Today, during my morning meditation, random as it seems, I forgave Lance Armstrong. I suspect there are visions of me all zened up in tree pose, tears of amnesty streaming from my pores in the form of cranberry Kombucha.
The stone-cold reality is that I was amped up on my third cup of coffee and had already Wordled (four tries,) done The NYT Mini Crossword, (2:18,) and finished my daily Duolingo lesson to keep my streak going. My caffeinated contemplation was hitting my veins in rapid bursts. I was thinking about chances, won, and wasted, and my mind jumped to Lance and how he broke my heart.
Back in the day, when Armstrong was king, I followed the sport of cycling with starry eyed affection. I wore a Livestrong bracelet even though yellow makes my complexion appear as though I’ve turned jaundice after sunning under a convenience store food lamp. I toted around his book, Not About the Bike, and read passages out loud to innocent listeners. I’m not kidding here, I took the feet hips’ width, chin lifted stance and read aloud to others like it was life’s playbook. It was the overarching platitude that a champion cyclist would write that it wasn’t about the thing upon which he rode that thrilled my soul.
In Julys past, during Tour de France, I watched him adorned in the coveted maillot jaune, ascending the Pyrenes like a two-wheeled boss. I screamed at the TV, “Ride that bike, Texas.” Sometimes I threw in a gleeful “yee haw” for good measure.
There were accusations of doping and Lance said, “No, no, no.”
I had his back. “No, no, no.”
In succinct sentences – here’s how the story unraveled –
He doped.
He won.
He lied.
The lies were uncovered.
He lost his seven titles.
He went on Oprah and sort of apologized. (Who picks apart the definition of the word cheat and decides that it might not be applicable to a given situation? A cheater.)
I watched his interview and felt all the feels as I beheld the swagger of a champion replaced by cagey arrogance. I turned off the TV and sat in quiet, listening to my heart crack.
Indeed, it wasn’t about the bike. I thought he made it to the top with pure grit and determination. I thought he trained harder and wanted it more and ascended to the pinnacle of his sport against the odds. I thought if he could do it, then maybe I had a shot at that same rise from ground level to Alps in my own life.
I thought his battle with cancer and his southern code of conduct made him different, less tempted, less pulled toward the dizzying attraction of winning at any cost. I thought he said no, no, no to performance enhancing cocktail needles.
When Lance tumbled down in the wake of his mistakes those who believed in him fell too. We dropped down flights of stairs to the lobby of disappointment. What I took most personally was at the core of the matter; I thought Lance was one of us.
It always hurts more when there’s alignment with the guilty, when one sees an image in another’s mirror and the reflection resembles self.
I’ve reconciled what, how, and why of Lance Armstrong’s offenses. It’s my understanding that the main reason that he stopped fighting the accusations of doping related back to his former teammates’ willingness to testify on behalf of his guilt. I don’t think he was a scapegoat by any means, but he went down hard on lots of levels, as did my worship. Something about Lance Armstrong turned me into a skeptic.
What made me think of Lance is my reluctant, yet budding, crush on Sean of the South. (I should know better, but here we are.) He’s a writer, musician, and storyteller. He’s the real deal, not like Smokin Hot Love Biscuit, who is the ULTIMATE REAL DEAL, but I like Sean Dietrich and his work.
I read Sean’s blog, his books, get tickled at his shenanigans on social media. I’m a fan. He’s going to be at the Grand Ole Opry in a few weeks, which is real BIG deal, because, well, because he’s one of us. I’m rooting for him with starry eyed affection. Without even asking if it’s okay, I’ve built a scaffolding of expectation and hoisted him upon it.
Sean of the South may or may not have a restraining order against me due to the awkward note I sent him. Said correspondence reflects my long-suffering disorder that causes inept usage of the internet.
Ugh.
Below is my unedited message. It remains unanswered.
Dear Sean, I am over the top excited for you about your upcoming performance at The Opry. I am cheering for you. I would have hightailed it from NC to TN if I weren’t already committed to run a 100-mile relay with a bunch of crazy women in the Outer Banks. Lots of people think we should meet – not in a match.com way as you have Miss Jamie and I have SHLB, rather in a writerly way. Perhaps we could build a kinship as I aspire toward what you have built and view you as someone who holds the lantern for others. Fondly, Emily
Funny, (not funny,) thing about online communication is that once I hit enter on the message match.com lit up like a Time’s Square billboard. It looked as though I was sending Sean of the South (who is freshly forty years old,) a personal invitation to match. Holy no, no, no.
I followed the message with –
Not sure why that match.com thing popped up.
Delete that part, please.
Ugh.
Crickets from Sean. Lord have mercy, who would blame him? Cra-cra lady from North Carolina up in his grill, trying to hitch her wagon to his Opry train.
Despite my starry eyes, I don’t anticipate Sean to plummet as Lance did. I don’t see him on Super Soul Sunday confessing wrongdoings or doping scandals to a head tilted to one side in full out empathy mode Oprah. I think he’ll keep on writing his words and playing his guitar, spreading good. I don’t think he’ll succumb to corruption or let fame change him. I just don’t see it. But I’m casting a protective prayer over him anyways, as shadows are a part of life, as are the rises and falls of good and bad, the perpetual alternating of amazing and awful, keeping us on our toes and our toes on the ground.
And just as I’m hoping Sean cuts me some slack for my match.com note, I decided I should get out my mercy scissors too. I’m starting with Lance and going down the list.
It’s the human condition that creates the universal one of us.
You are less predictable than Sean, I like that about you. Enjoy your writing.
I know. I’ve had some oh-my,can I recall that…
It’s human..it’s the recovery and the Grace from which we do so..that’s the fun learning..you are very good at that. Just an opinion..;-)