The Who album “Who’s Next” was meant to be a concept album, called “Lifehouse,” the follow-up to “Tommy.” It was meant to resonate with Eastern mysticism and spirituality and was so ambitious it was meant to make Tommy seem like a kid’s musical. But Pete Townshend had a nervous breakdown once he realized he couldn’t explain the whole of the narrative in a song sequence. Rather than release a muddled and confused concept album, he ended up pulling the best songs into a single album. The result, “Who’s Next,” is considered by many rock critics to be one of the great rock albums of all time.
That seems a fair backdrop by which to introduce the Alex Gibney documentary, “The Armstrong Lie.” I’m not going to claim that this is one of the greatest documentaries ever committed to celluloid, but there can be no doubt that the result from his failed attempt to document Armstrong’s comeback makes a far more interesting film than what he had intended.
We live in an age where many documentarians editorialize; they manipulate the watcher to adopt the filmmaker’s viewpoint rather than allowing the viewer to draw his own conclusions. Michael Moore’s work is a great example of this. As much as I might agree with many of his positions, I’d rather not be subjected to an agenda. Present the info and if the dots are there, I’ll connect them for myself.
Early on, as Gibney was working on this film, it was often criticized as a puff piece. I heard those exact words used in conjunction with it; even Betsy Andreu uses those words in the film when being interviewed by Gibney. Reduced to its most contrasting elements, the film began as a celebration of Armstrong, then rounded on him in the wake of the USADA Reasoned Decision. Imagine a rock doc that captures a band at the height of their popularity, then checks back in with them four years later as they are breaking up. You see the elation that comes with adulation, and then you see the recrimination that comes with the broken spell. Oof.
When I walked out of the theater, I had a headache. I’d ridden such bumpy course of emotions I was exhausted. That’s the particular genius of this film. When I sat down, I vowed that I’d simply allow the film to tell its story and try not to impose my will on what I thought the story should be. “Let’s just see what story he tells,” I told myself. What happened was that I was taken back to each of those seven Tours, reminded of the adventure of watching those races play out. I was transported back in time to roads in the Alps and Pyrenees, to a bar in St. Jean de Maurienne where when Armstrong shot into the grass after Joseba Beloki crashed, a woman I knew screamed at the TV, “He’s cheating! He’s cheating!” and how I thought to myself, “You have no idea. You’re as right as you are wrong.”
There was the ache of injustice I felt for the Andreus every time they appeared on camera, the loathing I tasted for Stephanie McIlvain when her voicemail to Betsy Andreu was played, the schadenfreude that made me smile when Floyd Landis said, “At some point you gotta tell people Santa Claus isn’t real.”
In the interviews, I could still see Armstrong’s old charm, but I could also see the bully, the bluster. And yes, there were the lies. Enough of them to base a movie on. Gibney sought out archival footage in forgotten corners, stuff I’d never seen. Further, in addition to the Andreus, he interviewed Bicycling editor-at-large Bill Strickland, as well as former editor Steve Madden. He also interviewed Armstrong’s bete noir, David Walsh, as well as “The Secret Race” coauthor Daniel Coyle. He even got time with Michele Ferrari.
The film never tells you what to feel, what to decide, but it did lead me to a conclusion I’d not considered previously. While it’s easy to point to Floyd Landis as the catalyst for Armstrong’s downfall, I now think we’d elevated him to such heights, polished his story to such a chromed reflection that our American sensibilities simply wouldn’t permit us to leave him on a pedestal. Once the comeback was set in motion, so was his downfall. Had there been no Landis, there would still have been Jeff Novitzky and Tyler Hamilton. If there’d been no Hamilton, there’d still have been Levi Leipheimer. We were going to tear the Armstrong myth down, with prejudice. It’s just what this culture does. In that, Armstrong is that most American of myths. The key, I believe, isn’t that we can’t abide a hero, it’s that at some point we come to understand that any story so lofty, so heroic, must be built on some sort of lie. As much as we profess, as a culture, to want saints, deep down we know they don’t exist and we seem to delight in knocking them down to expose the lies. Armstrong himself observes, it’s not that he “lived a bunch of lies;” it’s that he “lived one big lie.”
Armstrong’s story will endure, not just in cycling, but in sport; he is the modern Icarus, and Gibney’s film is a clear-eyed account of both the rise and the fall. It makes me wonder, who’s next?
