by Daniel Coyle
“Hey, I’m truly sorry for all this,” I said. Anna gave the slightest nod; I could tell that she heard me.
As I walked back to our table; my insides were shaking. My friend Jim later told me that I was as white as a ghost. When I told him what happened, Jim thought I was kidding. Then I told the rest of the table what had happened. We ate the rest of our meal, ordered coffee and dessert, and we didn’t look toward the bar. I knew that Lance would not leave until we did; he would stay there all night if necessary. After all, he had to win. We stayed for forty-five minutes. Ian paid the bill, and then we headed out.
Nine days later I walked into a Denver federal building and gave my sworn account of the encounter to prosecutor Doug Miller and two federal investigators via teleconference. I told them what had happened, and gave them the names of the various witnesses at the bar. The investigators were interested. They had a lot of questions about who had initiated the contact, what Lance had said, and how he had said it. They said they’d be in touch.
As the weeks and months passed, I tried to act cool on the outside, but in truth I wanted the indictments to come. After the Cache Cache incident, I wanted people (my family, especially) to see the truth; to be vindicated. I’d been told by Novitzky that it would be fairly soon. But as the weeks and months passed, all was quiet.
It wasn’t that nothing was happening—quite the opposite. The investigation was rolling along; Novitzky and Miller were flicking levers on the bulldozer, more witnesses were being called before the grand jury, more evidence was being uncovered. Their challenge, as I understood it, wasn’t that there was too little potential evidence but that there was too much: testimony from teammates, team management, tax stuff, urine samples, possible money transfers to Ferrari, and so on. I couldn’t imagine how long it would take (the Barry Bonds case, which was a simple case of perjury alone, had taken six years so far).
I got on with my life. In August, three months after the 60 Minutes report aired, I did something I hadn’t done in a long time: I attended a bike race as a spectator. The USA Pro Cycling Challenge came near Boulder, and many of the top American pros were there. It was strange to be on the other side of the looking glass.
I stood by the road and watched the peloton go by. I felt the breeze as they cruised past me. I saw how powerful they were, skinny as blades, their bodies humming through the air, almost like they were flying. I saw them after the race, looking completely destroyed. I used to be like that.
People recognized me, and most of them were nice. I must’ve signed thirty autographs; people told me they were proud of me for being honest. One father told me that he’d made his kids watch the 60 Minutes interview four times. (I feel sorry for your kids, I joked.)
Often when I saw someone from the product side of the industry, things got strange. They would hesitate, stammer, and brush me off. Some were simply cold; they’d barely look me in the eye. I understood why. These people couldn’t afford to piss Lance off. Their incomes depended on keeping the myth alive. But it didn’t make it any easier. I was still an outcast; still a stranger in my own sport.
But the encounter that meant the most happened after the race, when I spotted Levi Leipheimer riding past me on his way to doping control. I said, “Hey Levi, Tyler!”
Levi recognized my voice, stopped, turned around. We talked for two minutes. Levi knew the score: he’d been subpoenaed; he knew a lot of the things I knew, and I assumed he’d told the truth. We didn’t talk about much on the surface, but just connecting with him felt great. He couldn’t have been more friendly, asking a couple of times how I was doing, wishing me well. It felt good to know that, at least in Levi’s eyes, our brotherhood was still strong.
Life went on, as we waited for the indictments to be announced. Lindsay and I, who were now engaged, decided to spend the fall in Boston as she finished up her master’s degree. Tanker and I moved into her cool little apartment in Cambridge, within an hour’s drive of my folks in Marblehead. It was great to be back on the old home turf. We could root for the Red Sox, see old friends, and spend time with both our families. There was just one nagging thing: an increasing feeling that we were being watched.
It was small things at first. We’d notice people watching us in the grocery store or on the street. One time there were two guys who sat in a tan Ford Astro van on the street in front of our apartment for several hours, then reappeared the following day in a different car. Some mail disappeared from our front hallway, including some tax forms.
