Read Online It's Not About the Bike: My Journey Back to Life by Lance Armstrong - Free Book Online
Authors: Lance Armstrong
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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
riders. Och was a cycling pioneer: in 1985 he had organized the first predominantly American squad to race overseas, and proven that U.S. riders could compete
in the traditionally European sport. (One of those early riders for Och’s Team 7-Eleven was Chris Carmichael.) A year later, Greg LeMond won the 1986 Tour de France and brought the
event into the American consciousness.
Och was always on the lookout for rising young Americans, and Chris steered me toward him. He introduced us one night in the midst of the Tour Du Pont, the biggest stage race held on
American soil. I went to Och’s hotel for what amounted to a job interview. I didn’t realize it then, but I was meeting my surrogate father.
My first impression was of a gangly, soft-spoken man in his 40s with an easy laugh and a broad, toothy smile. We sat around and chatted about where I came from, and he told me what he was
looking for in a rider: he wanted to find a young American who might follow in LeMond’s footsteps and win the Tour de France. Och’s teams had placed riders fourth on a couple of
different occasions, but had never won it.
Och asked me what my own ambition was. “I want to be the best rider there is,” I said. “I want to go to Europe and be a pro. I don’t want to just be good at it, I want to be the best.” That was
good enough for Och; he handed me a contract and packed me off to Europe.
My first race was the Clasica San Sebastian. They may call it a “classic,” but in reality it’s a horribly punishing single-day race in which riders cover more than a hundred miles, frequently
over bone-rattling terrain, in terrible weather. It is atmospheric and historic, and notoriously brutal. San Sebastian turned out to be a gorgeous seaside town in Basque country, but the day
of my debut was gray, pouring rain, and bit-ingly cold. There is nothing more uncomfortable than riding in the rain, because you can never, ever get warm. Your Lycra jersey is nothing more
than a second skin. Cold rain soaks it, plastering it to your body, so the chill mingles with your sweat and seeps down into your bones. Your muscles
“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
riders. Och was a cycling pioneer: in 1985 he had organized the first predominantly American squad to race overseas, and proven that U.S. riders could compete
in the traditionally European sport. (One of those early riders for Och’s Team 7-Eleven was Chris Carmichael.) A year later, Greg LeMond won the 1986 Tour de France and brought the
event into the American consciousness.
Och was always on the lookout for rising young Americans, and Chris steered me toward him. He introduced us one night in the midst of the Tour Du Pont, the biggest stage race held on
American soil. I went to Och’s hotel for what amounted to a job interview. I didn’t realize it then, but I was meeting my surrogate father.
My first impression was of a gangly, soft-spoken man in his 40s with an easy laugh and a broad, toothy smile. We sat around and chatted about where I came from, and he told me what he was
looking for in a rider: he wanted to find a young American who might follow in LeMond’s footsteps and win the Tour de France. Och’s teams had placed riders fourth on a couple of
different occasions, but had never won it.
Och asked me what my own ambition was. “I want to be the best rider there is,” I said. “I want to go to Europe and be a pro. I don’t want to just be good at it, I want to be the best.” That was
good enough for Och; he handed me a contract and packed me off to Europe.
My first race was the Clasica San Sebastian. They may call it a “classic,” but in reality it’s a horribly punishing single-day race in which riders cover more than a hundred miles, frequently
over bone-rattling terrain, in terrible weather. It is atmospheric and historic, and notoriously brutal. San Sebastian turned out to be a gorgeous seaside town in Basque country, but the day
of my debut was gray, pouring rain, and bit-ingly cold. There is nothing more uncomfortable than riding in the rain, because you can never, ever get warm. Your Lycra jersey is nothing more
than a second skin. Cold rain soaks it, plastering it to your body, so the chill mingles with your sweat and seeps down into your bones. Your muscles
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