With the release of the book “Wheelmen” by Reed Albergotti and Vanessa O’Connell of the Wall Street Journal, Lance Armstrong, the US Postal Service, EPO and Greg LeMond are all back in the news. While I’m enjoying the book so far—Albergotti and O’Connell are fine writers and I’m hoping to pick up a few new details in their narrative—what cycling needs going into the off season isn’t more play on Armstrong. Rather, we would do well to focus on the way forward and what the new president of the UCI, Brian Cookson, is working on.
The trouble is, neither LeMond nor Armstrong are willing call it a day and just move forward. Armstrong is still holding out hope that he can sit down with WADA and weave a tale of doping that will rehabilitate his standing with them such that he’ll be able to compete before President Obama leaves office. Supposing for a second that he’s actually able to get his ban reduced to time served, that misses the larger point. The spell has been broken. No one wants to see Armstrong compete. No one.
I respect that Lance’s plan is get the ban cut, then go to Nike, et al, and secure new sponsorship. Maybe not at the rate he used to get, but get a positive cash flow going. What he doesn’t seem to fathom is that right now he is a guaranteed PR black eye. For anyone, but especially Nike.
It’s fair to wonder why Armstrong won’t just curl up in a corner to lick his wounds. Maybe that speaks to why he won the Tour seven times. And for those who are talking to the screen right now, screaming that he didn’t win the Tour, he did. Maybe not fair—or square—but the top of those fields was dirty. One doper beat all the other dopers. That was the game for those years.
The release of “Wheelmen” has served as the perfect opportunity to quote Greg LeMond on all things Lance. In a recent interview with Anderson Cooper on CNN LeMond opined that Armstrong would barely have cracked the top 30 as a clean rider. I’m not sure that anyone is in a position to make such a sweeping statement about him or the riders from that era. Armstrong dropped a lot of weight ahead of his fourth place at the ’98 Vuelta—and we have every reason to believe he was on EPO before the cancer. He only got better after the ’98 Vuelta, so what changed? Dutch estimates hold that 80 percent of the peloton was on EPO. Honestly, no one can say that had the entire peloton been clean that Armstrong wouldn’t have finished in the top ten.
LeMond went on to volunteer that he thought Armstrong ought to be in jail. There’s no doubt that Big Tex wronged a great many people. What he did to Emma O’Reilly and the Andreus has not ceased to trouble me. Losing a job for sticking with the truth under oath (as Frankie Andreu did) must qualify you as a martyr. But of Armstrong’s many sins none currently seem to hold the potential for sending him on an all-expense-paid trip to the big house. So why offer the opinion that he ought to be in jail? Certainly that’s not analysis, not the way his assertion that Armstrong wasn’t capable of winning the Tour clean was.
From the earliest days of the LeMond/Armstrong conflict there has been an unseemly, jealous and petty sense to LeMond’s dislike of Arrmstrong. What has always bugged me about LeMond’s ire for Armstrong was the same thing that disturbed me about David Walsh’s pursuit of him, that it seemed personal, blind to the other dopers. Walsh’s book “Seven Deadly Sins” traces his path and demonstrates the circumstances why Walsh was so focused on Armstrong. Without putting words in his mouth, I think it’s fair to summarize Walsh’s Armstrong quest as synecdoche, wherein one small part serves to stand for the whole—referring to your car as your wheels. For Walsh, Armstrong seems to have been (rightly) the tip of the iceberg.
It’s harder for LeMond to claim that he had an overarching concern for doping unless he’s more naive than anyone else who ever raced the Tour. We know that Miguel Indurain, Gianni Bugno, Claudio Chiappucci would never have taken the podium at the ’91 Tour without the aid of EPO. Why has he never called them out?
It’s interesting that when LeMond retired three years later that he didn’t reveal that he understand what had hit him. The reason he gave for his retirement was a pathology, mitochondrial myopathy, which he related to his brother-in-law mistaking him for a turkey. At the time, blaming his inability to kick Miguel Indurain’s ass on lead in his chest seemed the most graceful explanation. It was, however, wrong. The real explanation was simpler. LeMond was getting beat because there were dozens of guys on EPO. He was being forced to race well into the red zone for far longer than he had in previous tours. So why didn’t he say anything then?
