Bad Blood by Jeremy Whittle

Author:Jeremy Whittle
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781409077329
Publisher: Random House

PROTECTING THE INTERESTS OF THE PELOTON

THE 2004 TOUR de France is one day away from the Champs-Elysées.

Lance Armstrong, taut and lean in the yellow jersey, strides down the central aisle of the Besançon media centre into the Tour winner’s press conference. A ripple of applause splutters into life, initiated by the American media contingent. When it is not picked up by the Europeans present, it fades away.

Armstrong, followed by The Entourage, strides purposefully towards the platform and the waiting bank of microphones and cassette recorders. Cameras flash, tapes whirr. He sits down. The questions begin.

Lance’s drawl booms out of the PA, easy, relaxed and assured. There is no Kimmage or Walsh out there, no inquisitor to face. He had dominated the Tour to secure his sixth win. Once again he has put them all in their place. The naysayers and sceptics among the media and his rivals – where are they now? After six years, Armstrong’s supremacy was complete. His multimillion dollar fund-raising efforts through his cancer foundation, the sweeping success of the Livestrong wristbands, his celebrity profile and the successful rebuttal of any attacks on his reputation, had made him appear almost untouchable. Even his bitterest critics had to admit that he was an extraordinary human being. Lance’s legendary status now transcended his sport: for many people, his good deeds – the fund-raising, the campaigning for better cancer treatment, the hope he offered the hopeless – nullified any concerns there may have been over his effect on his sport. How could somebody who had done so much for others be anything but a force for good?

So as he sits down in Besançon, there is a stalemate, a predictability, in the air. Nonetheless, my tape recorder runs, just in case. I stand up, stretch my legs and stroll around to the side of the low stage. The questions continue; he smiles, shrugs, jokes, bats them back. I walk around to the rear of the stage. Double doors are open to the car park and a warm breeze wafts in. The US Postal liveried station wagon with blacked-out windows is parked beyond the threshold.

Lance’s bodyguard stands there in the doorway, waiting.

‘Last question please,’ says US Postal’s press attaché, Dan Osipow. His master’s voice echoes once more around the hall. Then, job done, Lance is on his feet, making his way through the tangle of wires and speakers. He steps down from the back of the stage for the short walk to the waiting car. His minders are lagging behind as he strides towards the doors.

From under the brim of his baseball cap, he clocks me. I see a flicker of recognition but he keeps walking, keeps looking straight ahead. I take a step forward. He adjusts his cap.

Before I realise it’s happened, he’s past me and out through the doors, into the evening sunshine and a throng of adulation.

In the 2004 Tour, Armstrong was more dominant than he had ever been. He won by six minutes, he won six stages, he sneered at the boo boys, he hobnobbed with George W.

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