Read Online It's Not About the Bike: My Journey Back to Life by Lance Armstrong - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Lance Armstrong
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fact, I ignored them.
I raced with no respect. Absolutely none. I paraded, mouthed off, shoved my fists in the air. I never backed down. The journalists loved me; I was different, I made good copy, I was colorful.
But I was making enemies.
A road is only so wide. Riders are constantly moving around, fighting for position, and often the smart and diplomatic thing to do is to let a fellow rider in. In a long stage race, you give a little
to make a friend, because you might need one later. Give an inch, make a friend. But I wouldn’t do it. Partly it was my character at the time: I was insecure and defensive, not totally confident
of how strong I was. I was still the kid from Piano with the chip on my shoulder, riding headlong, pedaling out of anger. I didn’t think I could afford to give up inches.
Sometimes I would yell at other riders in the peloton, in frustration: “Pull or get out of the way!” I didn’t understand yet that for various reasons a guy might sit on the back, maybe because his
team leader told him to, or because he was tired and hurting. It wasn’t his job to move out of my way, or to work harder so I could ride at a faster pace. (I don’t get so riled up about those things
anymore, and often I’m the one who sits on the back, hurting.)
I would learn that in the peloton, other riders can totally mess you up, just to keep you from winning. There is a term in cycling, “flicking.” It’s a derivative of the German word ficken,
which means “to fuck.” If you flick somebody in the peloton, it means to screw him, just to get him. There’s a lot of flicking in the peloton.
Guys would flick me just to flick me. They would race to see that I didn’t win, simply because they didn’t like me. They could cut me off. They could isolate me, and make me ride slower, or
they could surge and push the pace, making me work harder than I wanted to, weakening me. Fortunately I was surrounded by some protective teammates, guys like Sean Yates, Steve Bauer,
and Frankie Andreu, who tried to gently explain that I wasn’t doing myself any good, or them either. “Lance, you’ve got to try to control yourself, you’re making enemies,” Frankie would say.
They seemed to understand that I had some maturing to do, and if they were exasperated with me, they kept it to themselves, and patiently steered me in the right direction.
Teammates are critical in cycling–I had eight of them on the Motorola squad, and I needed each and every one. On a severe climb it could save me thirty percent of my energy to ride behind a
colleague, drafting, “sitting on his wheel.” Or, on a windy day, my eight teammates would stay out in front of me, shielding me and saving me up to 50 percent of the work I’d have to do
otherwise. Every team needs guys who are sprinters, guys who are climbers, guys willing to do the dirty work. It was very important to recognize the effort of each person involved–and not to
waste it. “Who’s going to work hard for someone who doesn’t win?” Och asked me, and it was a good question.
You don’t win a road race all on your own. You need your teammates–and you need the goodwill and cooperation of your competitors, too. People had to want to ride for you, and with
you. But in those first months, a couple of my competitors literally wanted to punch me out.
I would insult great European champions. In one of my first races as a pro, the Tour of the Mediterranean, I encountered Moreno Argentin, a very serious, very respected Italian cyclist. He
was one of the dons of the sport, a former World Champion who had won races all over the continent. But I surged right up to the front and challenged him. There were 150 guys bunched
all together, jockeying for position, flicking, coming over on each other, and pushing each other out of the way.
As I drew even with Argentin, he glanced at me, vaguely surprised, and said, “What are you doing here, Bishop?”
For some reason it
I raced with no respect. Absolutely none. I paraded, mouthed off, shoved my fists in the air. I never backed down. The journalists loved me; I was different, I made good copy, I was colorful.
But I was making enemies.
A road is only so wide. Riders are constantly moving around, fighting for position, and often the smart and diplomatic thing to do is to let a fellow rider in. In a long stage race, you give a little
to make a friend, because you might need one later. Give an inch, make a friend. But I wouldn’t do it. Partly it was my character at the time: I was insecure and defensive, not totally confident
of how strong I was. I was still the kid from Piano with the chip on my shoulder, riding headlong, pedaling out of anger. I didn’t think I could afford to give up inches.
Sometimes I would yell at other riders in the peloton, in frustration: “Pull or get out of the way!” I didn’t understand yet that for various reasons a guy might sit on the back, maybe because his
team leader told him to, or because he was tired and hurting. It wasn’t his job to move out of my way, or to work harder so I could ride at a faster pace. (I don’t get so riled up about those things
anymore, and often I’m the one who sits on the back, hurting.)
I would learn that in the peloton, other riders can totally mess you up, just to keep you from winning. There is a term in cycling, “flicking.” It’s a derivative of the German word ficken,
which means “to fuck.” If you flick somebody in the peloton, it means to screw him, just to get him. There’s a lot of flicking in the peloton.
Guys would flick me just to flick me. They would race to see that I didn’t win, simply because they didn’t like me. They could cut me off. They could isolate me, and make me ride slower, or
they could surge and push the pace, making me work harder than I wanted to, weakening me. Fortunately I was surrounded by some protective teammates, guys like Sean Yates, Steve Bauer,
and Frankie Andreu, who tried to gently explain that I wasn’t doing myself any good, or them either. “Lance, you’ve got to try to control yourself, you’re making enemies,” Frankie would say.
They seemed to understand that I had some maturing to do, and if they were exasperated with me, they kept it to themselves, and patiently steered me in the right direction.
Teammates are critical in cycling–I had eight of them on the Motorola squad, and I needed each and every one. On a severe climb it could save me thirty percent of my energy to ride behind a
colleague, drafting, “sitting on his wheel.” Or, on a windy day, my eight teammates would stay out in front of me, shielding me and saving me up to 50 percent of the work I’d have to do
otherwise. Every team needs guys who are sprinters, guys who are climbers, guys willing to do the dirty work. It was very important to recognize the effort of each person involved–and not to
waste it. “Who’s going to work hard for someone who doesn’t win?” Och asked me, and it was a good question.
You don’t win a road race all on your own. You need your teammates–and you need the goodwill and cooperation of your competitors, too. People had to want to ride for you, and with
you. But in those first months, a couple of my competitors literally wanted to punch me out.
I would insult great European champions. In one of my first races as a pro, the Tour of the Mediterranean, I encountered Moreno Argentin, a very serious, very respected Italian cyclist. He
was one of the dons of the sport, a former World Champion who had won races all over the continent. But I surged right up to the front and challenged him. There were 150 guys bunched
all together, jockeying for position, flicking, coming over on each other, and pushing each other out of the way.
As I drew even with Argentin, he glanced at me, vaguely surprised, and said, “What are you doing here, Bishop?”
For some reason it
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