It’s Not About The Bike by Lance Armstrong was (at least) the 45th book I’ve read this year, which isn’t bad going if you’re competitive about these things. Next year I’m aiming for 52 books in 52 weeks.
I’ve never really taken to Armstrong although I have the utmost respect for him as an athlete.
This book made him both more and less human in my eyes. More human because he writes about his cancer and how he survived in such a matter-of-fact, egoless way that it’s impossible not to be struck by the miracle of life and the game of chance that overlays it with the very real possibility of death.
Less human because he just doesn’t come across as a likeable character. He’s self aware enough not to think he’s always right but he doesn’t seem to have fully shifted the chip on his shoulder that he attributes to his younger self.
It was also sad to read about the depth of his feelings for his wife while knowing that a couple of years after the publication of his book they were getting divorced. Still, such things happen.
I’m feeling a need to read more about cycling and have also bought William Fotheringham’s book on Tom Simpson, which I’m looking forward to reading sometime soon. I think I’ll then move on to the same author’s book on Fausto Coppi, a rider I know next to nothing about.
Regardless of where you stand on the doping scandals that have engulfed the sport over the past decade (and before) these people are/were outstanding athletes and worthy of our adulation in a way very few sportsmen are.
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