MUSIC, TREE, HILL

One Tree Hill

It still looks pretty much the same as it did back in 1987, except for the thick
wire cables that now stretch in all directions from the top of the tree in an
attempt to prolong its life. All this as a result of a senseless act of
vandalism. More on that later...

One Tree Hill is so named after a lonely pine tree that grows on the summit of
one of the volcanic cones that are dotted all over the city of Auckland. These
cones were natural sites for pas, or fortified Maori settlements. Fierce
inter-tribal conflict in the 1820s led to there being little organized Maori
resistance to European settlement, and by 1840 the British had either beaten or
bought out (generally for a few trinkets) the Maoris.

The summit of One Tree Hill is the burial site of one of Auckland's 'founding'
fathers, Sir John Campbell, who played an important part in the city's early
development.

One Tree Hill has become an Auckland landmark. The distinctive, lone pine and
adjacent monument can be seen from many parts of the city, and the summit is very
popular as a tourist lookout.

The U2 connection:

In 1985, U2 met a New Zealand Maori by the name of Greg Carroll. He worked as a
roadie for the band on the New Zealand gigs and made quite an impression. Paul
McGuinness was one of the many who were impressed, and he suggested that they
invite Greg to Australia for the next part of the tour. It just went on from
there. He ended up working for the band in Dublin and became very close to them
(particularly to Bono) during that time.

On a wet Dublin day in 1986, Greg was running an errand on Bono's Harley. He
collided with a car and was killed instantly. This, of course, devastated the
entire U2 camp. The sense of loss for Bono was immense. Both he and Larry
attended the Maori funeral (Tangi) for Greg in Wanganui, New Zealand.

Greg had spoken keenly to Bono about One Tree Hill the first time they met. I'm
not sure at what point after Greg's death that the song was written, but I've
been told that some of it - possibly the coda (Oh, great ocean...) - was sung at
his Tangi. I could be wrong, so don't quote me on it.

During the U2 press conference which took place at Auckland airport in 1989, when
U2 were here in New Zealand for the Love Town tour, Bono talked somewhat uneasily
about the background to the song:

Press: "Can you tell us about One Tree Hill? What was the motivation [for]
where that song came from; what it's about?"

With a look of anxiety on his face, Bono attempts an answer. "Again, ya know,
it's hard to have sex in public - it's also hard to talk about things, arr..."
He suddenly thinks about what he's said and realizes the faux pas. "Actually
it's...", the press gallery now joins in on the joke as Bono thinks about how to
get out of it. He adds, "depending on your point of view!" to much laughter from
the media.

He gets serious again and continues, "One Tree Hill - we were there last night,
actually, [the] four of us just got up there but, ah... - It was the first night
we came into New Zealand [in 1984]. We went, ah - I actually couldn't sleep and
I met some people who also couldn't sleep who were hangin' in the hotel, and they
took me up to One Tree Hill. So I associate it with the first night. And also,
it was the first conversation I had with Greg Carroll - was about One Tree Hill
and what it was, a symbol for the Maori people, and the like."

It is obvious that Bono does not want to dwell on the painful past, and he seems
to be searching for a quick way out. He finds it by simply adding, "And it's
now... a song."

We turn away to face the cold, enduring chill
As the day begs the night for mercy love
The sun so bright it leaves no shadows
Only scars
Carved into stone
On the face of earth
The moon is up and over One Tree Hill
We see the sun go down in your eyes

You run like river, on like a sea
You run like a river runs to the sea

And in the world a heart of darkness
A fire zone
Where poets speak their heart
Then bleed for it
Jara sang - his song a weapon
In the hands of love
You know his blood still cries
From the ground

It runs like a river runs to the sea
It runs like a river to the sea

I don't believe in painted roses
Or bleeding hearts
While bullets rape the night of the merciful
I'll see you again
When the stars fall from the sky
And the moon has turned red
Over One Tree Hill

We run like a river
Run to the sea
We run like a river to the sea
And when it's raining
Raining hard
That's when the rain will
Break my heart

Raining...raining in the heart
Raining in your heart
Raining...raining to your heart
Raining, raining...raining
Raining to your heart
Raining...raining in your heart
Raining in your heart..
To the sea