Armstrong’s problem with LeMond was that he needed to believe LeMond doped in order to think that he was no worse. Armstrong may never let go of his belief that LeMond doped. There’s still a certain amount of derisive snorting about LeMond’s B12 miracle shot, administered near the end of the ’89 Giro. The stupid thing here is that the obvious doping alternative would be anabolic steroids, which were very easy to catch in the 1980s.
The value to the book Albergotti and O’Connell have written is that it is likely to serve as the functional narrative for the EPO era. Because there are people who dismiss everything Tyler Hamilton says, because he previously lied, and because the USADA Reasoned Decision isn’t packaged as a single story, “Wheelmen” may prove to be the definitive version of this story.
The upshot to this is that any further attempt by Armstrong to confess as a means to rehabilitate his image, which will really only be a pretext to getting back to competition, will have to meet a very high bar of revelation. Not only will he need to reveal the juiciest of details behind everything everyone else has documented, but the days of him denying eyewitness accounts are over. Sure, he can deny all he wants, but the problem he faces is that the days of giving him the benefit of the doubt are over. In a he said/she said, we used to award him the point. What he doesn’t seem to follow is that we no longer give his word any weight. This is a point that can’t be exaggerated. If Charles Manson said he watched Armstrong eat babies, no matter what Armstrong said, any reasonable person would send his toothbrush to the lab.
The problem isn’t that Armstrong doesn’t know what the truth is, it’s that he doesn’t understand that he doesn’t have the ability to shape the story anymore. Until he understands that, there’s no reason for him to speak. Until he really understands what “the full truth” means, he’s useless to cycling.
But what of LeMond? He has all of American cycling at his feet. Oakley and Giro have apologized to him. Who knows how many others have quietly made amends. He’s won three Tours, beaten Bernard Hinault into submission, had a bike line developed, distributed and sold by Trek. He is now working with Time to produce his bikes, while he has taken on the distributorship of Time here in the U.S.
By any measure, it’s a charmed existence. Yet, the feature most common to all his dealings is conflict, most often exemplified by lawsuits.
Game, set, match. They are all his. When will he find peace, happiness?
[Ed. note: We reached out to LeMond with a request for an interview but got no response.]
Image: John Pierce, Photosport International
RKP has applied for a $250,000 grant through a program with Chase Small Business called Mission Main Street. To be considered, though, we need a little love. Specifically, we need 250 votes, one for every $1000 awarded in order to be considered.
So what would we do with that money? Hire more contributors, mostly. We’ve been talking to a number of people about bringing them on to RKP. This grant could allow us to do all we want with all of them for at least three years. It would also allow us to pay contributors who have just been writing for us with no reward other than love and fame. They’ve gotten lots of the former, but perhaps not enough of the latter. Contributors aren’t the only addition. Management is the other addition, specifically, someone to mind day-to-day stuff. It’s help we sorely need.
And you, dear reader, you have the opportunity to help us. You’ve come through for us in ways big and small. We’re grateful for all you’ve done. This one is a small ask: Please click on this link right here and then hit the button that says “VOTE.”
Trust us, your vote could change lives. As always, thanks for reading.
I was a middle-class kid, as tormented by boredom as by the peer pressure of my preppy cohort. Bound for college and an easy passage to comfortable adulthood, nonetheless I acted out in all sorts of ways. I listened to punk rock bands and drank too much and did all the drugs I could. I grew my hair, and then I shaved my head. I rode a bike.
There is power in alienation, in embracing otherness and using it as a motivator. There is power in the anger that comes from being treated differently, even when the difference is small or manufactured. The greatest conformists among us still want to be rebels. It’s an attractive image, rebels in our minds, if not in our realities.
Our twenty-year-old selves were self-styled iconoclasts. We wrote bad, angry songs and reveled in having no money. The bike was an integral and functional part of that manufactured poverty, an expression of the freedom we wanted, mainly from other people’s reasonable expectations.
The truth is that, even with our tattoos and ardent devotion to the most unlistenable music, we were never so unique. In a country of 300 million people, even being one-in-300 makes you part of a counter-culture, one-million strong. Maybe none of the old punk bands we idolized made a lot of money from selling records to willfully poor kids after their shows, but that doesn’t mean a million or more people didn’t find a way to know and love their songs.
Cycling is that same brand of marginal, at least here in the States. We the be-lycra’d few, with our too-thin bodies (sometimes) and our shaved legs often hold ourselves apart, a smug counterpoint to the football-loving masses. Cars and bikes might as well be sharks and minnows. Are you with the sharks? Of course not.
