide. Everybody in America is paying

attention.”

Nike wanted me to hold a press conference in New York at their mega-store, and the mayor wanted to be there, and so did Donald Trump. The people in Austin wanted to have a parade.

Nike offered a private jet to fly me to the States and back to Europe in a single day, so I could do the races. I was stunned. I’d spent years winning bike races, and nobody in the States had

cared.

Now everybody cared.

But part of me still didn’t entirely trust the fact that I was going to win. I told myself there was one more day to race, and after dinner I stayed sequestered, got my hydration and my rubdown,

and went to bed.

The final stage, from Arpajon into Paris, is a largely ceremonial ride of 89.2 miles. According to tradition, the peloton would cruise at a leisurely pace, until we saw the Eiffel Tower and

reached the Arc de Triomphe, where the U.S. Postal team would ride at the front onto the Champs-Elysees. Then a sprint would begin, and we would race ten laps around a circuit in the

center of the city. Finally, there would be a post-race procession, a victory lap.

As we rode toward Paris, I did interviews from my bike and chatted with teammates and friends in the peloton. I even ate an ice-cream cone. The Postal team, as usual, rode in superbly

organized fashion. “I don’t have to do anything,” I said to one TV crew. “It’s all my boys.”

After a while another crew came by. “I’d like to say Hi to Kelly Davidson, back in Fort Worth, Texas,” I said. “This is for you.” Kelly is the young cancer fighter who I’d met in the Ride for the

Roses, and she and her family had become my close friends.

Finally, we approached the city. I felt a swell of emotion as we rode onto the Champs-Elysees for the first time. The entire avenue was shut down for us, and it was a stunning sight, with

hundreds of thousands of spectators lining the avenue of fitted cobblestones and brick. The air was full of air horns and confetti, and bunting hung from every facade. The number of American

flags swirling in the crowd stunned me.

Deep in the crowd, someone held up a large cardboard sign. It said “TEXAS.”

As we continued to parade down the Champs, it gradually dawned on me that not all of those flags were the Stars and Stripes. Some of those waving pennants, I saw delightedly, were from

the Lone Star State.

The ten-lap sprint to the finish was oddly subdued and anticli-mactic, a formality during which I simply avoided a last freak crash. And then I crossed the finish line. It was finally tangible and

real. I was the winner.

I dismounted into pandemonium; there were photographers everywhere, and security personnel, and protocol officials, and friends, clapping me on the back. There must have been 50 people

from Austin, including Bart Knaggs, and my dear friend Jeff Garvey, and even, believe it or not, Jim Hoyt. Homeboy had talked his way into our compound.

I was ushered to the podium for the victory ceremony, where I raised the trophy after it was presented to me. I couldn’t contain myself anymore, and leaped down and ran into the stands to

embrace my wife. The photographers surrounded me, and I said, “Where’s my Mom?” and the crowd opened and I saw her and grabbed her in a hug. The press swarmed around her too, and

someone asked her if she thought my victory was against the odds.

“Lance’s whole life has been against all odds,” my mother told him.

Then came the best part of all, the ceremonial victory lap where I rode with the team one last time. We cruised all alone on the Champs-Elysees. We had been together for three weeks, and

we rode very, very slowly, savoring the moment. A stranger dashed into the street and handed me a huge American flag on a pole. I don’t know how he got there–he just appeared in front of

me and thrust it into my hand. I raised the flag, feeling an overwhelming blur of sensation and emotion.

Finally, I returned to the finish area and spoke to the press, choking back tears. “I’m in shock. I’m in shock. I’m in shock,” I said. “I would just like to say one thing. If you ever get a second

chance in life for something, you’ve got to go all the way.”

We were whisked away as a team, to get ready for that night’s celebration banquet, an elaborate fete for 250 people at the Musee d’Or-say, surrounded by some of the most priceless art in the

world. We were exhausted to a man, utterly depleted by the three-week ordeal, but we looked forward to raising a glass.

We arrived at the museum to find the tables exquisitely set, except for the rather odd centerpieces, which had been suggested by Thorn Weisel.

There was an arrangement of apples at each place.

We lifted our first glasses of Champagne since Metz, and I stood to toast my teammates. “I wore the yellow jersey,” I said. “But I figure maybe the only thing that belongs to me is the zipper. A

small piece of it. My teammates deserve the rest–sleeves, the front and back of it.”