More disturbing, our computers and phones started behaving strangely: we’d be reading our emails on Gmail and suddenly we would find ourselves signed out, as if someone else had signed in. We heard strange beeps on our phones. We’d send a text, and find that it had sent two copies, not one. We changed our passwords, and told ourselves it was nothing. But as time went by, it continued. If there were hackers, they had a sense of humor: we began to see pop-ups for the Lance Armstrong Foundation all over the place, even when we were on sites that were unrelated to anything that might be connected to Lance or the foundation. I shared my concerns that our phones had been hacked with my dad, who did his part by ending our telephone conversations with “… and by the way, fuck you, Lance.”
After a few weeks of this, I phoned Novitzky to tell him about these incidents. He was utterly unsurprised; in fact, it sounded as if he had been expecting it. Novitzky said that similar things happened to all the witnesses in the Barry Bonds case. Hiring a private investigator to follow potential witnesses was apparently standard operating procedure by the defense in these cases: the more information they had on me, the easier they could attack my credibility in the trial. Novitzky promised he had our backs: if we ever felt threatened, we should get in touch right away. He gave me a special number to call in emergencies, twenty-four hours a day. His support was professional, but done in an easy, friendly way we appreciated. He even sent a smiley face at the end of one of his texts. Lindsay and I got a kick out of that—the big, tough government investigator, using emoticons.
Fall reminded me why Boston is my favorite city on earth. It’s not just the colors; it’s the feeling of life busting out at the seams, a feeling of something falling away and some new surprise getting ready to show itself. While Lindsay spent her days studying, Tanker and I spent our days exploring. We met a neighborhood teenager named James, who attended a special-needs school. James and Tanker took to one another like wildfire, and James started coming by to take Tanker on walks.
Before long, James and I were going on bike rides, with Tanker running alongside. We rode up Heartbreak Hill, the famous ascent of the Boston Marathon, and James did great; he was strong and determined. When we got to the top, James was as stoked as if he’d just climbed Alpe d’Huez. I was, too.
I kept visiting Dr. Welch, the therapist, and enjoying our talks. As our time went on, I opened up more and more to him. As the weeks passed, I realized that I was experiencing a strange feeling. I felt strangely light, almost giddy. I’d find myself chatting with people I ran into, or just standing stock-still on the sidewalk with James and Tanker, enjoying the feeling of the sun on my skin. That’s when I realized what the unfamiliar feeling was: I was happy. Genuinely, deeply happy.
Here’s what I was learning: secrets are poison. They suck the life out of you, they steal your ability to live in the present, they build walls between you and the people you love. Now that I’d told the truth, I was tuning in to life again. I could talk to someone without having to worry or backtrack or figure out their motives, and it felt fantastic. I felt as if I were back in 1995, before all the bullshit started; back when I had that little house in Nederland, Colorado, just me and my dog and my bike and the big world.
Lindsay’s place was filled with books—philosophy, psychology, sociology. I started reading them, feeling a side of my brain stretch for the first time in a long time. We watched less television, drank a lot of tea, did yoga. One evening, when I bent over to pick something up, I felt something s
trange in my midsection—a small roll of fat, for the first time in years. I pinched it, and it felt good. Normal.
I sometimes thought about what would happen if Lance went to trial. I always figured that it’d come down to a trial—Lance didn’t seem inclined to cop a plea. Knowing him, he’d keep raising the stakes rather than settle. And knowing Novitzky, he wouldn’t let up either, and the whole thing would wind up in court. It figured to be a zoo; the biggest sports-crime trial ever. The media would have a field day; it would make the Bonds and Clemens trials look like traffic court. People would know the truth about our sport, and they could make up their own minds. They could forgive Lance, or they could hate him for lying, for abusing his power. But whatever they did, at least they’d have a chance to learn the truth and decide for themselves.