Oh great ocean
Oh great sea
Run to the ocean
Run to the sea

VOCABULARY BUILDING

Words of the day:

unctuous: characterized by affected, exaggerated, or insincere earnestness

uxorious: excessively submissive or devoted to one's wife

solipsistic: the theory that the self is the only thing that can be known and verified

impecunious: lacking money; penniless

predilection: an established preference

verisimilitude: the quality of seeming to be true

vertiginous: causing dizziness; also, giddy; dizzy

anodyne: serving to relieve pain

schadenfreude: a malicious satisfaction in the misfortunes of others

obsequious: servilely attentive; fawning

MUSIC

The Arcade Fire

The story the Arcade Fire tell on Funeral starts in the middle, in mid-sentence, a sign that the story is bigger than the music, began before it, and will continue after it. Maybe it is the middle of the night. Certainly the music seems to have just woken up. It floats in from far away: some strings, then fingers wandering across piano keys, looking for the way, before an electric guitar-distant and buzzing through a wide, empty space-clears the way for Win Butler. He is alone in a world of darkness and winter, talking about what he's seen and how it feels: " . . . and if the snow buries my, my neighborhood/And if my parents are crying, then I'll dig a tunnel from my window to yours."

"Neighborhood #1 (Tunnels)" may be a dream, or it may be the reality of winter in Montreal, where it can snow six months a year, and where underground tunnels connect downtown. As the music heats up, what comes next is part fairy tale, part parable: a girl climbs out her chimney, meets Butler in the center of the city. They let their hair grow long, they live in the snow, their skin gets thick. She is the golden hymn in his head, the song he's been reaching for. They have babies but have forgotten how to name them. Instead, they have only memories, the memories of the bedrooms of those who are gone: parents, friends, the image of those bedrooms in their minds, clear as can be. Funeral is a remarkable record, hard to hear at first, then hard to stop hearing. It is an indie-rock cause célèbre, fiercely praised, defended, and protected, most visibly by the impassioned bloggers who are transfixed by both the disarming sincerity of the record's artistic ambitions and the septet's wild live shows-neither unusual in indie land-and Funeral's backstory, which is.

In the time leading up to its release, the band members lost two grandparents and an aunt. They found themselves constantly at memorial services, and then they found that their songs were a way to transmute their grief. Funeral returns continually to death-even the album closer, about looking out at the countryside from the backseat of a car-but also to religion, love, babies, kids playing in the snow, and community. The music-mostly recorded at Hotel2Tango, a proudly analog studio in Montreal's former Jewish ghetto that gave Funeral's songs living, breathing presence-is as emotionally unfettered as it is carefully constructed. It reaches back to '80s bands like the Cure, Echo & the Bunnymen, the Violent Femmes, and Jane's Addiction, who strummed their way through catharsis after catharsis, a sound that has become in recent years a new classicism. The Arcade Fire stretch that sound until it is both older and newer, shading it with the gloom of folk songs and the yowling urgency of indie rock. Arcade Fire songs are often called "operatic," possibly because they are full of old-world touches like violin, viola, accordion, and xylophone, and possibly because they can be oddly decentered, swelling and shifting with an oceanic pulse, spreading out as far as the eye can see, then leaping into furious rock codas at will. The vocal melodies tend toward chants, yelps, and incantations.

As much as the talk about death and bad weather and the darkness being chased away by light that pours out of our eyes, our hearts, our hands, what gives the Arcade Fire their singular charge is that they practice what they preach: family and community. Butler, a former religious-studies major, married singer and multi-instrumentalist Régine Chassagne last August, a month before Funeral was released. Butler's younger brother, Will, plays bass. In a way that every band can, the Arcade Fire provide a community for their fans, who can find in both the album packaging-quaint illustrations that evoke the 19th century-and in lyrics like "there's some spirit I used to know, that's been drowned out by the radio" typical indie invocations of the homespun and the handmade as ways of fighting off alienation. But the Arcade Fire also offer something deeper: an example of how to navigate the complexities, good and bad, that life inevitably throws at you as you get older. Death. Marriage. Children. A way of making a future. Not an easy one. "If the children don't grow up," cries Butler on Funeral's anthemic "Wake Up," "our bodies get bigger but our hearts get torn up." He sounds so wide open to his pain he could be John Lennon circa Plastic Ono Band, finally acknowledging that his fans were in effect his own kids.