Cyclists are different. We wear small funny hats and shoes we can’t walk in. We obsess over races that take place in France and Belgium and Italy and Spain, races with strategies as transparent as pond water. We are worldly, thoughtful, nuanced.
More than 70,000 of us took out race licenses with USA Cycling last year. According to the League of American Bicyclists there are about 57 million of us in total, cyclists. We are not minnows. We are not marginal. These are not sexy truths. This is not fist in the air stuff.
I’m older now, and though the music in my headphones is still loud and inaccessible to most of my peers, I’m turning out spreadsheets, booking orders, and plotting marketing strategies like a grown up. I am usually planning my next tattoo, but the ink never runs because I spend the money on hockey skates and summer camp for my kids.
I’m not dangerous. I’m not weird.
Still, rebellion is motivation. Every time I pull on layers of wool topped with Gore-Tex I rebel against the weather. Every time I cut the corner of someone’s backyard to get to a trail some kids have thrashed into the woods, I push back against the constraints of adulthood. It’s bullshit, small stuff, but it works for me.
Motivation is priceless, and sometimes you have to get some flavor of aggro with yourself, with society, or with the laws of physics, just to get out the door. I sometimes shudder to think of the poses I struck as a young, angry man, except they brought me this far. They put me on my bike.
And thank god for that.
I am still not quite sure I believe that Brian Cookson has been elected president of the UCI. In my mind, there is still room for a CAS appeal or some other evil legal machination to reseat Pat McQuaid, returning us to the dark ages from which are only just now stumbling, blinking, into the half-light of the modern day.
If however it is true, and Cookson is the man, then we can begin to ask the very serious question, who is Brian Cookson really? Up to this point, it has been sufficient for him only to be Not Pat McQuaid. Not Pat McQuaid is enormously popular as it turns out. That guy has global appeal.
But this Brian Cookson could be anybody. I don’t think I’m alone in adjudging his campaign statements as nothing but anodyne crap aimed at not offending anyone. His was the sort of promise-rich, plan-poor presentation that would almost certainly never earn my vote, even for a seat on the local garden committee. If I’m honest though, in this case I would have supported the guy even if I thought he was incompetent. At least, we’d have had a different incompetent to talk about.
But defying my skepticism, there is already good stuff happening, right things being said. There is this, and then there is this. In fact, the very first thing the new man did was this, which was probably a good idea and shows just how low the incumbent had sunk in reasonable people’s estimation.
Who knows if any of the stuff on that laptop will see the light of day, but the simple act of seizing it shows where Cookson’s head is at. Stay tuned for the next story where all of the office furniture in the UCI’s Aigle headquarters gets dragged out onto the front lawn and burned. Stay tuned for pictures of the Bishop of Lausanne getting invited down for an exorcism. This could get fun.
This week’s Group Ride asks, now that Cookson is elected, what ought to be his top priority to move the sport forward? I am guessing that many will want a Truth & Reconciliation process first, but the sport has so many pressing challenges. There is the ongoing effort to drive doping from the sport through proper testing and maintenance of the Biological Passport program. There is the alarming exodus of sponsorship money at the top of the sport. There is the promotion of women’s cycling, and the reorganization of the UCI World Tour. Do we look forward, to borrow a phrase, or do we look back? What is most important now? What are your top three items for Brian Cookson’s to-do list?
Think about the last time you were watching the weather and the weatherman was talking about a hurricane about to pummel some coastline. Be it Louisiana, Texas, Florida, New Jersey or North Carolina, your reaction was very likely, “Those poor SOBs.”
This is the reaction I’ve been having for nearly everyone involved in what was briefly known as Divine Cycling Group. If there’s been an uglier yard sale of emotions, unpaid invoices and lawyer paper in cycling, I haven’t seen it. I’ve been digging around for all the information I can. And while I don’t typically use the term “digging” to describe the work I do, several people have used that term in asking me about what I’ve been up to, what I’ve learned. Some have used the term with excitement and curiosity. Others have used it cautiously, nervously.
What I’ve learned is that the number of people in financial hardship as a result of the failed merger of Divine Cycling Group can’t easily be totaled. What I’ve learned is that absolutely everyone I’ve talked to have something in common: they all wonder what the future holds. They are all scared that their careers or bank accounts may take a significant hit. For some, that hit has already arrived. They also share a fear of the lawyers involved in these transactions.