One afternoon, I was doing some business research on the Internet, looking at training websites. As happened sometimes, an ad with a photo of Lance popped up. Usually, seeing his face made me wince, and I’d click the window closed. But this time, for some reason, I found myself staring at his face, noticing that Lance had a big smile, a nice smile. It made me remember how he used to be, how good he was at making people laugh. Yes, Lance could be a bona fide jerk, a huge tool. But he’s also got a heart in there, somewhere.
I studied the picture, trying to reconnect with that feeling, and to my surprise, I found myself feeling sorry for Lance. Not completely sorry—he deserved a lot of what was coming to him; he’d made his bed and now he would have to lie in it. But I was sorry in the largest sense, sorry for him as a person, because he was trapped, imprisoned by all the secrets and lies. I thought: Lance would sooner die than admit it, but being forced to tell the truth might be the best thing that ever happened to him.
* Chrisman, who was seated about ten feet away, said, “I couldn’t hear what [Armstrong and Hamilton] were saying, but you could tell it was very ugly, and very tense. Lance was leaning forward, being the aggressor, Tyler was sort of shrinking, as if he wanted to get away. I remember feeling kind of scared, realizing that Lance Armstrong is totally freaking out, right here.”
Chapter 16
THE END-AROUND
LINDSAY AND I WERE MARRIED in Boston just before Thanksgiving 2011, and we started making plans to move back to Boulder. We weren’t sure we were going to stay forever; I had so much history there, and the endurance-sports scene is so intense—only in Boulder are retired cyclists celebrities—that it sometimes felt stifling. But we’d try it out for a while; and Lindsay, as usual, was game. In late December, we hitched a trailer loaded with our few belongings to our SUV, and drove out of Boston, headed west. We traveled the southern route, through Charlottesville and Knoxville and Chattanooga, listening to Johnny Cash turned up full blast—“Monteagle Mountain,” “Orange Blossom Special,” “Folsom Prison Blues,” “I Walk the Line.” We watched the countryside roll past, opened our windows and felt the warm air on our skin. We felt like we were headed for the beginning of a brand-new life.
Lindsay and I arrived in Boulder in early January. We moved into a bungalow on Mapleton Avenue, and I set about building the training business, introducing Lindsay to my friends, getting on with life. Or, I should say, I mostly did all those things. Part of my mind was always hovering apart, waiting for word of the indictments. Plus, we started getting that same eerie feeling that we were being followed: problems with the computer and phone, strange people sitting in cars outside our house. We ignored it as best we could, but after the Cache Cache incident, we felt vulnerable, especially with Lance a few hours away in Aspen. We tucked a baseball bat by the front door, just in case.
Friday, February 3, was a clear, bright day, and Lindsay and I were looking forward to a quiet weekend. We’d go for a hike with Tanker, meet up with some friends, and root for our New England Patriots against the New York Giants in the Super Bowl. We were coming back from the hike that afternoon when I got a text and saw a link to an article.
Feds Drop Armstrong Investigation
I felt like I was going to get sick to my stomach.
I tapped my phone with a trembling finger. It had to be a prank. Then I saw the other headlines; they matched. It was true. I typed out a tweet: Are you F-ing kidding me? Then I deleted it—better to stay cool until I found out more.
I drove home, feeling frantic. I flipped on the computer and read more stories. They all said the same thing: Case closed, no explanation. I called Novitzky; no answer. I read Lance’s short statement where he expressed his gratitude. I scanned the stories, which all said the same thing: a U.S. attorney named André Birotte Jr. had issued a press release at 4:45 p.m. Eastern Time, the ideal time to make sure it got as little attention as possible, a moment when sports journalists were focused on the Super Bowl.
United States Attorney André Birotte Jr. today announced that his office is closing an investigation into allegations of federal criminal conduct by members and associates of a professional bicycle racing team owned in part by Lance Armstrong.
The United States Attorney determined that a public announcement concerning the closing of the investigation was warranted by numerous reports about the investigation in media outlets around the world.
I read it three times. Then I walked into the kitchen and punched the refrigerator.
Lance had found a way. Lance’s friends had found a way to beat Novitzky.
