It's Not About the Bike: My Journey Back to Life by Lance Armstrong Read Free Book Online

It looked like something a doll would
    wear.
    “I’ll take it,” I said. It was that cold.
    I went back outside. The sleeves came up to my elbows, and it was tight all over, but I wore it all through my warmup, a 45-minute ride. I still had it on when I got to the starting area. Staying
    warm is critical for a time trial, because when they say “go,” you’ve got to be completely ready to go, boom, all-out for 12 miles. But I was still cold.
    Desperate, I said, “Mom, get in the car, and turn on the heat as hot and high as it’ll go.”
    She started the car and let it run, and put the heat on full blast. I got in and huddled in front of the heating vents. I said, “Just tell me when it’s time to go.” That was my warmup.
    Finally, it was my turn. I got out of the car and right onto the bike. I went to the start line and took off. I smashed the course record by 45 seconds.
    The things that were important to people in Piano were becoming less and less important to me. School and socializing were second to me now; developing into a world-class athlete was first.
    My life’s ambition wasn’t to own a tract home near a strip mall. I had a fast car and money in my wallet, but that was because I was winning races– in sports none of my classmates understood
    or cared about.
    I took longer and longer training rides by myself. Sometimes a bunch of us would go camping or waterskiing, and afterward, instead of riding home in a car with everyone else, I’d cycle all the
    way back alone. Once, after a camping trip in Texoma with some buddies, I rode 60 miles home.
    Not even the teachers at school seemed to understand what I was after. During the second semester of my senior year, I was invited by the U.S. Cycling Federation to go to Colorado
    Springs to train with the junior U.S. national team, and to travel to Moscow for my first big international bike race, the 1990 Junior World Championships. Word had gotten around after
    my performance in New Mexico.
    But the administrators at Piano East objected. They had a strict policy: no unexcused absences. You’d think a trip to Moscow would be worth extra credits, and you’d think a school would be
    proud to have an Olympic prospect in its graduation rolls. But they didn’t care.
    I went to Colorado Springs anyway, and then to Moscow. At the Junior Worlds, I had no idea what I was doing, I was all raw energy with no concept of pacing or tactics. But I led for several
    laps anyway, before I faded, out of gas from attacking too early. Still, the U.S. federation officials were impressed, and the Russian coach told everybody I was the best young cyclist he
    had seen in years.
    I was gone for six weeks. When I got back in March, my grades were all zeroes because of the missed attendance. A team of six administrators met with my mother and me, and told us that
    unless I made up all of the work in every subject over just a few weeks, I wouldn’t graduate with my class. My mother and I were stunned.
    “But there’s no way I can do that,” I told them.
    The suits just looked at me.
    “You’re not a quitter, are you?” one of them said.
    I stared back at them. I knew damn well that if I played football and wore Polo shirts and had parents who belonged to Los Rios Country Club, things would be different.
    “This meeting is over,” I said.
    We got up and walked out. We had already paid for the graduation announcements, the cap and gown, and the senior prom. My mother said, “You stay in school for the rest of the day, and by
    the time you get home, I’ll have this worked out.”
    She went back to her office and called every private school in the Dallas phone book. She would ask a private school to accept me, and then confess that she couldn’t pay for the tuition,
    so could they take me for free? She dialed schools all over the area and explained our dilemma. “He’s not a bad kid,” she’d plead. “He doesn’t do drugs. I promise you, he’s going places.”
    By the end