THERE ARE, OF COURSE, elements that Landis won't use. While Armstrong was frequently surrounded by a whirling galaxy of trainers, corporations, private jets, and the occasional rock star, Landis has pared his life down to bare essentials: his number-crunching trainer, Lim, and his coach, former Postal rider Robbie Ventura, whom he frequently speaks with over the phone. His wife, Amber, remains in Murrieta with their nine-year-old daughter, Ryan. ("Amber used to come to Europe," Landis says, "but it's pretty boring. I'm riding or sleeping.") While Armstrong desired information as though it were oxygen, Landis rarely answers e-mail, and gives out his telephone number only under duress. His sponsorships consist of a handful of bike-equipment companies.

"Everything with Lance was so big," Landis says. "He was able to manage it all somehow. For me, that would be stupid. I train hard, I race my bike—that's it. All the rest, that's not me. I would be an idiot to try."

Even as Landis talks, however, the landscape is shifting around him. Sponsors and media are ringing up, asking for some of his time. The Phonak general manager, John Lelangue, wants Landis's advice on handling a few political matters; the team wants him to come to the Milan–San Remo race the following weekend.

There are also more fundamental matters to think about, specifically the fact that Landis knows he can't go through the entire season at his present otherworldly level. While he takes exception when other riders suggest that he might be peaking too early for the Tour ("Peaking too early? What is that, Chinese? Let me translate: Blah-blah-fucking-blah"), Landis will shortly decide not to ride the three-week Giro d'Italia, in order to better manage his buildup to the Tour.

On the face of it, this year's Tour is a good fit for Landis. While Basso and Ullrich remain the odds-on picks to win, it's worth noting that each of them is also dealing with an unknown factor: Basso is attempting to win the Giro (a Tour-Giro double has been achieved only twice in the past 13 years), while Ullrich's spring has been hampered by a recurrent knee injury and his now legendary weight difficulties. The course features two long time trials, a Landis specialty. If he can gain time in the TTs and use his new afterburners to hang with the top climbers in the key mountain stages (11, 15, and 16), he has a shot at the podium or even better. The theory is, while everybody watches Basso and Ullrich, Landis can sneak in. Though, as Ventura points out, "It's getting harder to play the underdog card when Floyd keeps smashing everyone."

No matter what happens, however, the Tour is certain to create more Floyd stories. Such as the one that happened last July.

It goes like this: A few days before the Tour started, Landis and Lim were training in a small town high in the Pyrenees of northern Spain. The training had gone longer than originally planned, and Landis awoke the last morning looking at a stormy forecast and a hellacious travel day. In order to make it to a pre-Tour Phonak team meeting in Tours, France, they were scheduled to drive two hours south to Barcelona, catch a plane for the two-hour flight to Paris, get picked up, then drive an additional two hours to Tours. Not a big deal under most circumstances, but on this morning, Landis didn't want to hopscotch all over Europe like some business traveler. He wanted one last, hard ride.

Lim awoke to the sight of Landis pulling on his biking gear. The trainer was confused. Didn't he have to pack up? Didn't he have a plane to catch?

"Not anymore we don't," Landis informed Lim.

Lim still didn't get it.

"What I'm saying is, Fuck it," Landis said. "I'll ride there."

And so Landis did. He pointed his front wheel north toward France and started pedaling. He rode up and over the Pyrenees and down the mountain roads, into the vineyards of Limoux, following the road signs north. Landis rode for six hours, covering 130 miles, then got off his bike, stripped off his mud-soaked jersey and shorts, and hurled them off a nearby cliff. Donning dry clothes, he climbed in the car to drive the rest of the way with Lim. "You know how I got to the Tour last year?" Landis asked. When Lim shook his head, Landis grinned. "Lance's private jet," he said.

They arrived in Tours the following morning, a spattered VW Touran screeching up at the team hotel as the rest of the Phonak riders fixed Landis with expressions of baffled wonderment—a moment that Lim described as "very Floyd."

Back in his apartment, I ask Landis how he's planning on getting to the Tour this year.

"I have no idea," he says. "But I'm sure it'll be interesting."