Been puzzling over how to feel about Lance Armstrong. And the only word that’s approaching any kind of accuracy and truth for those feelings is: numb.
I don’t feel much of anything about it. It’s just what’s next. The coverage comes at me like a rogue wave but somehow I remain impervious, my little vessel soundly sailing, unfettered by its size and potential. By next week, the wave will have made so little impression on me, I will have forgotten ever flinching as I glimpsed it over the horizon.
I mean, I’m not a bag of rocks. I feel stuff. Like he’s a lying douchebag. Like, his poor family. Like, I feel bad for what his heart looks like. Like if bullying were water, Lance would be the Indian Ocean. Like, doesn’t Buzz Bissinger feel like a monumental horse’s ass for that Newsweek cover story? Like, wouldn’t it suck to never be able to wear yellow again, ever? Like, this all started over cycling right? Like…cycling? But also like we’re (you and me) kind of to blame for creating a culture where a man has to go to the far edge of dishonestly and barbarism just to win a bike race, dupe us about what he had to do to win because we pushed him beyond reason into an unachievable athletic super-stratosphere that was always more hypothetical than we cared to admit, have us be happily duped about both pushing him that far and it being part of the reason he had to dupe us in the first place, have him publicly flay and take legal action against anyone who would claim that there was duping going on when all parties pretty much knew there was even if they didn’t want to believe it, then, way too late for it to matter, watch in “shock” as he pretends to set himself on fire in front of the big O as a bizarre form of catharsis that, in its mixture of faux and actual sincerity and the impossibility of discerning the two in Lance’s horrible eyes, approaches catastrophic levels of weirdness and toxicity.
You couldn’t make this stuff up.