Heather Lende
Haines, Alaska - July 24, 2000
God Bless Lance Armstrong
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Before we head out, we drink sweet creamy coffee and talk about Lance Armstrong and the Tour De France. We talk about the hill climb where he encouraged his Italian rival to join him crossing the finish line. Though we've never met him, never even been in the same state, we are as proud of Lance as if he were one of us. We think he's great. He rode 125 miles that day. We're just going thirty this morning. "Piece of cake," my husband says.
Inspired, we head out the door, our cycling-shod toes up as we hobble over the gravel drive. I can hear Steve clipping into the pedals. We join him, warming up, until we reach Cemetery Hill, about a half mile at a 9% grade. Lance rode up 6000 feet in seven miles. He probably wouldn't even call this a hill. But it nearly finishes me every day. There's not a soul on the road, so we power up the middle. The men pull away, I stand up on the pedals, counting "one and two and one and two and..." to keep my pace steady. My heart is banging against my ribs and I'm gasping for air. I sit again reminding myself to pull, not push.
At the top I spin hard over the crest and head down, catching the men again. We coast to the highway and then begin our ride out along the river, through the Chilkat Valley. There are markers every mile indicating the mileage, but we know the way by heart: the clumps of trees, the rises and dips, the places where there's no shoulder and the ones with smooth new pavement. We even know everyone in the handful of pick-ups that pass us on their way out to work on a road construction job farther down the road.
We pull hard, taking short, strong strokes, smoothly transferring the lead from one to the next every thirty seconds or so. We are riding about 25 miles per hour. We'll hit thirty at a bend in the river where the wind picks up, but mostly we stay in the low twenties. And it's not easy.
Steve says "they ride at 28 miles an hour when they're coasting." We know he's talking about Lance and his U.S. Postal Service teammates.
We pedal on, legs hurting, lungs bursting, holding ourselves still and smooth, keeping the cadence high and our upper bodies motionless. We are riding as hard and well as we can.
I know it sounds silly for three forty-something adults about as far from France and the cycling world as you can get, to ride like we do, for nothing really. Oh, we do have little races -- four of five of us get together some Saturday or Sunday and race each other. There are no ribbons at the end and no crowds lining the route.
But there are moments. After a hard pull into the wind, when I tuck in behind the leaders, the draft from their bikes creates a lull; my legs no longer hurt and I'm suddenly flying along with no effort. It's quiet, and I have a second to look up, just as the sun hits the snow on the Cathedral Peaks -- and I know that this is the peace that passes all understanding, and for just a moment (it'll be my turn to pull again too soon) I feel like I have touched the hem of God's robe.
The media makes a big deal out of Lance Armstrong's comeback. They speculate that he wanted to prove to himself and the world he could beat it.
I know it's a stretch to compare my little riding group with Tour De France champions, but I have cycled enough to know that Lance's comeback may have more to do with wanting to find that peace again, than winning.
So here's to you Lance -- in the words of the old Irish blessing, which must have been conceived on a bicycle -- "May the road rise up to meet you and the wind be always at your back."