One rainy afternoon in July 2004, I watched my very first road race. It was stage 6 of the Tour de France, from Bonneval to Angers, won by a young, up and coming Belgian rider in a bunch sprint. Although, this was my first time, even I, without fully appreciating his achievements, had heard of Lance Armstrong.
I watched the subsequent Tour stages through to their inevitable conclusion on the Champs-Elysees. A stage won once again by that young Belgian. I enjoyed every last moment of the Tour, absorbing all the technical details and historical background provided by the German presenters. Seeking more perspective, later that summer, I read Lance’s books: “It’s not about the Bike” and “Every Second Counts”. I was impressed with the meticulous, even obsessive, planning and preparation he applied not only to surviving cancer but also his bike racing. I empathised with that control freakiness.
Quite rightly, my husband holds Lance fully culpable for my fascination with the world of road racing.
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