I’ve talked to vendors and former contractors for Serotta. Everyone I talked to has an outstanding, unpaid balance. So far as I’ve been able to find out, these amounts range from the low four figures to the high five figures. In aggregate, it appears to be an ugly, crippling sum. And no one owed this money will go on the record to say they haven’t been paid. To a person, they are afraid that any public declaration that they have an unpaid invoice could result in punitive action from the lawyers working on behalf of Bradway Capital and others.
I contacted Brian Case, CEO of Bradway Capital. He wasn’t willing to say much for the record due to “lots of legalities,” but he did say there was likely to be some news forthcoming in 10 days to two weeks. He cautioned me that only one side of the story was circulating, indirectly alluding to Ben Serotta’s open letter to the industry. He admitted he’d been frustrated to be on the sidelines unable to tell his side of the story and was eager to do so once all the paperwork was complete.
I’ve had a couple of people who have been close to these events suggest that the morass of legal wranglings is far deeper and murkier than most would suspect. For them the smoking gun is the fact that what was Serotta is now operating as Saratoga Frameworks. They each independently noted that not only was Serotta’s intellectual property split from the real estate and the labor force, but that in Case lost control of the Serotta intellectual property in his dealings with Bill Overbay, hence the need for the Saratoga Frameworks brand, complete with logo and website. Case even told Bicycle Retailer and Industry news that Divine Cycling Group owned the Serotta brand and that while there was a chance that brand would be commercialized again at some point in the future, for now it needed to “cool off.”
It’s worth noting that Bradway Capital retains the tooling and the labor force while another company Case controls owns the real estate in which the operation is based. When I asked Case about the disposition of the Serotta name and intellectual property he cited confidentiality due to the legal proceedings and was hopeful that he’d be able to say something on the record about it in a couple of weeks, the point at which he is hopeful that the paperwork will be finalized.
Case is clearly bullish on Saratoga Frameworks. He aims to have as many as 40 employees in 2014 and to be producing as many as 2500 frames over the course of the year. However, when I asked about the people who told me had gone unpaid he began saying, “A lot of promises were made by Ben and the previous management.”
I then told him that the people I had spoken with all asserted that they had signed agreements with Bradway, not verbal agreements with Ben Serotta. Worse, each of them told me that Case had used exactly that excuse for not paying them. When pressed, he said, “We have every intention of paying our legal obligations.” Moments later he added, “Once we have a sustainable business in Saratoga we can meet those obligations.”
The questions I didn’t ask were, “What if you don’t have a viable business going forward? Does that mean you won’t pay?”
My final questions to Case regarded Mad Fiber and what would happen with that company. Currently, the web site has a single page asking visitors to check back later and the phone isn’t being answered. He admitted that production had been shut down and operations had been suspended in the short term. Again, he asked me to wait a couple of weeks when he said paperwork should be finalized and he was hopeful Mad Fiber would be up and running once again.
The assets of Blue Competition Cycles are on the block. The entire workforce has been laid off. To give you some idea of how far suspended operations can inflict pain, there’s $1 million in bicycles for which the factory that produced them hasn’t been paid. There’s a team that placed deposits on bikes to race on this year that has been stiffed. No bikes.
I respect that everyone wants a bottom line; this is very much a work in progress. The challenge here is that emotions are running high and I can’t find anyone willing to take Case at his word. It would be easy to go after Case and harp on all those unpaid bills. It would be easy to look at the firing of Ben Serotta and draw parallels to Fat City and the awful turn of events that ultimately saw Chris Chance leave the bike industry. But the bright side of that chapter of the New England bike industry includes the almost necessary rise of Independent Fabrication.
While no one will say it publicly, there are plenty of people who are whispering that Case and Overbay haven’t treated people ethically or honorably. It’s easy to point to the guy at the top and label him the villain. The challenge here is that Case believes in the workforce behind Serotta/Saratoga and under the right circumstances he may have the ability to keep those craftsmen employed. Should Saratoga go under there’s a very high likelihood that not only will the bike industry lose the opportunity to revive a great brand, the industry will lose a number of talented individuals for the simple reason that most of them won’t be able to find jobs elsewhere.
There’s an additional challenge Case and Saratoga face. They need dealers. While some dealers will likely take Saratoga as a placeholder for Serotta, I’ve spoken with several dealers who want nothing more to do with Serotta, let alone Saratoga. It’s one thing to make 2500 frames in a year; it’s another to sell them.
