Excerpt from Lance Armstrong’s War on Outside Magazine

Tour de France
Street Fighting Man
From prologue to Paris, DANIEL COYLE followed the reigning champ throughout the 2004 Tour and all the way to victory No. 6. Now he’s written a true-life sports thriller about how the Armstrong machine smashed the opposition. In this exclusive excerpt from Lance Armstrong’s War, the author chronicles the brutal turning point of Lance’s greatest triumph.

By Daniel Coyle

ON JULY 17, 2004, one hour before the Tour’s toughest stage, Lucky 13, the thousands of people swarming the sunny Pyrenean town of Lannemezan were burning with the same desire: to see Lance Armstrong’s face. The fervent throng of fans gathered outside the U.S. Postal team bus were motivated by the usual goals—a photo, a word, a touch. But Armstrong’s rivals had their own goals, summed up by a single image that glowed in their minds: the Dead Elvis Grin.

The Dead Elvis Grin refers to Armstrong’s facial expression when he’s pushed to the edge, on the verge of cracking, that tactically useful moment poker players call the tell. Armstrong’s tell began with the American changing positions on his bike—standing, sitting, standing again, rooting around for more power. Then he leaned forward on the handlebars, throwing his body weight into the pedals. His face went red, then ashen. The furrows in his forehead deepened, his eyes fixed, and his upper lip slowly rose over his front teeth, unveiling the signature half snarl, half smile.

Dead Elvis had made an appearance only the day before, during Stage 12, on an eight-mile climb to La Mongie. The ascent saw Armstrong put some distance on his rivals, but he was unable to shake 26-year-old Italian rider Ivan Basso, who won the stage over a visibly exhausted champion. There was also French upstart Thomas Voeckler, of the Brioches la Boulangère team, a previously unknown 25-year-old who’d tenaciously held the yellow jersey for the past eight days and now led Armstrong by 5:24 overall. Alongside Voeckler rode German powerhouse Jan Ullrich, of T-Mobile, gritty American Tyler Hamilton, of Phonak, and the slashing Iban Mayo, a Basque rider from Euskaltel-Euskadi. Ahead of them stood that day’s test, 127 miles, seven major ascents, and one question: Which face would Armstrong show?

In the exclusive area outside the team bus, the place known as the Dude and Bro Clubhouse, the mood seemed oddly peaceful, an atmosphere that was helped by the presence of children. These were not ordinary children, of course. They were Dude-Kids and Bro-Kids, the progeny of clubhouse regulars, including the heads of multi-million-dollar corporations. The area in front of the bus had been transformed into a playground presided over by den mother Juanita Cuervo, the name Armstrong had given to girlfriend Sheryl Crow (cuervo is Spanish for “crow”).

“And what’s your name?” Crow asked one shy Dude-Kid of about 11 wearing a Postal hat and a yellow jersey that fit him like a kimono.

“Davey.”

Crow leaned over, friendly-aunt style. Davey looked up. She was dressed in a sleeveless baby-blue tank top and flared jeans with buckskin laces up the sides of the legs. The Dude-Kid stared down her shirt. Crow didn’t seem to notice.

“Whaddya think of all this?” she asked.

Davey gazed.

“It’s really cool,” he said.

Crow gave a beneficent smile and tousled Davey’s hair. They were here on a perfect Tour de France day, sunny and hot, in yet another picturesque gingerbread French town—or at least they could imagine it was picturesque somewhere beyond this parking lot jammed with sweating French people and packs of sticky-fingered trolls—Armstrong’s term for the sneaky lowlifes who try to pull him down into the muck of scandal and disrepute. But that was OK, because the clubhouse was about imagination.

All around, invisible and marvelous things were happening, signs were appearing. Will Smith was due at some point, along with Perry Farrell, the rock singer, and rap impresario Dr. Dre. Clubhouse regular Robin Williams would parachute in any second now, along with Julian Serrano, the chef from Bellagio in Vegas, and Frank Marshall, who was producing the Armstrong biopic, the same guy who did Seabiscuit. More Americans were showing up every minute, bearing flags and ball caps and yellow bracelets, ready to howl and shout and taste history. It was flowing, all the fame and heroism and subterranean rivers of money, and, as Davey said, it felt really cool.

It felt even cooler when Armstrong strode down the steps of the bus. He went right to the kids, did some handshaking, did a quick interview with the media horde, and then set about eyeing his seat, adjusting it by a micrometer as Crow and Davey looked on. A kiss for luck and he took off on his bike, pulling what his support staff liked to call “the Batman Move,” rolling silkily through the crowds, escorted by his bodyguards Serge and Erwin. There was a lightness to Armstrong’s manner, a casualness that the pantomiming soigneurs, who do massage, fill water bottles, and take care of Tour logistics, knew meant one thing: This was the day of the knife.

Physically, Stage 13 would be the Tour’s nastiest day; Armstrong’s goal was to make it the nastiest psychologically as well. To do so, Postal decided they would ride in front the entire race, sheltering Armstrong until his signature attack on the final climb. During Stage 12, he had begun to defeat their bodies. Today, Armstrong would try to take their minds.

(continue reading at Outside Online)

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