My teammates raised their hands.

There was something clenched in the fist of each man.

An apple. Red, shiny apples, all around me.

THAT NIGHT, KRISTIN AND I CHECKED INTO THE RITZ, where we’d booked a huge and expensive suite. We changed into the complimentary bathrobes and opened another bottle

of Champagne, and had our private moment, our celebration. We were finally alone together again, and we giggled at the size of the suite, and had dinner from room service. Then we fell

into a very deep sleep.

I woke up the next morning and burrowed down into the pillow, and tried to adjust to the unfamiliar surroundings. Next to me, Kik opened her eyes, and gradually we came fully awake.

As she stared at me, we read each other’s thoughts.

“Oh, my God,” I said. “I won the Tour de France.”

“No way,” she said.

We burst out laughing.

THE CEREAL BOX

THE TRUTH IS, IF YOU ASKED ME TO CHOOSE between winning the Tour de France and cancer, I would choose cancer. Odd as it sounds, I would rather have the title of cancer

survivor than winner of the Tour, because of what it has done for me as a human being, a man, a husband, a son, and a father.

In those first days after crossing the finish line in Paris I was swept up in a wave of attention, and as I struggled to keep things in perspective, I asked myself why my victory had such a

profound effect on people. Maybe it’s because illness is universal–we’ve all been sick, no one is immune–and so my winning the Tour was a symbolic act, proof that you can not only survive

cancer, but thrive after it. Maybe, as my friend Phil Knight says, I am hope.

Bill Stapleton finally convinced me that I needed to fly to New York for a day. Nike provided the private jet, and Kik came with me, and in New York, the full reach and impact of the victory

finally hit us. I had a press conference at Niketown, and the mayor did show up, and so did Donald Trump, and I appeared on the Today show, and on David Letterman. I went to Wall

Street to ring the opening bell. As I walked onto the trading floor, the traders erupted in sustained applause, stunning me. Then, as we left the building, I saw a huge throng of people

gathered on the sidewalk. I said to Bill, “I wonder what that crowd is doing here?”

“That’s for you, Lance,” Bill said. “Are you starting to get it now?”

Afterward, Kik and I went to Babies “SL” Us. People came down the aisles of the store to shake my hand and ask for autographs. I was taken aback, but Kik was unfazed. She just said, blithely,

“I think we need some onesies and a diaper pail.”

To us, there was a more ordinary act of survival still to come: parenthood.

AT FIRST, I WORRIED THAT BECAUSE I DIDN’T HAVE A

relationship with my own father, I might not make a good one myself.

I tried to practice being a father. I bought a sling to carry the baby in, and I wore it around the house, empty. I strapped it on and wore it in the kitchen while I made breakfast. I kept it on

when I sat in my office, answering mail and returning phone calls. I strolled in the backyard with it on, imagining that a small figure was nestled there.

Kik and I went to the hospital for a tour of the facilities and a nurse briefed us on what to expect when Kik went into labor.

“After the baby is delivered it will be placed on Kristin’s chest,” she said. “Then we will cut the umbilical cord.”

“I’ll cut the umbilical cord,” I said.

“All right,” the nurse said agreeably. “Next, a nurse will bathe the baby …”

“I’ll bathe the baby.”

“Fine,” the nurse said. “After that, we will carry the baby down the hall . ..”

“I’ll carry the baby,” I said. “It’s my baby.”

One afternoon late in her pregnancy, Kik and I were running errands in separate cars, and I ended up tailgating her home. I thought she was driving too fast, so I dialed her number on the

car phone.

“Slow it down,” I said. “That’s my child you’re carrying.”

In those last few weeks of her pregnancy, Kik liked to tell people, “I’m expecting my second child.”

In early October, about two weeks before the baby was due, Bill Stapleton and I went to Las Vegas, where I was to deliver a speech and hold a couple of business meetings. When I called

home, Kik told me she was sweating and felt strange, but I didn’t think much about it at first. I went on with my business, and when I was done, Bill and I dashed to catch an afternoon flight

back to Dallas, with an evening connection to Austin.

In a private lounge area in Dallas I called Kik, and she said she was still sweating, and now she was having contractions.

“Come on,” I said. “You’re not really having this baby, are you? It’s probably a false alarm.”

On the other end of the line, Kik said, “Lance, this is not funny.”

