Ftrain, by Paul Ford

Sometimes on the bridges with their slow grade as I bicycle at my diminished speed I have conversations with myself regarding Lance Armstrong. I do not have conversations with an imagined Lance Armstrong, as that would be presumptuous. But I imagine what his legs would make of this gentle slope, over which I am struggling. He would nearly float, nearly fly. When he needs to train he goes to the Appalachian mountains and rides kilomiles. I see him flying in front of me. He's only in view for about five seconds. His helmet becomes a dot. Then the chase car catches runs me over.

The difference between what I am doing with a bicycle and what he does is unbridgeable. Couldn't be greater. We're almost back-to-back with the whole world's diameter between us. A great circle. I should be--and am--focused on steady, healthy motion of the limbs, on growing into my shrinking body. But as the archetypal great cyclist he keeps popping up in my head. Perhaps its the nearly infinite reach of his online presence, which seems to be all over calorie counters and fitness calculators throughout the web. To lose weight in 2009 is to be aware of Lance Armstrong.

But whatever the reasons, I find myself, sometimes, comparing myself, with my heap of abdominal fat, to one of the world history's great athletes, and feeling the distance between us as a failure. It's not productive. I think things like: Perhaps there is some genetic miracle lurking within me and I'll become one of those late-in-life champions. Or: Lance Armstrong wouldn't have anything like this thigh pain. Or: I wonder what the Times will write about my weight loss. I am surprised and amused by the trivial fantasies of success that lurk within me. I am searching for humility but keep coming up with venality, and vanity.

Did you know that Lance Armstrong's heart beats only 32 times a minute? Such is the force of his blood. He could power a man four times his size. Perhaps I am that man! Who knows what lurks under my wattles? He is also famous because he went to the abyss and faced darkness, the sort of thing that kills almost everyone, and came back with extraordinary grace and bravery. I am discussing here his engagement to Sheryl Crow. He also had cancer, not just any cancer but cancer with inspirational documentary footage and backing strings and a triumphant return. Basically take the first half of Brian's Song and the second half of Breaking Away and you have the biopic.

From his website:

Cancer left him scarred physically and emotionally, but he now maintains that it was "the best thing that ever happened to me."

That thing. You are obliterated and must be rebuilt from the ground up. The new creature is better than the old one, more at peace, kinder, worthier. It accepts its limits and works with them, turns them to assets. Goes for massages, enjoys a glass of wine, chooses. Has pets. You love the new creature, with its social utility, far more. And thus the transformative event is the best thing to ever happen to you. Why does it take death to make us want to be better?

I know nothing about cycling. I did watch The Triplets of Belleville. Do racing bikes have gears? How many? Five? Hundreds? They seem to have brakes. The sport seems to involve a lot of yellow, and wobbling, and very little body fat. The man who brings up the rear of the Tour de France is called the Red Lantern, Lanterne Rouge. We are told of him in the newspapers and we laugh a little. Oh, poor Red Lantern! And the Red Lantern, interviewed, says, "well, it's good to be here in the race." And we chuckle knowingly. That poor bastard! Except he has kicked all of our asses. Being the Red Lantern is a fine thing (except for your testicles). You are still an extraordinary athlete. Your parents are still proud. Girls still want to go out with you. You never have to date Sheryl Crow, a punishment reserved only for winners. Sure, we care more about the winners. I do. You wouldn't like this blog if I wasn't losing the weight, you hypocrites.

There's a fear in my imaginary conversations. God help me if I ever had to talk to Lance Armstrong in life. Or Steve Jobs. Or Bono. These are people with whom I sometimes am thrust into imaginary conversations and the conversations always end badly (not unlike the way Chris Farley used to interview people). Everyone is uncomfortable until the assistant yells, "You've got a 2 o'clock." I don't want to waste anyone's time and most likely I can find out everything I need to know via web search; and the things that interest me are likely to be of no interest to them. Actually, the only person in the world I truly would enjoy meeting, I believe, is B-- K--, who runs the Internet Archive. He's up to stuff. I hope to God I never have to meet Lance Armstrong. That would be an awful lot of humility to muster.

Weight: 296.5 lbs