Force Majeure (Cont.) | Outside Online

Outside Magazine June 2003

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Force Majeure (Cont.)

LANCE ARMSTRONG IS A WORKAHOLIC. Though his racing season runs March through September, he views his job as a year-round gig. Since he won his first Tour, in 1999, Armstrong's responsibilities have steadily accrued as his appeal has evolved from a feel-good story about an athlete's courage to one that ranges well beyond sports, tapping into Platonic ideals of willpower, leadership, discipline, and determination.

It's demanding work. Armstrong owes 45 days a year to his 13 sponsors, the biggest of which each pay him north of $2 million a year

The obligations of superstardom are starting to tear at him. The way he sees it, he has one shot at true greatness—and because his very life is a second chance, he's not going to let anything stand in his way.

to pitch their products. He puts in another ten days working with his foundation, not to mention countless phone calls and covert visits with cancer patients, sneaking them into his hotel rooms or slipping into their hospital rooms to deliver pep talks that border on tough love. Most recently, he signed a five-year, $12.5 million contract with Subaru. Between these agreements, his $4 million United States Postal Service Pro Cycling Team salary, and the $3.5 million in bonuses he'll receive if he wins the Tour again, he stands to make $16.5 million this year.

Though his friends marvel at how he packs 25 hours of activity into every day, the obligations of superstardom are starting to tear at him. He's finding it harder to balance his job, and the needs of his wife and children, with what he wants for himself. The way Armstrong sees it, he has one shot at true greatness—and because his very life, post-cancer, is a second chance, he's determined not to let anything stand in his way. He needs to leave a monument to his suffering, a rock of proof that a fatherless loner from the Dallas suburbs could rise to the top and keep rising. He'll tell you that he's not interested in cycling records, that he just wants to be remembered as the cancer survivor who won the Tour (however many times). Not because his story is so improbable, but because it reflects, in universal terms, the pain he felt growing up. He can be understood. To explain himself, all he has to do is win a bike race.

"I don't even know if it's so much winning, but the fear of losing," Lance tells me, slouching in a wooden rocking chair, a can of Miller Lite in his hand.

It's Saturday evening, a couple hours after the cyclocross race, and we're sitting on the porch of his small cabin on the west edge of Austin. Willie Nelson's warbling through the stereo and the sun is slipping fast into the Texas Hill Country. The property is called Milagro—Spanish for miracle—because, he says, "Kristin truly feels like my survival and the births of our kids were miracles."

"I don't like to lose," he goes on. "I just despise it. I mean, if I lost the Tour, I would be incredibly upset. With myself. If something bad happened—an accident or whatever—I would still be upset with myself. But if I just failed on a performance level, on a fitness level, that would not be"—he pauses, rubbing his ship's prow of a jaw with his free hand—"acceptable."

The drive out here—Lance hunched over the wheel of the Suburban, tacking through town traffic, Pete Yorn blaring on the stereo—testified to his competitiveness. He turned it into a private time trial. I was right on his bumper, determined not to get dropped, when we caught a yellow light. That's when his hand darted up through the sunroof, waving me through, as if to say, "C'mon, don't be a skirt!" Hauling ass to keep up seems crucial, as it must to everyone who deals with Armstrong.

Even now, he can't stop talking about winning. "Like today. I'd have been mad if I didn't win." He laughs, snugging his cap down over his monk's coif of graying hair. "I would have been livid."

When Armstrong talks to you, he engages mentally and physically in the dialogue. He uses his hands like an Italian, his facial expressions like a Frenchman. He speaks in evidentiary terms, listing examples, citing details to support each point, slapping you on the knee for emphasis. His cadence is brisk, just as it is on the bike, but he is not terse.

He tells me about his routine. "I wake up and run right to the coffee," he says. "It's already made. Yeah, baby! Timer. I'd go nuts if I had to wait." And about Luke. "When I get dressed in my cycling clothes, he tells me, 'Have a good day at work!' He was cool today, huh? I heard him every time I came around." And whether it's still anger that primarily fuels him. "Last year," he says of the 2002 Tour, "there was no vengeance, no anger, no revenge. There was none of that... Maybe that made it less fun. Everybody likes to give payback a bit. That's human nature."

I want to know if he dreamed that he'd become as successful as he has. "I'll never have to worry about money, and I never thought it would be like that," he says, looking amused. "I always thought that would keep me busy. It's an interesting place for me to be, because a lot of times when that happens to an athlete, then you see them change—you see their performance change, their motivations and their desires. Mine hasn't changed. I still love it. I still need it. The riding, the training, the building, the crafting, and hopefully, ultimately, the winning. I just get off on it—the whole process."

Still, surviving cancer left him with an almost manic urgency, and he's perfectly aware of what this costs him. "I'm burning the candle at both ends more than I ever have," he says. "In terms of training, fulfilling other responsibilities in the off-season. The last three weeks—the amount of travel I've done, and tried to train, and tried to do local races, and tried to have a family, and tried to lead a fairly normal life... That's hard. I can see that there are ways to make it easier, and I can see the end of it coming."

He's talking about life beyond the Tour—when the hypermasochistic training regimen is over, when he doesn't have to sleep in an altitude tent—but he really can't let himself think too far into the future. For now, he loves his job. In February he'll make his annual move to Girona, Spain, where preparation for the Tour becomes all-consuming. There's nothing to do but ride.

"Simple, simple, simple," he says. "Beautiful."

And just when I've settled into what seems like a nice chat with the best and busiest bike racer in the world, I see the animation on his face vanish. My allotted 60 minutes are up.

"All right," he says, hopping out of his chair. "I gotta run. You done with me?"

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