Lance Armstrong - The growing pains of a world champion

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Outside magazine, July 1994

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"I'm Not the Next Greg LeMond. I'm the First Lance Armstrong."

By early January of this year, Armstrong hadn't competed in four months and was antsy to do battle again. At first the time off had been welcome. He decompressed, ate lots of Mexican food, hauled back some Shiner Bock beers. But ultimately even the charms of Austin's clubby Sixth Street weren't so intoxicating. The rainbow jerseys had also been eating at him. The dozens he received from Motorola over the winter served as reminders of the upcoming burden he would carry—and perhaps the exposure that never came his way. He's kept only two. "These other guys that win the rainbow jerseys are gods in their respective European countries," Armstrong says. "They spend the majority of their off-season flying here and there, doing commercial this and commercial that, and they forget about their biking. Well, I'm real fortunate that I'm an American and nobody wants me."

It's a statement Armstrong struggles with. But with relatively few distractions, he did enter the season in superb shape, and his early results were good. At the Tour of Mexico, in late January, he was instrumental in helping his new teammate, Raúl Alcalá, win his native country's biggest race. (In fact, Motorola's doctors had to order Armstrong out of the race early for fear that he was already driving himself too hard.) On the last day of Spain's Tour of Valencia, Armstrong delivered a blistering performance to finish a surprising sixth in the time trial, the race against the clock that had always been his biggest weakness. Then in April he placed second in Belgium's 167-mile Liège-Bastogne-Liège, the best finish ever for an American in a one-day classic.

If Armstrong and his handlers are to be believed, however, expectations for the rest of the season are reasonable. He'll focus on a few more one-day classics, perhaps another stage in the Tour de France, and a strong defense in the World Championships. According to his coaches, excelling in those events will make for a great season, especially since he's now a marked man. No need to take on the Tour de France and the legacy of Greg LeMond. Not at age 22.

But the thinking is that Armstrong will get there, just as LeMond did, winning the Tour on his third try, at 25. His time-trialing and climbing capabilites will develop over years. He'll utimately lose a few pounds in his upper body to make it easier to attack mountain stage after mountain stage. This year he'll probably stay in the race through the Pyrenees but won't be around for the last punishing week in the Alps. "Anybody who says Lance Armstrong doesn't have the capability to win the Tour someday is either stupid or jealous," says Carmichael.

The real test, some believe, will come when Armstrong leaves the Motorola nest—as he may eventually do should another mega-offer come down the pike. Will he call his own shots, hack the down times, pick his support people well? "He is very, very protected in a lot of ways," says Davis Phinney. "He has been very lucky to have mentors like Carmichael and Ochowicz. Chris is like an older brother. He'll tell Lance something he doesn't want to hear, Lance will hang up on him, and then he'll come around."

During his less emotional moments, however, Armstrong seems to be getting wiser. He doesn't mouth-off the way he used to, and he no longer drops his name in the same sentence as LeMond's. As of May Armstrong was a bachelor again—the Sonster has become a touchy subject—but he's working hard to turn more negatives into positives. "What gets written is that Armstrong doesn't wear his helmet and that some kid is not going to wear his helmet and get hurt," he says. "Nobody writes about the hospital visits that I make, the rainbow jerseys that I've sent to somebody who's been hit by a car. But if you're doing charitable things and not making stupid mistakes in your private life, folks will eventually notice. For the most part I think I'm a good person. People who know me—not to be an asshole or anything—they love me."

It's late afternoon, and Austin's Zilker Park is abuzz with postwork activity. As he walks toward the lifesize bronze statue of Stevie Ray Vaughan, the late Texas-born guitarist, Armstrong points to the river overpass where locals sometimes crowd the rails to watch bats do their twilight aerial maneuvers, an exotic, instinctual dance guided by powerful, silent sonar rhythms.

Hikers, bikers, and walkers stream along the greenbelt, which extends out on both sides of Town Lake. It's overcast, chilly almost, but not uncomfortable. Many of the passersby stop to pay tribute to Vaughan's memory, laying flowers and guitar picks at the statue's base. Armstrong, who has lived in Austin for four years, watches the ritual from a park bench ten feet away. Another cyclist cruises by, his helmet doffed in deference to the musician. "Man, people here really admired that guy," says Armstrong, impressed and happily lost in the moment's grace.

A short time later he snaps to attention. The sky is darkening, the air has gone raw, the shifting wind is now blowing off the river. Hurriedly, he buttons his denim jacket to the collar, tucks his arms in tight, and rushes to the warm interior of his car. A potential head cold averted, Armstrong's anxiety is gone as suddenly as it came. "What time is it?" he asks rhetorically, as the traffic peels away in his wake. "It's time for a beer."

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