What happens next really rides on Brian Case. If he pulls this out and revives the Serotta brand, he’ll be a hero. If Serotta goes away but he makes a going concern of Saratoga, he’ll still be a kind of hero, just smaller scale. However, if he is unable to secure the Serotta intellectual property and both it and Saratoga Frameworks go Pan Am, then Case will be served up for all and sundry to be remembered as the black-hat-wearing evil-doer; he’ll be such an obvious a target for blame that any other storyline about Serotta’s years of questionable management will be obliterated by his inability to pull the operation out of the dive.
As I head out on my ride, I decide to take a route that’s not been traversed for a good year. It’s not an epic route or a long route. It has some bike path, one teeny climb, a few rollers. Little traffic. Little spectacular scenery. But pleasant all around, and just the right mileage for the day’s needs: AT intervals and clearing out the cobwebs in my head.
I start pedaling.
As I hit the bike path that leaves town for my warm up, I’m reminded of what spun through my mind the last time I saw this particular view. The problems of then seem insignificant when compared to the problems of now. Why was I so worried? Yesterday feels like a pebble, today feels like a boulder.
The path ends. I turn left onto the road, and begin my first effort.
In the middle of my effort, the one amazing view the route has to offer greets me. A vista of rolling hills, which are now golden in the California October. I recall what they look like when dressed in February’s emerald green. By default, I also recall what was going on in my life the first time I saw them in such a state and realized that the West coast is the polar opposite of the East Coast in winter. Another perspective offered up from another ride.
I continue on, and recover by spinning up a little hill.
It feels alarmingly easy. There was once a time when I couldn’t climb this hill without struggling in my smallest gear. Now, I don’t even drop down to the smallest chainring. A conversation I had with my friend Greg two years ago replays in my head. I remember telling him how lucky he was to have the choice of suffering versus not suffering while ascending it. Now here I am, not suffering myself.
I descend the other side and turn left, heading back towards the start and beginning my second effort.
By now the problem-dust in my head has been swept a little. Old memories begin to clear it out as I see familiar sights. The last time I passed by this house I was piecing my way through an argument with my sister. The last time I crossed the bridge I was thrilled at the prospect of buying a home. The last time I avoided that pothole I was deciding whether or not to break up with my boyfriend.
As I ride, I suddenly feel like the needle on a wax spindle, recording in the road the grooves of my life as it stands today. I know the next time I play this particular route, the music will come flooding back, along with all the previous songs I made, creating a harmonious collage of memories.
We do this every time we get on a bike, etching into the pavement our own personal stories of time and place. We can’t help it. We ride. We think as we ride. We look at things as we think. We leave conflicts we can’t deal with in the current moment behind us, replacing them with conflicts we previously left from another ride. We see the old problems with clearer eyes. We gain both perspective and distance.
As I pull back into the parking lot, the ride over and my head significantly lighter, I know I’ve grown a little bit as a cyclist with my intervals. But I’ve also grown as a person. And to me, that is the greater win.
Yup, it’s me and I’m kinda sorta back to doing the Explainer column, after having dropped off the map while I was doing Live Updates and such. This week’s is not a normal Explainer column, though. That will be back on Saturday and I will happily field questions related to cycling, legal issues related to cycling or anything that catches my eye. (Please send your questions to Charles@Pelkey.com and I will try to answer as many as I can and include one or more in the next column)
But for now, you’ll have to bear with me and let me rant about one particular subject. I just needed to get something off my chest, so to speak.
More than just a parade of pink
Okay, it’s National Breast Cancer Awareness Month. For the most part, we are all quite aware … with one lone exception. In an effort to increase “awareness” this annual parade of pink ribbons generates a host of news stories about breast cancer, early detection etc. More often than not, those stories include the phrase “women with breast cancer.”
Ninety-nine percent of the time that is an accurate statement. There were approximately 180,000 women diagnosed with breast cancer in the U.S. in 2011. That year, there were 1800 MEN diagnosed as well.
I was one of them.
Obviously, we men are far less likely to get breast cancer than women. It’s logical to refer to it as a “women’s disease,” but it is not that exclusively. We are mammals. We all have “breast” tissue, including ducts, nipples etc. In men it’s generally useless tissue – tits on a boar, if you will – but it can be subject to the same cancers suffered by women, albeit far less frequently.
