The Last Days Of Lance Armstrong

      He stood in the middle of Kansas with the entire country around him. But then ... oops, evidence surfaced....California slipped into the ocean. Followed by more evidence... Maine and New Hampshire dropped off the map. And then more evidence. There goes Oregon. Then Florida. As more and more facts surfaced, the country that elevated him fell away. Today, Lance is surrounded by only his posse. Or in this analogy, an acre of supporters. This week, almost all of his sponsors dropped away. Soon, the posse will collapse. And Lance will be standing on a rock where Kansas used to be. Lance Armstrong has denied using performance enhancing drugs to win his seven Tours de France. Now we see the fabric unraveling. We see the mountain of evidence, and we now know that he was the kingpin of an extensive organized crime ring involving the governing body, sponsors, trainers, and a cast of thousands.

     It could have been different.

     Lance could have come clean right from the start when the first serious allegations came out. It would have saved all of this trouble from happening. America forgives and forgets very easily. He could have avoided all this. Instead, the Texan in him - the brashness that drew attention to him in the first place - dug in his heals and held his ground - fooled into believing that the people he bullied would remain silent, and that those who feared his powerful wrath would leave him alone. He was also fooled into believing that the fortress he had built around him would hold back the advancing mob. Had he come clean immediately, his entire persona would have been elevated further. He would have been made the patron saint of forgiveness. And we would have moved on.

     It could have been altogether different.

     As outlined in David Walsh's book 'From Lance to Landis', Armstrong's ego couldn't take losing to European farm boys. He had dominated the American scene as a clean rider, but when he made the jump to European racing, he got has ass handed to him. That's when "the program" began in earnest. Lance emerged as a Tour contender in 1999, one year after the Festina Affair, a drug scandal involving a French team at the TdF. Lance came along as a cancer survivor with the personality and panache of a Bernard Hinault, and the UCI saw the opportunity to present a new and cleaner image to the world. 'Look what we have done. We have entered a new era in sport. We have a new hero.' (Actually, I think the UCI was caught with their pants down when Lance won the '99 TdF. They didn't have the technology to catch him, and after the huge response by the cancer survivor community, they didn't dare try.)  Now we're learning that the reality was completely foul. The drug problem was made worse than ever. Lance, quickly capitalizing financially on his 'success' and the popularity of his cause, suddenly had the means to become the mob boss of cycling.

    It should have been different.

    Maybe I'm an idealistic fool who still believes in honesty, but it seems to me that if I had super powers (other than my sense of humor and my Tortilla Soup recipe), I would use them for good not evil. Lance's super powers are his intense personality, fearlessness, and his amazing athletic ability. He could have used them for good. Instead of going to the dark side and delving into the drug world, why didn't he use his brashness, fearlessness, cockiness, and powerful riding to destroy the Omerta from within? Demand that they race clean. Call them out. Challenge them. Change the world.

     If anyone could have done it, it was the Lance freakin' Armstrong that I knew before the drugs. He was a superior athlete with an ass whoopin' personality. That's a Texan that we could all respect. I saw it with my own eyes almost every weekend as an announcer in 1991-92-93. He was a specimen of confidence and heart. He despised losing. He did amazing things on the bike to prevent it. He took no shit from anyone. He was awesome.

      Instead, he took the lowest road possible and drove it to the end of the earth.

      The problem here is more than a question about simply using drugs. He has railroaded innocent people, ruined careers, shattered opportunities, squashed dreams, stolen monies, and generally f***ed everything up for an entire sport.

     And it didn't have to be that way.