Then she went into a contraction.

“Okay, okay,” I said. “I’m on my way.”

We boarded the plane for Austin, and as we took our seats, Staple-ton said, “Let me give you a little marital advice. I don’t know if your wife’s having a baby tonight, but we need to call her

again when we get up in the air.”

The plane began its taxi, but I was too impatient to wait for takeoff, so I called her from the runway on my cell phone.

“Look, what’s going on?” I said.

“My contractions are a minute long, and they’re five minutes apart, and they’re getting longer,” she said.

“Kik, do you think we’re having this baby tonight?”

“Yeah, I think we’re having the baby tonight.”

“I’ll call you as soon as we land.”

I hung up, and ordered two beers from the flight attendant, and Bill and I clinked bottles and toasted the baby. It was just a 40-minute flight to Austin, but my leg jiggled the whole way

there. As soon as landed, I called her again. Usually, when Kik answers the phone she says “Hi!” with a voice full of enthusiasm. But this time she picked up with a dull “Hi.”

“How you feeling, babe?” I said, trying to sound calm.

“Not good.”

“How we doing?”

“Hold on,” she said.

She had another contraction. After a minute she got back on.

“Have you called the doctor?” I said.

“Yeah.”

“What’d he say?”

“He said to come into the hospital as soon as you get home.”

“Okay,” I said. “I’ll be there.”

I floored it. I drove 105 in a 35 zone. I screeched into the driveway, helped Kik into the car, and then drove more carefully to St. David’s Hospital, the same place where I had my cancer

surgery.

Forget what they tell you about the miracle of childbirth, and how it’s the greatest thing that

ever happens to you. It was horrible, terrifying, one of the worst nights of my life, because I was so worried for Kik, and for our baby, for all of us.

Kik had been in labor for three hours as it turned out, and when the delivery-room staff took a look at her and told me how dilated she was, I told her, “You’re a stud.” What’s more, the baby

was turned “sunny side up,” with its face toward her tailbone, so she had racking pains in her back.

The baby was coming butt-first, and Kik had trouble delivering. She tore, and she bled, and then the doctor said, “We’re going to have to use the vacuum.” They brought out something that

practically looked like a bathroom plunger, and they attached it to my wife. They performed a procedure, and–and the baby popped right out. It was a boy. Luke David Armstrong was

officially born.

When they pulled him out he was tiny, and blue, and covered with birth fluids. They placed him on Kik’s chest, and we huddled together. But he wasn’t crying. He just made a couple of small,

mew-like sounds. The delivery-room staff seemed concerned that he wasn’t making more noise. Cry, I thought. Another moment passed, and still Luke didn’t cry. Come on, cry. I could feel the

room grow tense around me.

“He’s going to need a little help,” someone said.

They took him away from us.

A nurse whisked the baby out of Kik’s arms and around a corner into another room, full of complicated equipment.

Suddenly, people were running.

“What’s wrong?” Kik said. “What’s happening?”

“I don’t know,” I said.

Medical personnel dashed in and out of the room, as if it was an emergency. I held Kik’s hand and I craned my neck, trying to see what was going on in the next room. I couldn’t see our baby.

I didn’t know what to do. My son was in there, but I didn’t want to leave Kik, who was terrified. She kept saying to me, “What’s going on, what are they doing to him?” Finally, I let go

of her hand and peered around the corner.

They had him on oxygen, with a tiny mask over his face.

Cry, please. Please, please cry.

I was petrified. At that moment I would have done anything just to hear him scream, absolutely

anything. Whatever I knew about fear was completely eclipsed in that delivery room. I was scared when I was diagnosed with cancer, and I was scared when I was being treated, but it was

nothing compared to what I felt when they took our baby away from us. I felt totally helpless, because this time it wasn’t me who was sick, it was somebody else. It was my son.

They removed the mask. He opened his mouth, and scrunched his face, and all of a sudden he let out a big, strong “Whaaaaaaaaaa!!!” He screamed like a world-class, champion screamer.

With that, his color changed, and everyone seemed to relax. They brought him back to us. I held him, and I kissed him.

I bathed him, and the nurse showed me how to swaddle him, and together, Kik and Luke and I went to a large hospital room that was almost like a hotel suite. It had the regulation hospital

bed and equipment, but it also had a sofa and a coffee table for visitors. We slept together for a few hours, and then everyone began to arrive. My mother came, and Kik’s parents, and Bill and

Laura Stapleton. That first evening, we had a pizza party. Visitors stuck their heads in our door to see Kik sitting up in bed sipping a Shiner Bock and chewing on a slice.