I didn’t know what to do. I felt like my brain was short-circuiting, sparking and sputtering. It was like the worst bike crash, but without the satisfaction of the physical pain. I paced around our little house, trying to absorb what this meant—for me, for Lindsay, for my parents. Lindsay tried to comfort me with a hug, but I pulled away. Tanker started barking nervously. I kept circling, pacing the room like a trapped animal; after some hours of this, I fell on the couch and went into a dreamless sleep.
On Monday I talked to Novitzky. His voice was tight, clipped. He did his best to stay professional, but I could feel the anger and frustration beneath.
“Over the weekend, I thought about leaving my job,” Novitzky said.
“I thought about leaving the country,” I said.
“Me too.” Novitzky gave a rueful laugh.
All the news reports said the same thing: it had been an end-around, a surprise move: Birotte, a political appointee, had closed the investigation from the top, without consulting anyone. Birotte informed everyone in an email fifteen minutes before the press release was issued. Neither Doug Miller nor Novitzky was asked for his opinion on the evidence, on the solidity of the case they were building. Twenty months of investigation. Thousands of hours. Hundreds of pages of grand jury testimony and other evidence, tucked into a box, and filed away as if they never existed.*
The next couple of weeks were tough. Some days, I found it hard to get out of bed; other days I had bursts of anger and impatience that I had a hard time controlling. I wasn’t easy to live with. Lindsay was incredibly patient in dealing with me. There was one bright side: overnight, Lindsay and I stopped getting the feeling that we were being watched. Our phones and computers stopped misbehaving. Mysterious people stopped parking outside our house or watching us in the grocery store.
I slept a lot. I stayed indoors; I avoided the coffee shops and restaurants on Pearl Street where bike racers hung out. I didn’t shave. I didn’t want to go online; I knew the Lance people would be seeing this as a triumph, and taking a victory lap. I saw my phone filling up with messages: from friends, from journalists seeking a comment. I ignored them, shut out the world. What could I possibly say?
Lance knew what to say. In an interview with Men’s Journal, he talked about his relief at the closure, and said that he was through fighting. “In my mind, I’m truly done,” Lance said, mentioning he would not fight if USADA attempted to strip him of one or more Tour titles. “It doesn’t matter anymore. I don’t run around bragging, feeling like I have to be a seven-time Tour de France champion. I worked hard for those, I won seven times, and that’s great. But
it’s over.”
Lance underlined that point in an interview with former San Francisco mayor Gavin Newsom. “If somebody wants to walk up and say, ‘You know, I think you cheated to win the Tour de France seven times,’ I would literally go, all right. Is there anything else? Because I’m not going to waste any more of my time talking about it, and you shouldn’t waste your time talking about it. Let’s move on.”
I read his words with mixed emotions. Part of me had sympathy for Lance. I never wanted him to go to jail. I never thought of him as a criminal. But at the same time I did want—I do want—the truth to come out. That’s what was so devastating: the sense of futility, the sense that all of it—my testimony, Novitzky’s work, the risk I and others had taken by speaking out—had come to nothing.
When I did go out again, Boulder was feeling smaller and smaller. Every time we walked into a coffee shop I would get funny looks, or I’d see a yellow wristband, or see some guys in bike jerseys that said DOPERS SUCK. I was feeling suffocated, and Lindsay wasn’t enjoying living inside of my checkered past.
We decided to leave Boulder. We’d been thinking about the idea for a while, and now it seemed more attractive than ever. We needed to start somewhere fresh. Somewhere where we had no past, no connections, no history dragging us down; somewhere we could maybe start a family. We set our sights on Missoula, Montana. Lindsay had an uncle who worked as a fly-fishing outfitter in Montana; she’d always dreamed of living there. She found a quote in A River Runs Through It, wrote it out in black marker on a big piece of paper, and stuck it to the refrigerator. The world is full of bastards, the number increasing rapidly the further one gets from Missoula, Montana.
