Truly, madly, deeply | Cyclingnews

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Leading the way(Image credit: Andrew Rogers)

Tales from the peloton, August 5, 2004

Lance met a hero's welcome by the patients, staff, and fans alike. In fact, "The Boss", as he's called by European newspapers, has the status of a rock star here. One impossibly long-legged (even by Texan standards), gorgeous Slavic fan who was waiting outside for Lance to sign his autobiography (for her American boyfriend going through cancer treatment) asked me if I could help her obtain his autograph. Picture Eva Herzigova (the Czech Republic's best known export since Pilsner Urquell) asking you to do her easy homework for her as her smile and clipped Czech accent rivets your existence.

Likewise, the press morphed into a mad groupie rush at him, brazenly body-checking each other with camera equipment and pens while jockeying for the front lines, where I originally planted myself (reminding me why I loathe shooting the Parisian Couture fashion shows). Meanwhile, three icy Slavic bodyguards counter-attacked the press breakaway by pedaling fiercely through the media mob headwind, flanking and cranking Lance past us to the ante-chamber adjacent to the press conference room.

When Lance sat down and fielded our questions, it seemed like none of the photographers have ever invested in a zoom lens, preferring to stare him down with cameras in his face preventing me and a few other TV crews to discretely shoot while he's waiting for the translator to whisper in his ear. It was pop-a-mole moment every time I tried to shoot as some overzealous journalist would ruin the shot and literally jump up and stand in front of Lance and shoot point blank, reluctantly ducking down when pulled away! I'm convinced they were groupies posing as press who, like junkies, craved the endomorphic rush of being as close to him as possible to really experience "The Lance Rush".

The remainder of the questions were in Czech, so I glance around the room and recognized the only other English native speaker in the house: Unnoticed by any of the press sitting right behind me was Mr. Nonchalance: George Hincapie. Asking George if he's playing hooky from tourist activities and ready for the criterium today after the TdF turned his legs into spaghetti, he smiled and cranked out his signature wry grin with hand signal: "Sure, man!"

Finally, Tomas Hozneder, a young athlete with the same diagnosis of testicular cancer that Lance had, came to the mike to thank Lance for writing his book, which turned this young professional hockey player's life around; despite his shaved head from chemo, Tomas looked fit. Soon after, Lance had another PC for Nike in an hour, so he was hustled out to another hotel and we headed for Wenceslas Square.

Looking for Wenceslas Square, I found a circle, or better put, an oval track in the heart of Prague's beautiful shopping district. I first staked out a post for a good swooping angle of the cyclists leaning into the last corner. The street was tough on the cyclists, as the last 300 meters coming out of the hairpin curve threw them into pure cobblestone hell, underscored with a slight uphill grade.

The crowds quickly thickened and my corner of the race was already uncomfortably close to the tram tracks. When the next tram came and rang its warning bell, I was pinched on the dividing criterium fence from the massive non-cycling fan gawkers standing right on the tracks and then rushing in to save their ass; I swear, one American man who looked like a football coach came up to me with his point and shoot and asked me which one was Lance. I told him he's wearing the yellow jersey. He said, "Yellow? That's a sissy color for such a stud."

Needless to say, both he and the near tram-slam compelled me to hit another vantage point, so I climbed up on top of a road maintenance trailer roof, perfectly situated over the race - and all alone. After grabbing some overhead shots, the 12th monkey syndrome kicked in round the oval, and suddenly I was very popular atop the trailer - so I swung down and hit the press pit near the start/finish line.

Meanwhile, the drama below thickened: There were no places to store bikes, so if any rider had a problem they either fixed it right there on the track - or stopped riding. After only three laps, it happened to Hincapie; the horror of bike betrayal: he was finished. But no, Pavel Padrnos, the only Czech rider on the US Postal team, gave George his bike and Pavel sat out the race while Rubiera maintained steam for the mini-Postal train which didn't get its groove until the last 25 laps.

Panicking, I thought: 'If only I could speak Czech I could find out how many laps were left!' I looked up at the finish line but no electronic lap counter was there for cyclists or the crowd. When I went into pantomiming numbers, I finally got a response from a flag-waving Czech who pointed to a 8 by 10-inch chalkboard hidden in the corner of the finish line written in faded chalk: lap 85, 15 left.

But suddenly, Lance ran out of steam after 96 laps with four to go and became the middle man. Lance the liaison between the lead group and the peloton - an unusual position to see him alone but not in front. Nevertheless, the crowd went wild, chanting, "go Lance!", despite their homeboy battling it out with Simoni and co. Seems the crowd came to cheer their imported hero, not their local ones, and despite Lance not being able to catch up to the lead group, the crowds cheered him on all the way to the finish as if he did. They LOVE LANCE, truly madly, deeply - just like they do their soccer team, despite losing the semi-finals in the European Cup a month ago in Portugal.

The battle for the sprint was fairly close, but I wouldn't know - when it was time for the money shot, a peloton of pubescent volunteers from Nike sprang up with their Tesco happy snaps (Czech version of Walgreens' throwaway cameras), forming the tee-shirted Great Yellow Wall of indifference - and deference to the cyclists. The press let out a chorus of profanities at the boys who were too excited to care or understand their faux pas. We shrugged and admitted it didn't matter much. After all, Lance, the lion, came in a distant fifth but he was still the money shot - and a collective shot in the arm for a race that had many organizational flaws, but enthusiasm wasn't one of them.

While the crowd and MC was absorbing the experience of being in Lance's close presence, (unlike the TdF, where I encountered hordes of pushy, loud, autographites hounding Lance's camp), this crowd stayed quiet, smiling and waving as if their bliss was complete even in the face of Lance admitting defeat. When asked why he didn't win today, he shrugged it off and smiled to the crowd saying: "I can't win them all!"

If there wasn't Simoni right behind him in his dark-red Saeco outfit, you'd swear it was a big blow-out Texan BBQ, complete with taller than thou Slavic blonde goddesses, and men in tank tops and cut-offs, all beaming drunken smiles. I talked to Gibo (Simoni) slouching happily on his bike in a good mood, and he admitted jokingly that at least he beat Lance in a sprint. Then suddenly, the MC announced his name, lighting up Gibo; Lance turned around smiling, thrusting out his hand to Gibo. They had a laugh and posed with Václav Klaus, the Czech president, all smiles.

All three radiated like a happy cult, confirming what the crowd felt: what a perfect day it was to be in Prague, in the presence of a courageous man who gave the crowd and the cancer patients more than another amazing cycling race drama. Yes, Lance exemplified the true definition of victory by standing tall on the podium of life's uphill climbs and sharing the prize of life with us, while humbly admitting that nothing is certain as he reminded us at the news conference.