After all the hoopla, seems a given Lance did it too. Was a ringleader in fact, a godfather. A slippery dick.
Side question, why do the pop-culture-scandal interviews go to the ladies? Is it the Madonna mothering thing, soft and emotive, asking questions through kohl rimmed eyes? No disrespect, but we need another Mike Wallace (even my beloved, our-love-could-never-be Anderson Cooper I prefer to watch giggling through the fluffier pieces).
Maybe he lays blame on a god complex; the man beat cancer, an aggressive cancer, lived through and past it. It made him a icon, a touchstone for so many others. That attention, that struggle, that redemption could leave one feeling a bit immortal, somewhat untouchable.
Was it simply ego? Athletes (from casual yogi to gym rat) tend to have huge ones because it hurts so damn much, Goliath facing down legs that burn and lungs full of air on fire. The worst barking encouragement I hear from trainers and coaches as the fatigue sets in is, "You can do anything for one—or two or three—minutes." No. I can’t remain airborne or put my feet behind my head. Or watch old people porn or sit on a hot stove. So says my super ego.
We like our heroes, embrace those who do more than we dream for ourselves while sitting back watching, and find space to forgive because the redemptive comeback story is just as good. Lance stayed golden and Teflon while his peers and teammates were swallowed up whole by their truth. But, as it's told, he did it through intimidation and bullying. He hurt both foes and friends and left a lot of collateral damage. Tyler and Floyd and Levi. The Andreu’s and the LeMond’s.
And maybe tonight we’ll finally get to the bottom of that whole Sheryl Crow thing.