Book #3

I wonder how real writers\authors do it. How do they write books?
I'm guessing that they are much more efficient than I. They probably use something fancy like an outline or something. They probably go into it with some idea of the structure. I'm betting that they know what their book is going to look like long before they type the first sentence.
I have a very loose idea of the general look and feel that I'm aiming for when I start a book, but I don't even come close it with the final product. For instance, Roadie started in my head as a 25-volume set of humorous encyclopedias on the topic of bike racing but ended up as a thick pamphlet.
Book #2 (as yet untitled) started as a humorous "War and Peace" for kids. A 752-page romp through the cycling world through the eyes of a 14-year-old. But somehow 750-pages is a little ambitious for a romp, so I scaled it back to about the size of a thick pamphlet.
I was a little more realistic when i sat down to write Book #3. It began as a thick pamphlet which I stretched out (by enlarging the font) to something more hefty, about as thick as a Nikon owner's manual.
Stay tuned. It's a good one.
The process I use is probably wrong. I just write. And when I get to a certain number of words, say 60,000, I look at what I have and decide if that's long enough. If not, I keep going. When I reach a comfortable number of words, then I go back through and cut out everything that doesn't sound right. It's a lot easier than you might think.
Oh sure, I jot down some notes. I have certain points that I need to hit, but otherwise, it's just a challenge to see how many words I can get into a single Word document. Then cut some out.
Book #2 was a narrative story, so I should have had some idea of where it was going. I didn't, but I should have. We'll see if the publisher notices.
Book #3 is more like Roadie, a collection of humorous lessons, thoughts, and anecdotes on the topic of relationships.
Yep, you read that right.
It's short by design. I stopped writing when I reached 20,000 words (approx. 80 pages) and then trimmed it back to about 19,500. Amazingly, I could only find 500 words that didn't sound right.
If you notice the books in the humor section of your local bookshop (if it hasn't been boarded up by now), you'll see that they're pretty small. Many of them are the size of a Nikon owner's manual. Mine will fit right in.
Now while I'm sitting on pins and needles waiting to hear from VeloPress regarding Book #2, I'm beginning an even tougher process of finding a publisher for #3.
Stay tuned. Should be a fun 2012.

Book #2

When I sat down and wrote Roadie, I had no plans to become a writer; I still wanted to be an astronaut or a game show host. I only wrote it to see if it could be done. Seriously. I didn't look any further than getting it on store shelves. But then it did well. It won the Michigan Notable Book award in 2009. It sold. Suddenly, I found my calling.
So, what next?
I had a couple of conversations with the people at VeloPress about what the next project should be. I suggested a cycling-related book that they had no interest in. Apparently, a romantic comedy western wasn't on their radar. Instead, they wanted a book aimed at younger readers. The 'tweeners'. Apparently, there's a shortage of sports books for that age group. Supernatural vampire ghost romance novels?? Plenty. Sports? Not as much.
On top of that, VeloPress has had a difficult time cracking the young reader market. It's a hard audience to write for, but a lucrative market to tap into.
I, as I tried to warn them, know absolutely nothing about the 'tweener demographic. Zero. I'm not even sure if I'm spelling it correctly.
This, then, is a match made in heaven. Together, we'll go far.
So I set off to write a fictional story. Starting with a very daunting blank page, I had to develop a story line, create characters, develop a conflict, add a subplot, tie it up nicely, and make it reach an audience I know nothing about. The only thing I had in my favor was that it would be centered around the sport of bike racing. That's it.
I submitted a very weak first draft, and received three pages of notes from the publisher. I took it back and changed everything but the font.
I just completed it on Monday. Sent it to VeloPress, and am now waiting to hear if they're going to buy it or pass on it. No guarantees. It might end up in a dumpster somewhere.
Let me give you a TV Guide-style hint of the story line: a kid who lives for football discovers bike racing by accident and becomes hooked by the end of the book. There are no supernatural occurrences, no vampires, and no pirates.
Now, let me share a little about the writing process (in case I'm never asked to speak at a book signing). I went on long bike rides without my iPod. That's the secret to uninhibited creative thought. When I listen to music, I get distracted. When I don't, I can think much more clearly. As such, I do my best thinking on the bike - constantly dumping ideas into my voice recorder app.
The creativity ebbs and flows. I went through periods in which I couldn't stand to look at it. And I went through periods where I couldn't type fast enough.
We'll see how it goes.
While I'm waiting, I'm working on Book #3. It has nothing to do with cycling. It's a humor book on relationships.
You see, I'm a bit of en expert ...... on humorous relationships.

Cinelli launched her career.

