Lance Armstrong: A Fan's Perspective

So he’s cheated. Lance has been caught – the big fish, the shark. All because the other sharks, pointed at him and said ‘he’s a shark.’ No matter the method, the truth is out, but why does it matter?

Why does it matter than a guy on a bike took some drugs? I have a friend who rides a bike and he takes drugs all the time. Doesn’t bother anybody, expect the neighbours sometimes, but that’s just the smell.

In the grand scheme of this whole sordid affair, my take might not mean anything, but I think with journalists salivating at an easy feast, it’s important to have some human perspective, so here goes.

In December 2004 my Dad told me he had cancer. Simple as that. I was in the middle of my University final year. This isn’t a sob story. We were the lucky ones; my Dad survived and I graduated. Just getting a chance to go to University means I’m privileged.

But cancer kills context as well as people, and at the time I felt like shit. Dads don’t get sick. They laugh at illness. I know most people have a ‘my Dad is hard’ story, but cancer was his first day off sick. Ever. Pretty remarkable considering he was just about to turn 50. Happy birthday – have cancer.

That’s where Lance came in. Here I was bitching about exams; he won the Tour De France. He stamped on cancer, dusted it up and threw it in the rubbish. When my Dad had his operation we both wore LiveStrong bands. We cried when we put them on. Well I did, he’s an old Yorkshireman – he nodded and said ‘thanks Son.’ His version of crying.

A year later I sat in a Doctors room hearing the words, “if you don’t have an orchiectomy I can pretty much guarantee you’ll have testicular cancer within 24 months.” I had the surgery; I got the nickname ‘The Russian.’ Bolokov. The piss taking helped. So did Lance.

Lance flipped the bird to cancer, and told everybody else to do the same. Just because he cheated afterwards, that will never change. An ESPN article had the following sentence. “The amoral celebrity who ‘beat’ cancer.”  

He did beat it. And suggesting otherwise to further a story is a lie deliberately told. Ironically enough that’s just what Lance did.  

Armstrong gave people strength and hope. I’m glad people haven’t stopped supporting LiveStrong. It might have been started by a cheat. No matter. Hilter built the autobahn; do we rip it up and make people walk?

I’m not writing to defend Armstrong though, he let me down. But do I regret defending him before? Not for one second. If I could go back to when people were saying he was a cheat before any evidence had come out, then I’d defend him all over again. Every person, no matter how abhorrent their actions, deserves the chance to be proven guilty. Otherwise, that way lynchmobs lie.

Every person who has used Armstrong as beacon will have their own reactions. Mine is disappointment. Disappointment that such a force as Armstrong’s will could have been used to fight cheating in cycling; instead he embraced it and made it more effective. Bradley Wiggins summed it up best ‘it’s like being told Santa isn’t real.’

Before I wrote this I had it in my head that he didn’t need to cheat, that cancer sufferers will have used him getting back to riding professionally as inspiration enough. But as the words come up on screen, is that really the case? No. Other people have fought back from where Lance was to get back to sport. John Hartson showed incredible spirit to beat cancer. Do we tweet #ShowHart? No, he’s a football pundit now, a good one and I’m very glad that he is. His story will inspire football fans, but has it travelled round the world and inspired billions?

That’s no excuse for Lance, just the sad reality. Reality is something that journalists need to keep in their heads right now. As they clamour for their pound of flesh, whilst also lecturing from moral high ground, they’ll do well to remember that this has given them enough copy for a lifetime. Even the journalists writing books like ‘LA Confidential’ have a made a mint they wouldn’t have if Lance was clean.

Somehow Floyd Landis, Tyler Hamilton et al are heroes. They stand to benefit financially for this whole affair. Some journalists speak of them in glowing terms, of showing ‘courage.’ Bullshit. They’re cheats, just like Lance, and manipulating the story to show them in any other light is lying. Lying to benefit the narrative. Just like Lance did.

People have suffered because of the actions of Lance, but that’s for the courts to deal with. Not journalists. Not the baying mob all saying ‘it’s not enough.’ You’re right; it isn’t enough, what would be?

For those of us duped by Armstrong, remember, just like a cheating partner, ultimately this is his sin, not our stupidity. We need to learn from this, move on and leave a cheat like Armstrong as a character in history.

I’ve moved on from Armstrong the man, a cheat, bully, liar … the list goes on. He joins a long list of people fallen from grace that I have no reason to waste my energy on.

Armstrong the myth though? He helped my Dad beat cancer, and that I will never forget.

Anything I can do, my Dad can do better

My dad, much like most dads, can do anything. A call often comes from my mum along the lines of:

“Nick, the car won’t start.”
“Don’t worry love I’ll have a look.” Twenty minutes later it’s running like new.

“Nick, the fridge is leaking a green fluid.”
“OK my dear, I’ll see what I can do.” A day later the fluid will be gone.

“Nick, there’s a massive international diplomatic crisis in Somalia.”
“Give me 5 minutes and I’ll be right with you.” A week later, the eastern African state will be conducting democratic elections that see a victory for a progressive liberal party that oversee the transformation to a major world economic power with low crime.

Sadly I’m lagging behind in that department. I recently went to buy a car, and was shown up terribly for my lack of knowledge:

“This car has only done 54,000 miles. Just has a broken stereo.”
“Only 54,000 miles? That’s the same as going round the world. Twice! You say the stereo is broken?”
“It’s easy to fix, just take this Allen key and ...”
“Who’s Alan?”
“Just take it and turn it in your gersabulator.”
“I’m sorry I don’t speak Spanish.”

He charged me £200 extra, added a few long words and I walked out feeling rather flummoxed. I rang my Dad to ask his opinion about matters, but he was busy rewiring the whole house so he could control each appliance with his mind.

“They quoted me £3,000,000 and I’d have to wait 1000 years for the research to be done, but I got this book from the library and thought I’d give it a go. I’ll be able to have a couple of pints with the money I save.”

Needing music for my drive to and from work, I decided to have a go at replacing the broken stereo in my car. Shouldn’t be too hard I thought. The back of my shiny, new CD player looked friendly enough for an electrical appliance. Big plug holes for wires to connect to. No tricky instructions and it even had pictures. Perhaps I’d been giving my father too much credit.

I pulled out the old stereo, expecting to see easy to replace wires, no tricky instructions and even pictures, but all I saw were my shattered dreams. It looked like a Jackson Pollack painting; all colours visible to man, all seemingly merging into the same tiny hole in the back of the unit. To make sure I couldn’t check where they were going, the ends of the wires were bound together with black tape.

The back of my car stereo

With this came the realisation that I’m part of a generation that relies far too heavily on others. So many of us have just one skill, usually the one we have to learn for work, but don’t have a clue when it comes to something that requires knowledge outside of our forced studies.

Having said that, to cheer myself up I logged on to my laptop, checked my email, ordered a new book and bought some gig tickets. By the time my old man manages to figure out how to do that, they will have invented a car stereo that replaces itself.