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Outside Magazine June 2003

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Force Majeure (Cont.)

IT'S ONE THING TO TALK about how Armstrong organizes every inch of his life around winning the Tour. It's another thing to watch him do it. He hates to gamble, but when he's keeping pace with the best climbers in the world on some hideous mountain stage and then raises the effort another notch, he may as well be staking everything on 13 black. He admitted this to his teammate George Hincapie after trying to help him win the 2002 Tour of Flanders. "He said a lot of times he puts it all on the line," says Hincapie, who hesitated to attack in that race and wound up fourth. "He makes his move and takes a big risk. If they caught him, he'd be done."

Beyond the inner circle, the most important people to Armstrong are the eight guys who ride with him in Europe. As with any

"We've had six homes, three languages, three countries, one cancer comeback, three children, four Tour de France wins, and one rise to celebrity," says Kristin. "You're not supposed to cram such a huge amount into such a small period of time."

cycling team, USPS is built around its leader. They are there solely to block the wind for Armstrong (drafting behind another rider requires 30 percent less energy), chase down cheeky attacks, and otherwise make life as easy as possible for their captain. During the 2002 Tour, the cycling magazine VeloNews calculated that Armstrong spent no more than 14 miles of the race out front, a remarkable testament to the team's professionalism.

Armstrong is the boss on and off the bike. Thom Weisel's company, Tailwind Sports, owns the USPS squad, and he has formal authority, but his star rider more or less handpicks his teammates (only Hincapie remains from 1999). It was Armstrong who insisted on keeping the entire 2002 squad for this year. He even chose the coach, Bruyneel, a master tactician who raced for the Spanish cycling team ONCE not that long ago.

Traditionally, to win the Tour a rider must either excel in the time trials and persevere in the mountains, or vice versa. Since 1999, Armstrong has dominated both disciplines. If anything, he is better in the mountains, where he can watch the faces of his competitors. And of all the mountains Armstrong has faced in the Tour—Sestriere, L'Alpe d'Huez, La Mongie, to name but a few soul-crushers—only one has withstood his willpower: 6,273-foot Mont Ventoux.

The stats and history of this limestone slag heap are impressive in their own right. Ventoux rises 5,251 feet in 13 miles, with some stretches graded as steep as 15 percent. A mile from the top sits a stone memorial to British cyclist Tom Simpson, who in 1967 collapsed and died of heatstroke, presumably induced by amphetamines and the half-bottle of cognac he slugged down in a café at the base to refresh himself. In 1970, the indomitable Belgian rider Eddy Merckx, another five-time winner, had to be given oxygen at the finish. In 2000, Armstrong led Marco Pantani over the last two miles and then, in a show of respect for one of the Tour's finest climbers, let the Italian dart across the finish line first. Pantani denied that his victory was a gift, making Armstrong's graciousness look foolish. Ever since, both Pantani and Ventoux have been high on his shit list.

In 2002, Stage 14 of the 22-day, 2,036-mile race featured Ventoux, looming up out of the vineyards of Provence at the end of a 137-mile shot over windswept plains. It had already hit 90 degrees on July 21 when a group of 11 riders broke away from the pack and built a lead. One of them was Richard Virenque, a Frenchman who had won the Tour's "King of the Mountains" mantle five times and was back after a suspension for using EPO. When this bunch reached the base of the mountain, Virenque sprang away. He was seven minutes clear of the peloton, which was being towed by the Postal Service boys, frantic to get their man what he wanted.

Armstrong sat in second position, conserving energy as one teammate after another came to the front and redlined it until blowing up and getting spit out the back. Soon he found himself in a group of five, two of whom—Joseba Beloki and José Azevedo—were ONCE riders. As they switchbacked across the shady lower flanks of Ventoux, the Spaniards took turns setting the pace, trying to crack Armstrong. Slogging up the steepest section of the climb, Armstrong slipped to the back of the group, perhaps baiting them. Beloki went for it. He downshifted, stood up, and cranked ahead, tacking sharply to one side of the road to keep anyone from catching his slipstream. Armstrong followed his move a split second later, motoring around the others and up behind Beloki as if he were being winched out of a ditch. Beloki never looked back to see if he'd been followed, and as soon as he sat down, Armstrong rocketed around him, hunching low over the handlebars in a fury of blind grace.

Beloki didn't so much as flinch. His elastic had snapped. He stayed seated, shaking his head in resignation, knowing that his chance to gain time on the race leader had fizzled. The only drama left was the race between Virenque, who was still four miles from the top, and Armstrong, four minutes and 30 seconds behind him. The contrast between their riding styles was stark: Lance sat, shoulders still, lips barely parted, legs spinning like a flywheel; Virenque stood up for much of the climb, laboring as if he were stomping grapes. Armstrong made up 32 seconds a mile over the last four miles, no doubt spurred on by several fans booing him and yelling, "Dopé! Dopé!" In the end, Virenque took the stage, but Armstrong destroyed the peloton, climbing Ventoux in 58 minutes, the fastest ever in the Tour.

Afterward, he said, "I didn't come here to win the Mont Ventoux, I came here to win the Tour de France. And I have to remember that, and everyone on the team has to remember that."

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