Holy Shiite! Armstrong is attempting to be the first person ever to win six in a row. If you think that's no big deal, try riding up Pike from First, connect with Madrona, and then ride out of Madrona Park, turn around, and come back the same way. Do that 30 times in under six hours every day for 23 days. When your legs fall off, remember that Lance's career was interrupted by testicular cancer that spread to his lungs and brain. He survived by enduring massive amounts of chemotherapy that scarred his liver but spared his lungs, then returned to the bike to dominate the Tour de France as no one has done before.
To piss off the French, I wore my neon green NFL Miami Dolphins jersey, I've got a camcorder hanging around my neck, and I'm trying to mangle the French language as much as possible. But none of this is helping. I can't pretend anymore. The espresso was supposed to help me be positive, but I'm in strange psychological territory because Lance Armstrong is the one man in the world about whom I can't think of anything bad to say. I can't even think of anything bad to say about Lance's new girlfriend, Sheryl Crow. This, even more than the stench of the French armpit area, is making me sick. I've got no inspiration.
The truth is that cycling is an exquisite display of human athletic ability and the only sport in which opponents must at times work together in order to win--a blatantly sincere, respectful, and nonviolent sport. I'm so depressed. I wish I were back in Seattle, sniffing Lysol and licking up the grease and cheese off the sidewalk outside Dick's.
