George Kimball/America At Large: From a national perspective, the most striking aspect of this Lance Armstrong phenomenon is that it has induced Americans to form opinions regarding matters upon which they previously had no opinion.
In the United States, you can almost take it for granted that a 31-year-old man who rides a bicycle as his primary pursuit is either an urban messenger or a down-on-his-luck pizza deliveryman. Yes, cycling as a spectator sport enjoyed a brief moment in the sun three-quarters of a century ago when the world's greatest annually convened at the velodrome at the original Madison Square Garden for five-day bike races, but even then the folks in Dubuque took little notice.
Until Armstrong began piling up his unprecedented six straight Tour de France titles, the event might have qualified as a brief segment on a weekend Wide World of Sport programme, where it might be sandwiched in between other riveting pursuits such as calf-roping and synchronised water-skiing competitions.
Most American newspapers didn't even carry the daily Tour results on the agate page. Nor did Greg LeMond's upstart win in the 1980s do much to alter that perception: it was widely regarded, when it was regarded at all, as a curiosity, not unakin to a US citizen gaining royal status by marrying herself off to the benevolent despot who ruled some tiny Asian fiefdom of which we had never previously heard.
Put it this way: most Americans are by now familiar with Lance Armstrong, but the best guess here is that not one in a hundred could name the second-place finisher in any of the last six Tours de France.
But now that Armstrong is being hailed as a genuine American sporting hero, rest assured that the present occupant of the White House will invite him for tea at the earliest possible opportunity. (In anticipation of the inevitable meeting, Bush climbed on a bicycle at his Texas ranch last weekend, and on the day Armstrong entered Paris, the President fell off his bike and landed on his backside).
Armstrong has been occasionally critical of his fellow Texan's foreign policy (which for our money gets him higher marks than six Tour de France titles), but a photo op of Lance and W on their bikes would appear inevitable. Sometime, you may also take it, Armstrong will be invited to go out for a spin with Senator Kerry, who actually is a serious cyclist. (When Kerry crashed his bike in Concord, Massachusetts, last spring, it got more television time than Armstrong's celebrated spill on the Bonneval-to-Angers leg of the Tour).
That Armstrong's conquest came at the expense of Europeans in general and the French in particular, of course, also plays into the hands of the Bush camp. When France haughtily declined to join the American President on his ill-advised adventures in the Middle East, many US shops angrily reacted by clearing their shelves of French wines, and chip shops proclaimed that their French fries would hereinafter be known as "Freedom Fries". (French beans, French toast, French dressing, and French kisses somehow escaped this Gallic purge.)
Neither, of course, have the French, who didn't like us much even before Bush started bombing Iraq and Armstrong began collecting Tour de France titles, been altogether gracious in hailing the American champion's achievements, witness l'Equipe's assessment of Sunday's stroll down the Champs-Elysées: "l'Ogre a laisée que les miettes du festin." (The Ogre left only the crumbs of the feast.)
At earlier stages of the race some partisan spectators reportedly spat at Armstrong, and the heckling became so severe in the Pyrenees that he rode accompanied by a special security detail. When some French fans razzed Armstrong's entry into Paris while hailing Richard Virenque with an ovation, the winner hectored the locals.
"What kind of champion do they want?" Armstrong asked. "Don't stand there and boo me and cheer for somebody that has been involved in the biggest doping scandal in the history of the sport."
Ah, yes. Since it was Armstrong himself who introduced the subject, a word of caution here. In modern-day sport, any unprecedented achievement must be sceptically viewed. Earlier this summer Armstrong was accused of better living through chemistry. That suggestion came in a book published in France, but it was echoed by others, including LeMond. Armstrong has flatly denied it, and Americans have rallied behind him on the point in the face of a rather compelling circumstantial case.
Armstrong and his defenders self-righteously proclaim his innocence, pointing out that he has never failed a drugs test.
Neither has Marion Jones or Barry Bonds. Do we believe them?
Armstrong's heroic status is, to be sure, enhanced by the fact that he is a survivor of a particularly grotesque malady (try putting "testicular cancer" and "bicycle" into the same thought without wincing), a fact which was recited in most televised wrap-ups of the Tour we witnessed.
Less has been made of the messy divorce he endured in the fifth year of his six-year run, but in France last week he was accompanied by his present consort, pop singer Sheryl Crow.
"He inspires me," said Crow of Armstrong. "It's easy to be there for him."
Crow's hit song All I Wanna Do Is Have Some Fun was adopted by team Armstrong as its Tour de France anthem.
The song blared forth from loudspeakers along the course as the champion and his team-mates neared Paris. Armstrong, had he been so inclined, might have cocked his ear and pondered the words: "I wonder if he's ever had a day of fun in his whole life."
Still, there are some delicious ironies implicit in this whole process, not least that Armstrong and his team-mates race under the imprimatur of the US Postal Service.
Most Americans would be left wondering at least two things: (1) Do you suppose there's a connection between the USPS' sponsorship of Armstrong and the increase in the cost of the postage stamp midway through his six-year Tour de France reign? (2) If these guys can ride so fast, why can't they deliver my mail on time?