According to a study presented earlier this year at the American Society of Breast Surgeons conference, when men are diagnosed with breast cancer, it is often deadlier. That’s largely because men (and even their health care providers) tend to ignore those early symptoms that trigger alarm bells when it comes to female patients.
Because of that lack of “awareness,” men tend to be diagnosed later than women (even though our tumors are actually detectable at an earlier stage) and as a result have larger tumors, are more likely to have had the cancer spread and live, on average, two fewer years than women who are diagnosed.
I was lucky. I found an aggressive 2.3cm, grade 3 tumor when it was just at Stage 2b. A failed lumpectomy, a bilateral mastectomy and five months of chemo later, I’m as good as new (albeit sans nipples).
We caught that sucker in time. Other men, like my late uncle weren’t quite as lucky. Many ignore indicators, thinking that a bump is merely a cyst. Worse still is when medical professionals tell them it’s nothing to worry about. Get a second opinion.
I’m not asking you to donate money. I am not begging you to participate in a walkathon or a 5k. You don’t have to wear a ribbon, a pin or a wristband. Nope, I am not asking you to do any of that. Instead, let’s truly honor National Breast Cancer Awareness Month simply by becoming aware.
Be aware that now and then, in those rare cases, this also happens to men.
Don’t panic if you find a lump, but please, please, please don’t ignore it by thinking that breast cancer is only something that affects women.
Just be aware.
The Explainer is a weekly feature on Red Kite Prayer. If you have a question related to the sport of cycling, doping or the legal issues faced by cyclists of all stripes, feel free to send it directly to The Explainer at Charles@Pelkey.com. PLEASE NOTE: Understand that reading the information contained here does not mean you have established an attorney-client relationship with attorney Charles Pelkey. Readers of this column should not act upon any information contained therein without first seeking the advice of qualified legal counsel licensed to practice in your jurisdiction.
Three hundred sixty-six days ago I made a miscalculation. Simply put, I went too fast through a corner. I could tell you how I thought the adhesive quality of my bike’s rear tire given the road surface, lean angle and speed I was traveling was sufficient to keep me stuck to the road, but none of what I thought prior to that turn matters. Nor does it matter that I got the bike under control briefly. The impact itself doesn’t matter in the way you might think it would.
Here’s what matters: any time I enter a corner that I don’t have as well memorized as my social security number, I hesitate. Hell, even the ones that I do know that well I find myself sitting up a bit to scrub some speed.
That one tire slip changed, well, maybe it didn’t change everything, but it was the first in a series of events that, in aggregate, served as the most colossal upheaval I’ve experienced in my life.
Under other circumstances I wouldn’t have seen the events as related in any way. However, it was that sinking feeling in my gut—the universal signifier that no matter how good or bad things may currently be, things are about to get worse—that kept coming back with each new lousy piece of news. I knew the moment my tire slipped that I was going too fast for the next few seconds (or days as the case turned out to be) to turn out in any routine manner. That feeling came back when I got the call that my stepfather, Byron, was unlikely to leave the hospital. There was the call with the ad sales guy I’d hired in which he admitted that not only was he planning to take a job with an exercise magazine but that he really hadn’t done a damn thing for the previous month.
I experienced the same feeling the day the obstetrician said, “I don’t like this,” as he pointed to a dark area in our son’s body as he performed what was supposed to be a final and routine ultrasound two weeks before delivery. I did my best to tell myself that things couldn’t be that bad, that my body was jumping to conclusions not supported by the data. However, minutes later, the feeling only grew when we entered a different office with a different ultrasound pro operating an ultrasound unit that was S-class Mercedes compared to the Toyota Tercel we’d just been on. That doctor’s first, “Hmm,” was all I needed to begin wondering how the moments go before a first experience with incontinence.
The next month served up a succession of conversations that each resulted in that damned feeling. It was as if I’d discovered some previously unknown cookbook in which Julia Child served up that one emotional response in eighty different dishes. There was Sinking Feeling Paprika. There was Sentiment d’Angoisse a l’Orange, Sensazione di Affondare Cacciatore and Spaetzle mit Flaues Gefühl. I lost track of all the dishes containing that one ingredient, but you know how the palate fatigues. After a month of chicken, all you want is beef.
Once we finally brought the 15-lb. miracle home, I headed to a doctor, one just for me, for what was supposed to be a relatively simple out-patient procedure. Weeks later I woke up in a hotel room and the sheets were red. I spent Memorial Day in the emergency room.
