From a winner to a whiner: The story of Lance Armstrong

            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 9^th-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.