Take a look at this photo. Tell me what TV show she starred in.
I was a freshman at Northern Michigan University. My major was broadcasting. My minor was photography. One of the class assignments was to photograph people, so I asked her to be a subject.
Let's back up... How did I meet her? I met her in the dormitory dining hall. Van Antwerp Hall was full of geeks and gomers. Luckily, we shared the dining hall with Hunt Hall which was full of normal and attractive people. (How does that happen?)
I had seen her many times before and had been looking for my opening for weeks. Then one day she showed up at dinner wearing a ... you're not going to believe this... it really was something special... if you're a male cyclist, you would have reacted the same way I did... she was wearing a baby blue, wool Cinelli jersey.
Hot? Are you kidding me? It was a long-sleeve wool jersey. Wearing that indoors was, yes, probably very warm.
Oh, you mean HOT? Yeah, I knew that's what you meant. Though it hung on her like a shower curtain, it was still the most alluring thing I'd ever seen. Seeing my chance, I sat down at her table and struck up a conversation. (Thankfully, I didn't trip and fall on my way across the room. Though I do remember my legs feeling somewhat rubbery.) Well, since this happened in 1983, I don't really remember what pithy remark I opened with, but it must have been a classic. She was kind. We hit it off right away. (As it turns out, the jersey belonged to her dad.) And when I needed a subject for my photo class, I asked her.
She was studying something thrilling like accounting or finance at the time. But after this photo shoot, she changed her career path. (It must've been something I said.) She followed her boyfriend to Minneapolis. Met Prince. Starred in a music video. Moved to L.A. Got a part in the first Lethal Weapon movie. That's about the time that I lost contact with her. I moved on to bigger and better things while she moved on to much bigger and much better things. Eventually she got a regular part on Cheers as Woody's girlfriend, Kelly Gaines. I could see her on Thursday nights on NBC, except for the fact that I didn't own a TV.
Oddly enough, it all started because of Cinelli.
And that, my friends, is a true story.

Amgen Tour of California

This is what we woke up to find this morning:
Hello from the Ritz Carlton in North Lake Tahoe, CA. (I just had to throw that in.) Stage One of the Amgen Tour of California was cancelled today due to unsafe conditions - or as we Michiganders call it: normal riding conditions for most of the year.
We were actually starting to roll when the call came through. 5 minutes before the actual start of the race, the California Highway Patrol, Media, and VIP cars began to roll slowly out of town. We were the talking to the crowds from our Mobile PA vehicle as we rolled along. Everything was going well until the radio crackled with the disappointing words: "Stand by for an announcement." We paused in the road at a standstill. The crowd knew something was up. "Today's stage is cancelled." We turned around and headed back to the barn making the announcement as we went.
It was the right call to make. Unfortunate, but it had to be done. For you doubters in the room, here's some video that I shot just 30 minutes ago on the route.

With the recent death of a rider in the Giro d'Italia, now was not the time to be cowboys and try to race it. The conditions appeared to be improving when we took a lap of the course at 9am. In fact, the sunlight and clouds were creating an amazing backdrop. At 1pm, the pavement was dry. At 2pm, all he'll broke loose again.
I feel badly for the construction crews who were out at 4am building the venues in a snowstorm and for the people along the route who were out there waiting for several hours. They were huddling together in campsites set up on the KOMs (King of the Mountains climbs). The temps were in the upper 20s. The winds were HOWLING. Yet, these bike race fans were camped out and ready.
We're packing extra provisions for tomorrow's stage which goes over Donner Pass.

Chamois cream?

I am dead set against the use of chamois cream. I'm also dead set against the NEED for chamois cream.
My club's clothing manufacturer produces a pair of shorts with a chamois so rough it could strip paint from patio furniture. (For all you non-cyclists in the audience, the chamois is that padding sewn into our shorts that makes our shorts feel like a diaper when we're standing. They're also supposed to buffer us from the constant friction when we're pedaling.)
When I asked my teammates (loose interpretation), they all seem to agree that the shorts are comfortable, but that you also need to use a cream of some sort. It boggles my mind that a majority of riders willingly accept this as normal.
Call me 'old school', but I prefer the days when actual chamois was used. Today, everything is synthetic. No problem, but can't we synthesize something that is more butt friendly? When did clothing manufacturers decide that it was OK to make shorts with abrasive pads in the arse requiring the use of a cream with the stupid name of DZ Nuts or Butt Butt'r?
I recently tried to buy a new pair of shorts, and the sales person handed me a tube and told me, 'you'll need some of this'. Oh no I won't, sir. Not at $18 for four ounces, I won't!
So let me get this straight. Now I need to purchase - at regular intervals - a tube of this slimy crud and apply it to my jibblies and hidden quarters prior to EVERY ride? And wash it off my hands?
No thank you. I refuse to add yet another step in the dressing process.
So let me ask you: which camp do YOU reside in? Am I the only one who finds this to be completely stupid?

