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It's Not About The Bike

It's Not About The Bike

Title: It’s Not About The Bike

Author: Armstrong, Lance

IT’S NOT ABOUT THE BIKE - My Journey Back to Life

LANCE ARMSTRONG

with Sally Jenkins

THIS BOOK IS FOR:

My mother, Linda, who showed me

what a true champion is. Kik, for completing me as a man. Luke, the greatest gift of my life, who in a split second

made the Tour de France seem very small. All of my doctors and nurses. Jim Ochowicz, for the fritters . . . every day. My teammates, Kevin, Frankie, Tyler,

George, and Christian. Johan Bruyneel. My sponsors. Chris Carmichael.

Bill Stapleton for always being there. Steve Wolff, my advocate. Bart Knaggs, a man’s man.

JT Neal, the toughest patient cancer has ever seen. Kelly Davidson, a very special little lady. Thorn Weisel. The Jeff Garvey family.

The entire staff of the Lance Armstrong Foundation. The cities of Austin, Boone, Santa Barbara, and Nice.

Sally Jenkins–we met to write a book but you became a dear friend along the

way.

The authors would like to thank Bill Stapleton of Capital Sports Ventures and Esther Newberg of ICM for sensing what a good match we would be and bringing us together on this book.

Stacy Creamer of Putnam was a careful and caring editor and Stuart Calderwood provided valuable editorial advice and made everything right. We’re grateful to ABC Sports for the

comprehensive set of highlights, and to Stacey Rodrigues and David Mider for their assistance and research. Robin Rather and David Murray were generous and tuneful hosts in Austin.

Thanks also to the editors of Women’s Sports and Fitness magazine for the patience and backing, and to Jeff Garvey for the hitched plane ride.

It's Not About The Bike

one

BEFORE AND AFTER

I WANT TO DIE AT A HUNDRED YEARS OLD WITH an American flag on my back and the star of Texas on my helmet, after screaming down an Alpine descent on a bicycle at 75 miles

per hour. I want to cross one last finish line as my stud wife and my ten children applaud, and then I want to lie down in a field of those famous French sunflowers and gracefully expire, the

perfect contradiction to my once-anticipated poignant early demise.

A slow death is not for me. I don’t do anything slow, not even breathe. I do everything at a fast cadence: eat fast, sleep fast. It makes me crazy when my wife, Kristin, drives our car, because

she brakes at all the yellow caution lights, while I squirm impatiently in the passenger seat.

“Come on, don’t be a skirt,” I tell her.

“Lance,” she says, “marry a man. ”

I’ve spent my life racing my bike, from the back roads of Austin, Texas to the Champs-Elysees, and I always figured if I died an untimely death, it would be because some rancher in his Dodge

4ȕ4 ran me headfirst into a ditch. Believe me, it could happen. Cyclists fight an ongoing war with guys in big trucks, and so many vehicles have hit me, so many times, in so many countries,

I’ve lost count. I’ve learned how to take out my own stitches: all you need is a pair of fingernail clippers and a strong stomach.

If you saw my body underneath my racing jersey, you’d know what I’m talking about. I’ve got marbled scars on both arms and discolored marks up and down my legs, which I keep