The first time was when he won the world's as a neo pro in 1993. A friend of mine had called to tell me with more than a hint of incredulousness in his voice that Armstrong had, somehow, become world champion. In those days, we had to wait around for the new issue of Winning or Velo News to get the lowdown on the Euro scene, so it was a month later that we found out the whole story. The rain, the crashes, the favorites' eyes glued to the superlative Miguel Indurain and Lance Armstrong's corridor of victory salutations. In an enduring opportunistic pattern, Armstrong, a ridiculous underdog in the small group of favorites, would attack at the top of the climb and survive the treacherous descent for the greatest win of his young career. He was easily my last pick for victory. His humpback style wasn't popular with the eurocentric bike snobs in my clique, though hard riding was always appreciated. My eurocentric, pundit predecessors would say the same thing and question the quality of the, until then, footnote American, but he would have a notable year in the rainbow jersey.
If you were going to show a neophyte a moment of cycling to turn them into a rabid fan, the stage to Le Grand-Bornand in the 2004 Tour would be an excellent manipulator. Armstrong, already having won the two previous stages, is away again with his teammate, Landis, Jan Ulrich and his teammate, the upward bound Andreas Kloden, and former Junior National Champion, Ivan Basso. Armstrong sends Floyd Landis away, but the team rivalry with T-Mobile is too compelling. The Germans reel him in. Attack after counter attack later, Kloden bursts out of the group. The aerial footage shows god speed, but Lance Armstrong closes him for another one of cycling's 'Holy crap! Did you see that!' moments. Pure, destructive, hateful bike racing.
As tifosi, that's what we live for. The will to win, and the endurance to live through the losses. Armstrong's fourth place in the 1998 World Championships was, in this future Journo World Champion's opinion, his greatest performance. A month earlier, he'd come fourth at the Vuelta, inseparable from all but the finest climbers and third in the final time trial. Again an underdog in cruel conditions, we see the American national team jersey with the unfortunate Boogerd, Michele Bartoli trying to confirm his great talent, the amphibious Belgian, Peter van Petegem and eventual winner Oscar Camenzind hammering through an otherwise monochromatic deluge. Without commentary, and Boogerd's trademark grin, it would be nearly impossible to discern their identities. Camenzind makes his bid and Armstrong, back from the grave, chases first. There's a photograph of him in these closing kilometers. It's more of his helmet, as his face doesn't reveal much identity. It's a hollow death mask gasping, 'The horror. The horror.'
The news last week of Armstrong's comeback was not as dramatic, though it received a lot more press. Whether he wins or loses this year's Tour, or any of the races he has threatened to enter, doesn't matter as much as the publicity it draws for the Livestrong Foundation. Or so we're led to believe. In 1998, I predicted that he would win the '99 Tour and he won me a dollar. I'm not going to make that prediction here, but I will bet on another bloody moment on the roads next year instigated by Lance Armstrong.
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