Worst Athletic Day Ever

It took me 50 years to find it, but I found it.
The worst athletic experience of my life happened Saturday at the Cote Dame Marie Loppet, a 30k xc ski race.
This story actually begins a week in advance of the event when I started my annual winter weight loss program. With no intention of racing on Saturday, I cut my caloric intake by a fair amount. Not an unhealthy amount, just a fair amount. Then, on Thursday, my friend, Bonnie, strong-armed me into registering for the CDML. I've been skiing pretty well this year, so I decided to do it. Unfortunately, I didn't really notice that it was a 30k event. It didn't even register in my feeble little brain.
The weekend comes. The thermometer bottoms out. It was 9 degrees on Friday as I was in my basement frantically putting on the right wax. Tomorrow's race would be held on the kind of snow that squeaks when you walk on it. The ice crystals are very sharp and unfriendly. They make a special wax for this. You just have to be on top of things and prepare yourself. You see, half of your success in ski racing comes from matching the right ski wax with the current snow temperature. The other 90% is technique. Another 147% is in strength and endurance. That adds up to 287%. According to my public school math, 287% is about right. If you choose the wrong wax, you're sunk.
I was in a hurry because, like the character in my upcoming book, I procrastinate wildly. I had just enough time to put ONE coat of wax on my skis. One very thin layer of wax for very cold ski conditions. File that info away. It'll come into play later.
It was a balmy 6 degrees with a brisk wind when I arrived at the race site. I registered, got dressed, and skied a few kilometers for a warm up. Uneventful, so far. I was properly dressed for the weather. No problem.
I arrived at the start line with plenty of time to spare: almost a full ten seconds. Yes, I was late. As such, I found myself at the back of the 120-man field. So that's 120 people who timed their warm-up correctly. And me.
Moments later, we were launched onto the trail system. Moments later, I was in deep oxygen debt. I managed to pass a few slow starters quickly. Perhaps they were frozen to the ground. It's possible.

I'm at about 1:26 into that video. I'm the guy who appears to be carrying an invisible piano.
Everything was fine for the first few miles. I was passing some skiers and getting passed by superheroes, or people dressed as superheroes. (Ski outfits are hilariously more hideous than cycling uniforms. That's quite an accomplishment.)
We reached the first big hill, and that's when my muscles informed me that they were A. underfed, and B. under-prepared.
I muscled up the hill and pressed on only to find bigger hills. That's funny; when I ski this trail any other day, it seems a lot flatter.
We would be doing two 15k loops. I would see these hills again later, and they would somehow grow and become steeper between now and then.
My world came crashing down at the 13k mark. My nutrition caught up to me, and all of my wax had been scraped off. One thin coat of wax doesn't last long when skiing on razor blades.
Good news: I still have eleven miles to go.
Moments before the race started, I sucked down a PowerGel with 2x caffeine thinking it would help me. All it really did was left me awake enough to be aware of what hell I was living.
I had the presence of mind to wear a belt pack with a water bottle filled with Gatorade. When I tried to drink from it, I discovered that it was now a worthless block of ice in the shape of a water bottle. Dead weight at this point, but I'm not going to throw away a perfectly good bottle. I'm awake enough to know better.
I also wore an iPod in this race which is now working against me. I programmed the wrong music altogether. For some reason, I had Ravel's Bolero in the mix. Those of you who know the piece will find humor in the fact that I did NOT crescendo as the piece progressed. Instead, I decrescendo'd rapidly.
One ski in front of the other, man. Ignore the music:
Beatles: I Feel Fine - bullshit. No I don't.
Coldplay: Cemeteries of London - sounds inviting.
Jean-Yves Thibaudet: Your Hands Are Cold - No shit they're cold. Every part of me is cold!
Queen: Don't Stop Me Now - Oh, please. Stop me now.
Arcade Fire: No Cars Go - great song, but I was changing the lyrics to "no skis go"
It was a slog (noun [usu. in sing. ] a spell of difficult, tiring work or traveling), and that was just the first lap.
At some point, I was passed quite quickly by a younger skier. Now I was cursing my age. this is obviously a sport for younger people. Who am I fooling? When am I going to learn?? Who in their right mind does this at age 50?? When can I retire from sport? ( Please make note of this comment. It's related to the punchline of this story. )
With no wax left on my skis, I was unable to coast or glide down the hills. Ponder that thought for a moment? I have ten more miles to go.
And then I bonked.
So that's the story of my worst athletic day. Plenty of lessons learned. Plenty of new depths discovered.
I quickly packed the car and drove away feeling old, tired, and out of shape. I drove home in a state of disgust and self-loathing. I drove home on heated leather seats which helped only slightly.
The next day, I checked the race results. Much to my surprise, I wasn't the last person to finish. In fact, I finished two places better than I was in the video above. My time wasn't far off my 15k time x2.
And here's the punchline: the winner's age is... 51.
Dammit!
I'm sucked back in.