A long hard climb

Here's a passage from Lance Armstrong's book 'It's not about the bike'. Found it specially moving. One last tribute to Lance and his illustrious career.

... From then on, all we did was eat, sleep, and ride bikes. Spring had just begun moving up into the mountains, creating a constant fog and drizzle that seem to muffle the piney woods. We rode in the rain everyday. The cold seared my lungs, and with every breath I blew out a stream of white frost, but I didn't mind. It made me feel clean...

We rode and rode through a steady rain, for four hours, and then five. By the time I got to the foot of Beech, I'd been on the bike for six hours, drenched. but I lifted myself up out of the saddle and propelled the bike up the incline, leaving Bob Roll behind.

As I started on the rise, I saw an eerie sight: the road still had my name painted on it.

My wheels spun over the washed out yellow and white lettering. I glanced down between my feet. It said faintly, Viva Lance,.

I continued upward, and the mountain grew steeper. I hammered down the pedals, working hard, and felt a small bloom of sweat and satisfaction, a heat under my skin almost like a liquor blush. My body reacted instinctively to the climb. Mindlessly, I rose out of my seat and picked up the pace. Suddenly, Chris pulled up behind me in the follow car, rolled down the window, and began driving me on. "Go, go, go!" he yelled. I glanced back at him. "Allez Lance, allez, allez!" he yelled. I mashed down the pedals, heard my breath grow shorter, and i accelerated.

The ascent triggered something in me. As I rode upward, I reflected on my life, back to all the points, my childhood, my early races, my illness and how it changed me. Maybe it was the primitive act of climbing that made me confront the issues I have been evading for weeks. It was time to quit stalling, I realised. Move, I told myself. If you can still move, you aren't sick.

I looked at the ground as it passed under my wheels, at the water spinning off the tyres and the spokes turning around. I saw more faded painted letters, and I saw my washed out name: Go Armstrong.

As I continued upward, I saw my life as a while. I saw the pattern and the priviledge of it, and the purpose of it, too. It was simply this: I was meant for a long hard climb.