I spent the weekend watching the Tour of California. Went to Glendora on Saturday to watch the sprint, saw the start of the race Sunday morning in Santa Clarita and then positioned myself in front of a Shell station to watch all five laps of the finish in Thousand Oaks. Then came home to watch Tyler Hamilton on 60 Minutes.
I've never been able to quite decide what I think about Lance Armstrong. Yes, I have a Livestrong bracelet on my desk, but that's more about cancer than cycling. Yes, I love to see cyclists jackrabbit up amazingly steep slopes (like Alberto Contador this weekend in Italy). Yes, I follow the news about tainted meat, dodgy doctors in Italy and one after another Italian or Spanish rider who has to sit out a year or so. After watching Hamilton I'm still not sure what to think. I found Tyler believable, heart-renchingly so.
I still like cycling. I'm fascinated by the dedication, the gritty determination, the endless training, the sheer challenge of it -- and for the most part not for much money and not for much public glory. I just hope that all the under-25 riders I saw yesterday, people whose names are not yet known to the fans, who took time to sign autographs for little kids clutching Radio Shack and Leopard Trek jerseys instead of Kobe Bryant 33's, have figured out a way to make their way in the sport without the temptation of cheating.
And boy -- is this subject ripe for fiction. I'm already cooking up a great story told from the point of view of a soigneur.
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