by Daniel Coyle
§ Excessive displays like Festina’s tended to occur whenever a new doping innovation appeared. They’d happened most notably in the spring of 1994 at the Flèche Wallonne race, when three Gewiss riders simply rode away from the rest of the field at an unthinkable speed. In the cycling world, this type of team domination had never happened before; it was the equivalent of an NFL team winning a playoff game 99–0. In addition, seven of the race’s top eight finishers were all Italian, demonstrating that EPO innovation, like the Renaissance, began in Italy and traveled outward.
After the race, Gewiss team doctor Michele Ferrari was asked by a journalist if his riders used EPO. “I don’t prescribe the stuff,” he said. “But you can buy EPO in Switzerland without a prescription, and if a rider does, it doesn’t scandalize me.” When the journalist pointed out that numerous riders had died from using EPO, Ferrari said, “EPO is not dangerous; it’s the abuse that is. It’s also dangerous to drink ten liters of orange juice.”
‖ The commonsense question: If everybody was using EPO, then wasn’t it just a level playing field? The answer, according to scientists, is no, because every drug affects different people differently. In the case of EPO, it is particularly illusory, due to the varying opportunities for improvement created by the UCI’s 50 percent hematocrit limit.
For example: Hamilton’s natural hematocrit is typically 42. Taking enough EPO to get to 50 means he could raise his hematocrit 8 points, an increase of 19 percent. In other words, Hamilton could add 19 percent more oxygen-carrying red blood cells—a huge increase in power—and still test under the hematocrit limit.
Now let’s consider a different rider who has a natural hematocrit of 48. Under the 50-percent rule, that rider could only take enough EPO to add 2 points, or 4 percent more red blood cells—a power increase one-fourth of Hamilton’s. That might be one of the reasons Hamilton’s performance increased so rapidly when he started taking EPO.
Also, studies show that some people respond more to EPO than others; in addition, some people respond more than others to the increased training enabled by EPO. Then you have the fact that EPO shifts the performance limits from the body’s central physiology (how much the heart pumps) to the peripheral physiology (how fast the enzymes in the muscles can absorb oxygen).
Bottom line: EPO and other drugs don’t level the physiological playing field; they just shift it to new areas and distort it. As Dr. Michael Ashenden puts it, “The winner in a doped race is not the one who trained the hardest, but the one who trained the hardest and whose physiology responded best to the drugs.”
Chapter 4
ROOMMATES
WHEN I HEARD LANCE was joining Postal for the 1998 season, I was excited and nervous. It made sense on paper—after all, we were the biggest American team, and Lance was the biggest American rider, or at least he had been before his illness. We’d all heard how he’d made it through the surgeries and the chemo, and over the last fourteen months, worked to get himself back into shape. We’d heard how he’d tried to get contracts from the big European teams; how Weisel had signed him for the relatively small amount of $200,000 plus bonuses. The question was, was Lance still Lance? Had cancer changed his abilities, his personality? We got the answer during the first day of training camp in California.
“Fuck you all!” Lance yelled as he took off, causing all of us to chase him. He was pretty strong, too—we had to work hard to bring him back.
“That all you fuckers got?” he asked when we caught him. “You pussies gonna let Cancer Boy kick your ass?”
I was relieved. I don’t know what I was expecting—for Lance to show up whispering and bald, pushing a walker? He’d shed a few pounds—his arms no longer looked like a linebacker’s—but otherwise he seemed utterly the same, with that same old aggression, that fists-up attitude.
When Lance enters a situation, he has a habit of shaking things up, raising the temperature of the room. I’ve come to believe that it’s not something he can help: it’s as though he’s allergic to calm. It’s almost like he’s not comfortable unless there’s a sense of discomfort, of intense and decisive action. He had a knack for seeking out weaknesses, for putting his finger on something that needs to be improved. He constantly judged everything: what kind of cereal we should have at the training table, where we should train, what kind of water bottle tops were best, which soigneur gave the best massage, where you could get the best bread, how to make espresso, what tech stock was going to take off—you name it, he knew it, and told you in no uncertain terms. Things he admired would earn an appreciative nod; things he didn’t like would be dismissed with a puff of air through the lips: phffffff (a habit Lance seemed to have picked up from the Europeans). There were no gray areas; things were either amazing or awful. We used to joke that the one word guaranteed to piss Lance off was “maybe.”