My mother and I took a stroll through the corridors, and I couldn’t help thinking about what I had just gone through with Luke. I completely understood now what she must have felt when it

seemed as though she might outlive her own child.

We passed by my old hospital room. “Remember that?” I asked. We smiled at each other.

THE QUESTION THAT LINGERS IS, HOW MUCH WAS I A

factor in my own survival, and how much was science, and how much miracle?

I don’t have the answer to that question. Other people look to me for the answer, I know. But if I could answer it, we would have the cure for cancer, and what’s more, we would fathom the

true meaning of our existences. I can deliver motivation, inspiration, hope, courage, and counsel, but I can’t answer the unknowable. Personally, I don’t need to try. I’m content with simply being

alive to enjoy the mystery.

Good joke:

A man is caught in a flood, and as the water rises he climbs to the roof of his house and waits to be rescued. A guy in a motorboat comes by, and he says, “Hop in, I’ll save you.”

“No, thanks,” the man on the rooftop says. “My Lord will save me.”

But the floodwaters keep rising. A few minutes later, a rescue plane flies overhead and the pilot drops a line.

“No, thanks,” the man on the rooftop says. “My Lord will save me.”

But the floodwaters rise ever higher, and finally, they overflow the roof and the man drowns.

When he gets to heaven, he confronts God.

“My Lord, why didn’t you save me?” he implores.

“You idiot,” God says. “I sent you a boat, I sent you a plane.”

I think in a way we are all just like the guy on the rooftop. Things take place, there is a confluence of events and circumstances, and we can’t always know their purpose, or even if

there is one. But we can take responsibility for ourselves and be brave.

We each cope differently with the specter of our deaths. Some people deny it. Some pray. Some numb themselves with tequila. I was tempted to do a little of each of those things. But I think

we are supposed to try to face it straightforwardly, armed with nothing but courage. The definition of courage is: the quality of spirit that enables one to encounter danger with firmness

and without fear.

It’s a fact that children with cancer have higher cure rates than adults with cancer, and I wonder if the reason is their natural, unthinking bravery. Sometimes little kids seem better equipped to

deal with cancer than grown-ups are. They’re very determined little characters, and you don’t have to give them big pep talks. Adults know too much about failure; they’re more cynical and

resigned and fearful. Kids say, “I want to play. Hurry up, and make me better.” That’s all they want.

When Wheaties decided to put me on the cover of the box after the Tour de France, I asked if we could hold the press conference in the children’s cancer ward at the same hospital where my

son was born. As I visited with the kids and signed some autographs, one little boy grabbed a Wheaties box and stood at my knees, clutching it to his chest.

“Can I have this?” he said.

“Yeah, you can have it,” I said. “It’s yours.”

He just stood there, looking at the box, and then he looked back at me. I figured he was pretty impressed.

Then he said, “What shapes are they?”

“What?” I said.

“What shapes are they?”

“Well,” I said, “it’s cereal. It’s all different shapes.”

“Oh,” he said. “Okay.”

See, to him, it’s not about cancer. It’s just about cereal.

IF CHILDREN HAVE THE ABILITY TO IGNORE ODDS AND

percentages, then maybe we can all learn from them. When you think about it, what other choice is there but to hope? We have two options, medically and emotionally: give up, or fight

like hell.

After I was well again, I asked Dr. Nichols what my chances really were. “You were in bad shape,” he said. He told me I was one of the worst cases he had seen. I asked, “How bad was I?

Worst fifty percent?” He shook his head. “Worst twenty percent?” He shook his head again. “Worst ten?” He still shook his head.

When I got to three percent, he started nodding.

Anything’s possible. You can be told you have a 90-percent chance or a 50-percent chance or a 1-percent chance, but you have to believe, and you have to fight. By fight I mean arm yourself

with all the available information, get second opinions, third opinions, and fourth opinions. Understand what has invaded your body, and what the possible cures are. It’s another fact of

cancer that the more informed and empowered patient has a better chance of long-term survival.

What if I had lost? What if I relapsed and the cancer came back? I still believe I would have gained something in the struggle, because in what time I had left I would have been a more