DC Examiner print edition. If you go to link, page forward to p. 17. The whole thing is here.
You had only completed one full Tour de France, placing 36th, before getting the awful news on Oct. 2, 1996: You had an advanced form of cancer. It had spread from your groin to your lungs and then to your brain. You were 25 years old. Your chances of survival were never high â 40 percent, maybe. You endured three surgeries, three months of chemotherapy and a rough year of recovery full of nausea and vomiting. You lost 10 to 15 pounds of muscle. But you survived.
When you got out of the hospital, you got back to the business of cycling and stunned the world by pedaling your way back to the Tour, where, in 1999, you biked, no crushed, 2,287 miles and captured your first title and the hearts and admiration of millions. But you didnât stop there: You decided to bike another 10,710 more miles and, in the process, capture six titles â the most ever in what is, arguably, sportsâ most grueling endurance feat. You overtook not only cancer, but pelotons and mountains as well, all with two six-inch, quarter-inch-deep dents in your skull and with lungs still scarred from the chemotherapy.
You never let the pain in your legs show in your face. Itâs not because you werenât in pain â you were. And itâs not simply because you were trying to psych out the opponents â you could have beaten them regardless. No, the reason that you kept your poker face on is simple: Youâve known pain. Youâve known despair â you wanted to give up in 1998 when, during a rainy race-day in France, you pulled your bike over to the side of the road and said, âI quit.â So how bad can a little biking be? Whatâs so hard about climbing thousands of miles over Franceâs tallest peaks at 15 percent inclines? Thatâs childâs play compared to what youâd been through. Easy. You knew that millions of cancer victims were watching your every revolution on that bike and, by keeping a face of stone, you not only showed respect for the real and sustained pain they were feeling at that very moment, you also hoped to inject hope into each victim by saying, âOnce you get out of that bed, you, too, can bike 2,000 miles across France. No big whoop.â
Where you were once a brash and cocky Texan made tough by a troubled family, you became a humble and thankful âcancer survivor,â a badge of honor you never let go of no matter how far away those cancer days seemed. You convinced us to contribute to cancer research â $85 million to your Lance Armstrong Foundation â and to educate ourselves on cancer prevention. In the process, you not only graced the cover of Sports Illustrated, but Philanthropy Review, as well. You made 48 million of us slap silly looking yellow bracelets on our wrists to appreciate what you had been through and what others go through on a daily basis.
For the past seven years, weâve taken a three-week vacation with you, across the fields and foothills, the towns and thoroughfares of France. We woke up early to watch you zip and zoom through French cities. We cried when you took the podium in Paris each July. We cried even more when you brought children you never thought youâd be able to have. Those vacations will come to an end, as you finish your last Tour de France this weekend.
But thereâs a reason Iâm writing this before Sundayâs conclusion of the Tour de France and not after: No matter what happens during the Tourâs remaining three stages, youâve already won. In fact, you won eight years ago, when you stepped out of your house in Austin, after months off the bike and in chemotherapy. You walked into the garage, took your dusty bike out onto the driveway and got back to the work of living, one slow pedal stroke at time.
Patrick W. Gavin is the Examinerâs associate editorial page editor.
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