What Lance hated most of all, though, were choads. I’m not sure where the word came from—probably “chump” plus “toad”—but it meant what it sounded like. Choads were whiners, weaklings, guys who couldn’t hack it or—worse—couldn’t hack it and then complained. If you made a habit of being late or disorganized, you were a choad. If you weren’t strong enough to ride in bad weather, or if you gave excuses for your performance, you were a choad. If you were a wheelsucker (someone who always rides in the slipstream of others), you were a choad. And once you were a choad, there was no going back.
Bobby Julich, for example. Bobby was a top American rider, one of Lance’s old teammates on Motorola. I’m not sure why, but Lance never liked Bobby. Maybe it was because they’d competed against each other as juniors and remained rivals; maybe it was because Bobby could sometimes come across as Euro-sophisticated and intellectual (that kind of stuff never went over well with Lance), or because Bobby tended to hold forth about his latest injuries or his newest ideas about nutrition as if they were the most fascinating subjects in the world. Whenever Bobby’s name came up, Lance would shake his head in that mix of disdain and disgust he used to signal the presence of a grade-A, certified choad. (To Bobby’s credit, he didn’t seem to care what Lance thought of him.)
Or Postal’s director, Johnny Weltz. Johnny was a warm, friendly guy, but organization was definitely not his strong suit. Early in 1998 he screwed up a couple of times—I think it was arranging a hotel, or a race schedule, or equipment—and from then on, Lance was on the lookout for a new team director. That’s a good measure of how much power Lance had at Postal: once he decided it, it was done. I’m not saying Lance was totally wrong—Johnny could be disorganized. But what was interesting, and sort of unimaginable to me, was the suddenness and completeness of Lance’s decision, like some switch had been flipped. Just like that, Weltz was a choad, and was christened with a new name: Fucking Johnny Weltz. Whenever something went sideways, it was Fucking Johnny Weltz.
Fortunately for us, we also had two models for anti-choads: the tough Russian Viatcheslav Ekimov and our new teammate Frankie Andreu, one of Lance’s Motorola teammates, who had signed with us. Lance didn’t give his respect easily, but he respected Eki to the hilt—his work ethic, his professionalism, his ability to take on any challenge without blinking. Eki used to keep track of exactly how many kilometers he rode each year; sometimes we’d ask him the number just to hear it. Usually it was around 40,000 kilometers, enough to circle the earth.
Frankie was sort of our American Eki, and the closest thing Lance had to a big brother. No-Frills Frankie, you could call him: a big, strong, plainspoken Michigan guy, salt of the earth, who had everybody’s respect. Frankie and Lance went way back; they’d ridden together on Motorola. On the bike, Frankie was a horse—he’d finished fourth in the 1996 Olympics, had a great nose for the attack. But it was off the bike that he had his real impact on the team, because he was one of the few who’d speak his mind, no matter what, especially to Lance. The soigneurs nicknamed Frankie “Ajax,” after the blue scouring powder, because that was how it felt to talk with Frankie: you got scrubbed with the truth.*
The truth wasn’t pretty for Lance, at least at the beginning. He started out the 1998 season trying to ride as he had in the past—on training rides, he rode at the front of the group as much as he could, racing to stop signs, bombing down descents as if he were in a race. He pushed himself frantically, trying to show us and himself that he was back in shape. The problem was, he wasn’t the same rider as before. His strength came and went unexpectedly. Some days he would be as strong as anyone. Other days it wasn’t there; he’d disappear, pull off and go back to the hotel, become quiet and moody. You could tell the inconsistency was driving him crazy. He was fragile, viewing every day as a win or a loss, a triumph or a tragedy. There was no in-between.
