Just
when you thought Lance Armstrong was getting it, his old habits come back to
haunt him.
If
it were I, I wouldn’t give a shit.
I’d go all Gaylord Perry on them. “You think I was cheating? Hmm,
interesting. Good luck catching
me.”
Ol’
Lance should have Gaylord beat.
He’s literally on top of the mountain; actually he’s atop the Alps.
Doesn’t mater (as in mater horn, get it?) how he got there. I get tired just watching the cars
follow those guys. Besides, he got there the same way everybody else seems to
get there.
Lance
has never been known for his laid back acceptance of criticism, be it from
snot-nosed wannabe sports writers or state senators questioning his demand that
taxpayers fork over $3 billion to move the cancer closer to him.
But
last month in an interview with Men’s Journal, he seemed willing to reign
contentedly while the delinquents blew spitballs at his greatness.
“Other
than a health issue or something with [my] kids, nothing will rattle me ever
again,” the seven-time Tour de France winner said.
Looked
like Ol’ Lance was content to swim, bike and run off to Hawaii to win the world
Ironman championship.
But
that was before the United States Anti Doping Agency lobbed a grenade into
those plans, announcing an investigation into possible performance enhancing
activities had a bunch of witnesses and would prevent him from triathloning for
a while, even though the USADA can’t actually take my freedom or my money.
It’s
not a health issue and doesn’t threaten his kids, so you gotta figure Ol’ Lance
would slough it off, maybe call Ol’ Gaylord and have a good laugh.
Or
you thought he’d do what I’d do if I had that kind of jack and all those
trophies. Tell the world to Fuck Off.
I
wouldn’t admit anything. I might
point out that all the steroids and doping allow you to do is work even
harder. I’d allow how you might
take my name out of the record books, but I’d also point out that I’ve still
got a copy and seven pictures of me on the stand, drinking the champagne,
kissing the girl and wearing that yellow jersey.
If
I got real cocky, I might ask who the hell you’re going to give the wins
to. All those guys behind me,
they’ve been caught. I might even
say, in world of artificially-created superbikers, I was still baddest son of a
bitch among them, so go pass your resolution, reprint the record books, do what
you have to do. It doesn’t matter
because those pictures of me sipping Champagne as I cruise down the Champs Elysee'
will be harder to get off the Internet than a sex tape.
You
know what I wouldn’t do? I wouldn’t go all 9th-grade girl and claim
they just hate me because I’m beautiful. I wouldn’t try to poke holes in the
case, if for no other reason than doing so might make people look even closer
at the record.
They
might just start wondering how a guy who was a middle-of-the-pack rider gets a
disease linked to PED use then comes back as a cross between John Wayne and a
Kenyon on wheels.
They
might just begin to wonder why the testers are always behind the dopers and
they might look into the tests I’ve passed and find something. I don’t know.
But
I wouldn’t worry about any of that. I’d just tell them all to kiss my spandexed
ass.
