Monthly Archive for April, 2006

I would insult great European champions. In one of my first races as a pro, the Tour of the Mediterranean, I encountered Moreno Argentin, a very serious, very respected Italian cyclist. He was one of the dons of the sport, a former World Champion who had won races all over the continent. But I surged right up to the front and challenged him. There were 150 guys bunched all together, jockeying for position, flicking, coming over on each other, and pushing each other out of the way.

As I drew even with Argentin, he glanced at me, vaguely surprised, and said, “What are you doing here, Bishop?”For some reason it infuriated me. He didn’t know my name. He thought I was Andy Bishop, another member of the American team. I thought, This guy doesn’t know my name?”Fuck you, Chiapucci!” I said, calling him by the name of one of his teammates.Argentin did a double take, incredulous. He was the capo, the boss, and to him I was a faceless young American who had yet to win anything, yet here I was cussing him out. But I’d had a number of promising results, and in my own mind, he should have known who I was.”Hey, Chiapucci,” I said. “My name’s Lance Armstrong, and by the end of this race you’ll know it.”

For the rest of the race, my sole aim was to throw Argentin off his pedestal headfirst. But in the end, I faded. It was a five-day stage race, and I couldn’t keep up—I was too inexperienced. Afterward, Argentin came to our team compound, screaming. He ranted at my teammates about my behavior. Thatwas part of the etiquette too; if a young rider was becoming a problem, it was up to the older riders toget him in line. Roughly translated, what Argentin was saying was, “You need to teach him somemanners.”

A few days later, I entered a race in Italy, this one the Trophee Laigueglia, a one-day classic. The Trophee was considered an automatic win for Argentin, and I knew it. The favorites in any race in Italy were, of course, the Italians, and especially their leader Argentin. One thing you didn’t do to a veteran cyclist was disrespect him in his home country, in front of his fans and sponsors. But I wentafter him again. I challenged him when nobody else would, and this time the result was different. In the Trophee Laigueglia, I won the duel.

At the end of the race, it was a breakaway of four riders, and at the front were Argentin, Chiapucci, a Venezuelan named Sierra—and me. I hurled myself through the final sprint, and took the lead. Argentin couldn’t believe he was going to lose to me, the loudmouth American.He then did something that has always stayed with me. Five yards from the finish line, he braked. He locked up his wheels—intentionally. He took fourth, out of the medals. I won the race.

There are three places on a podium, and Argentin didn’t want to stand beside me. In an odd way, it made more of an impression on me than any lecture or fistfight could have. What he was saying was that he didn’t respect me. It was a curiously elegant form of insult, and an effective one.

In the years since then, I’ve grown up and learned to admire things Italian: their exquisite manners, art,food, and articulacy, not to mention their great rider, Moreno Argentin. In fact, Argentin and I have become good friends. I have a great deal of affection for him, and when we see each other these days, we embrace, Italian style, and laugh.”

Amúgy meg: Go Lance! Bármit is csinálsz mostanában. Nagy vagy a szememben, a családi ügyeket nem értem, és nem is tetszenek a dolgok, de a hozzáállásod és alázatod ahhoz amit csinálsz az