The first race back in Europe was the Ruta del Sol in Spain, and Lance finished 15th. Afterward, the team congratulated him on the good finish, but Lance was having none of it. He wasn’t sulking, exactly, but it was like he couldn’t quite believe he hadn’t won. He talks about how much he hates losing, but to me it’s something deeper than hate. Losing short-circuits his brain: it’s illogical; it’s impossible. Like something in the universe is messed up, and it needs correcting. After that race, I think we all realized how big his ambition was, and how far he still had to go. I suppose I felt sorry for him.
That was the period when Lance and I started to spend more time together, both on and off the bike. I think Lance needed someone to talk to, to be with, and I was a good sounding board. Pretty soon we were riding next to each other on group rides, or grabbing a coffee. And not long after that, in the spring of 1998, we started rooming together at races. For me this was a huge honor, because I knew Lance had requested it.
I sometimes wonder why Lance picked me to room with, and I think it had something to do with the fact that I didn’t kiss up to him as much as some guys did. You’d be surprised how much some people change their personalities around a guy like Lance—all of a sudden, people are talking louder, or showing off, or acting overly familiar with him. For example, I remember a lot of guys on the team called his wife, Kristin, by the nickname Lance used for her, “Kik,” which made it sound like they were best buds—“I was hanging out with Lance and Kik yesterday,” and the like. I never did that, because it felt too familiar. I always called Lance’s wife Kristin, never Kik. You could call it politeness, or you could call it New England reserve; whatever it was, I got the sense that Lance appreciated it.
During the time we roomed together, Lance did almost all of the talking. He talked about each race at length, analyzing what went right and what went wrong. He nodded and phffffff-ed about the way the team was run, pointing out Johnny Weltz’s lack of organization and applauding signs of progress. Most of all, Lance talked about other riders.
There’s a type of conversation that happens (at least, used to happen in our era) between two teammates as they get to know each other. It’s kind of strange: you both are doping, and you know you’re both doping, but you never come out and say as much, at least at first. Instead, you talk about other people. You might say something like “That guy was flying.” Or compare a rider to a motorcycle. Or say they were super-super-strong. The other racers know what you mean—they know you’re talking about doping, and implying that the guy rode so fast because he was doped.
There was a phrase Lance used a lot during races: “Not normal.” He’d say it whenever a rider was surprisingly strong. He said it in a loud, growling voice that was a bit jokey, but still meaningful. He said it loud, so everybody could hear. Sometimes he said it in French—Pas normal. For example:
A washed-up rider would make a solo breakaway, and win a big race—not normal.
A muscular sprinter would lead the pack up a long, steep climb—not normal.
A small, unknown team would suddenly have three finishers in the top ten—not normal.
After a while, I started saying it too. The words felt comforting, because they helped me ignore the fact that in our world, nothing was normal. Gradually Lance and I built some trust. We started to open up with each other a bit more, to talk shop. We talked about how much EPO we took at a time, how much of a boost we got (we were about the same). We talked about recovery products, our likes and dislikes. We talked about cortisone, which was used routinely in longer stage races to help combat fatigue and improve recovery (it was illegal, but if you had a therapeutic use exemption—basically a doctor’s note—you could legally use it).
Lance told me how he sometimes felt blocked the day of a cortisone injection—meaning he couldn’t really push himself as hard as he wanted—and how he preferred to take it the morning of an easier stage. He told me about bloatface, a reaction that happens when you take too much cortisone, and he reminded me of Ullrich in the final time trial of the ’97 Tour—his face had been the size of a fucking pumpkin. Lance was an encyclopedia of information: he knew all the stories, even at races where he hadn’t been. I had no idea how he stayed so connected, but man, he had sources. He constantly collected data on how other riders were training, what doctors they were working with, and what methods they favored, and he liked showing off his knowledge. I remember thinking that was strange—I only cared about my own program, not other people’s.