Each of those events is as related as a brick is to a blue whale, but they share an emotional crossroads to which I inevitably responded, “Oh no, not again.” Even as I sit, typing, my stomach hitches as I traverse the events of those days, the tone of the doctor’s voice, the color of the sheets, the leftward kick of the wheel.
Shortly after the crash I wrote that I’d soon be back on Tuna Canyon. But that hasn’t happened. It took more than six months for me to return to Decker, to Las Flores and to go 90 percent of my old speed requires an anxious, uneasy clenching of teeth. It’s not a flow state. Not currently, maybe not anymore. Maybe I’d have returned sooner were it not for the succession of events that made my life a Himalayan roller coaster. I’ve no way to know.
I’ve gained much in the last year. The Deuce is a prize beyond measure. And the awareness I have of my place in the world thanks to the beer fund is a lesson that simply couldn’t be purchased. For those, I’m grateful. But neither can change my desire to be able to let the bike run on tilted asphalt. For that, I’m pissed. There’s no road map for how to get them back.
Worse is the simple fact that I’d be okay going slower if I could relax. Just relax. My discomfort on the descent to Cazadero and on Myers Grade at Levi’s Gran Fondo made me brake enough that I wondered if maybe I was now part of the legion that shouldn’t ride carbon clinchers on such roads. The wheels, I can report, fared better than my nerves.
It might seem that a year is a pretty arbitrary way to mark a collection of days, but anniversaries are how we mark time, mark progress. Occasions are a chance to look back at who we were previously. Weddings allow us to demonstrate how our lives have improved thanks to the power of love. Birthdays give us a chance to look back on who we were, to judge how we’ve grown. Commemorating the anniversary of a crash doesn’t seem the remembrance you’d want to mark, but for me, it was the first in a series of events related by a visceral response. It is my hope that today marks a turn, a chance to move forward without each new disturbance tapping into the psychic equivalent of being tazed.
To the degree that I don’t sound more hopeful, I admit that my outlook is tentative, uneasy. While I’m sure what the shackles are, I’m less sure how to cast them off.
Image: Wil Matthews
When the trail you’re riding ends in the ocean, literally in the ocean, you have done something right, especially if that trail also ribbons left along a cliff that hugs the shoreline. Clumps of goldenrod and sea grass hem you in. An increasingly rare Monarch butterfly dances across your path.
Block Island is part of a coastal archipelago. It sits 13 miles off the south coast of Rhode Island, and almost the same distance from Montauk Point on Long Island. 40% of it is conservation land. One main road rings the interior, linking houses to the sole, small town, New Shoreham, and, as it turns out, a small spider’s web of jeep track and sandy trails reaches even further, out to the perimeter and into the ocean.
The dudes I was there with all surf and fish. I am the only cyclist, so I was fortunate to escape for much of a Saturday to explore on my own. I had been to the island once before, but contented myself then with a soft spin of the main loop, pretty but unremarkable. This time, resolved to see more of what was there, I plotted a route on a crude map, only to have the ten minutes invested there deliver me to one of the most beautiful twisting, winding solo rides I’ve done in a long time.
Honestly, it’s hard to weigh the awesomeness of a ride like this. How does it compare to D2R2, for example? Was it more beautiful? No, just different. Did I have more fun? No, but it was a solo ride. It was more about me and less about connecting with friends. Honestly, there were a few times on this ride, where I caught myself laughing out loud at how good the route was, or because a pair of pheasants scurried across the way.
What is clear is that I am undeservedly lucky to get to ride when and where I do. I will bemoan how busy I am, how much time I spend sitting in ice rinks watching youth hockey, how most of my substantive riding begins in the pre-dawn, but that is all just the bullshit ranting of a guy with no clue he’s won life’s lottery.
When I got back to the house, perched there on the edge of the salt marsh, to shower and begin cramming my face with food, I had a peace of mind and a strong sense of having learned a great secret, the feelings we’re all hunting out there on the road and/or trail. Then I took a nap. Yeah. It was like that.
This week’s Group Ride asks the question, what has been your most awesome ride this year? And what made it that way? Was it the location? The company? Or some alchemical combination thereof? Maybe you had some sort of great form and won a race? Or maybe, like me, you discovered a beautiful place that you might have known was there, but still couldn’t believe once you’d arrived.