“Fucking ONCE,” Lance might say, referring to the Spanish team (pronounced UN-say) that finished first, second, and third at the Ruta del Sol. “First race of the year, and the whole team shows up fucking loaded to the gills. Fucking flying.”
“Loaded to the gills” meant dope. We had a whole language: We called EPO “zumo,” which is Spanish for “juice.” We also called it “O.J.,” “salsa,” “vitamin E,” “therapy,” and “Edgar,” which was short for Edgar Allan Poe. I can’t remember who thought of that one, but we liked it: Gonna speak with Edgar. Gonna visit Edgar. My old buddy Edgar. If you overheard us talking you would have been excused for thinking that Edgar was a member of the team.
Lance would poke fun at the Spanish, but beneath was a thread of seriousness. He respected ONCE’s team and their professionalism. They were a team that clearly had their program together. They had a fleet of experienced riders, good doctors, and a legendarily savvy director, Manolo Saiz. Lance wanted Postal to be more like ONCE.
But during the spring of 1998, it turned out, Lance had far bigger problems to deal with. At Paris–Nice, the season’s first big race, Lance had a setback. It began with a disappointing prologue, and quickly multiplied when he ran into trouble in a freezing second stage. After spending a day chasing in the rain, Lance quit. He bailed. Did what we’ve all secretly wanted to do: he said screw it, pulled over to the side of the road, took off his race number, climbed into the team car, and flew home without telling anybody. Frankie saw it happen. He said he figured Lance was done with the sport.
I felt sad. I knew how much energy Lance had put into his comeback, how much he wanted it. I knew he’d be okay—there was no way Lance wasn’t going to succeed at whatever he put his mind to. I could easily imagine him going to Wall Street, or running his own business, or going into broadcasting.
Then, after a few quiet weeks, we got the surprising news: it turned out Lance wasn’t done. He was coming back across the Atlantic to give it one more try, at the Tour of Luxembourg in June. It wouldn’t be an easy race. A boatload of top riders would be there: Erik Dekker, Stuart O’Grady, Erik Zabel, and Francesco Casagrande—guys gunning for the Tour de France. Nobody said it out loud, but the stakes were clear: this might be Lance’s last shot. If he didn’t do well in Luxembourg, his comeback might be over.
Lance and I roomed together in Luxembourg. We were in a cheap hotel, a cramped room with two twin beds. It was like we were two kids at sleep-away camp. Lance was on his bed, lying on his side, elbow crooked beneath his head. He started asking questions.
“So do you think I can beat Casagrande?” he asked.
—Sure.
“Really?” His voice went up.
—He can climb, but you’ll kill him in the time trial.
“I’ll kill h
im in the time trial,” he repeated, as if memorizing the words. “I’ll fucking kill him in the time trial.”
—No doubt. Not even a contest.
A few seconds passed. Then Lance spoke again.
“So do you think I can beat Dekker?”
You can crush Dekker, I said, and I laughed to show how much I meant it. Then, just as with Casagrande, we went one by one through the reasons why he would absolutely crush Erik Dekker.
In this way, we went through most of the top contenders, until it seemed we’d completely switched roles: I was the old vet; he was the kid racer, fragile and unsure. Then there was one more question. Lance looked me in the eye—just like that first time we spoke. But this time, for once, he wasn’t interested in delivering a message. He was genuinely curious.
“Do you think I can win the Tour someday?”
I hesitated, because in truth, I didn’t see that happening. Lance was good, but we both knew the Tour was another level entirely. I remembered how Indurain had crushed him in 1994, how he’d never contended for the overall in a three-week race, how he’d finished only one of the four Tours he’d attempted thus far.
—Sure. You’re strong already. Wait until you get stronger.
“Really?”
He was suspicious. He said what he often said: he was worried about his climbing.
—Look, you can climb with all those guys. Maybe not attack, but you can hang. You can time-trial with them. If you can hang on the climbs and time-trial, you can win. So I say, Yeah, you can win the Tour.
“You’re not fucking with me. You think I can win the Tour.”
—Definitely.