"LITERATURE"

Ayn Rand's books were favourites of mine while I was a teenager, Fountainhead and We the Living especially. One of these days, I'd like to reread them to see what I think now.

From The New York Sun:

To call Ayn Rand, the high priestess of the human will, a mere force of nature would to her have been an insult as well as a cliche. But how else to describe this extraordinary, maddening, and indestructible individual? Born a century ago this year into the flourishing bourgeoisie of glittering, doomed St. Petersburg, Alisa Zinovyevna Rosenbaum was to triumph over revolution, civil war, Lenin's dictatorship, an impoverished immigrant existence, and bad reviews in the New York Times to become a strangely important figure in the history of American ideas.

Even the smaller details of Rand's life come with the sort of epic implausibility found in - oh, an Ayn Rand novel. On her first day of looking for work in Hollywood, who gives her a lift in his car? Cecil B. DeMille. Of course he does. Frank Lloyd Wright designs a house for her. Years later, when she's famous, the sage of selfishness, ensconced in her Murray Hill eyrie, a young fellow by the name of Alan Greenspan becomes a member of the slightly creepy set that sits at the great woman's feet. Apparently he went on to achieve some prominence in later life. To Rand, none of this would really have mattered (well, the fame was nice). To her, an intensely Russian intellectual despite everything, it was ideas that counted. They were everything. When, after nearly 50 years, her beloved long-lost youngest sister, Nora, made it over from the USSR, they promptly fell out - over politics, naturally. Poor Nora was on her way within six weeks, back to the doubtless more easygoing embrace of Leonid Brezhnev.

Scarred by her Soviet experiences, Rand was a woman on a mission. She couldn't stop: not for her sister, not for anyone. She had plenty to say, and she said it - again, and again, and again. She wrote, she lectured, she hectored, she harangued. Words flowed, how they flowed, too much sometimes, too insistent often, but infinitely preferable to the silence of the Soviet Union that she had left behind. And somehow her work has endured in the country she made her own. Her creed of ego and laissez-faire, and the reception it won, was one of the more interesting - and encouraging - cultural phenomena of mid-20th-century America. It has persisted, lasting longer, even, than the vast, daunting paragraphs that mark her prose style. Just over a decade ago, "Atlas Shrugged" (1957) was voted Americans' most influential novel in a joint poll conducted by the Book-of-the-Month club and the Library of Congress.

Hers is a remarkable story, and I find it curious that one of the only publications being brought out to commemorate the 100th-birthday girl - besides new printings of the novels by Plume - is Jeff Britting's new, very very brief account (Overlook Duckworth, 144 pages, $19.95). The latest in the series of Overlook Illustrated Lives, it's too short to do Rand much justice; any reader already familiar with Rand's life won't learn much. Biographies in this series are intended as overviews rather than something more comprehensive. The author is an archivist at the Ayn Rand institute, the associate producer of an Oscar-nominated documentary about Rand, and obviously a keeper of the flame. Thus Mr. Britting has little to say about the romantic entanglements, more Peyton Place than Galt's Gulch, that devastated Rand's circle in later years. Most notably, Rand had an affair with her chosen intellectual heir, Nathaniel Brandon. While both Rand's husband and the wife of the intellectual heir agreed (sort of) to this arrangement, it added further emotional complications to what was, given Rand's prominence, a surprisingly hermetic, claustrophobic little world, one best described in "The Passion of Ayn Rand" (Bantam Dell) - the compelling, and sympathetic, biography of Rand written by, yes, the intellectual heir's ex-wife. As I said, Peyton Place. Closed, neurotic environments filled with true believers are the hallmark of a cult, and there's a good case to be made that that's exactly what Rand was running. Take a look at the way in which she treated her acolytes: angry excommunications, overbearing diktats, dramatic interventions, and, disappointing in one who preached self-determination, rather too much fuhrer prinzip.

The cult-or-not controversy goes unmentioned in Mr. Britting's book. What a reader will find, particularly in the excellent selection of illustrations, is a real sense of how Rand's life related to her novels. One glance at her Hollywood-handsome husband, and the rugged succession of steely supermen who dominate her fiction make more sense ("All my heroes will always be reflections of Frank"). Rand herself, alas, was no beauty; her glorious heroines, ridiculously gorgeous, impossibly named, remarkably lithe, are less the template for - as some allege - a sinister eugenic agenda than the stuff of Ayn's randy dreams garnished with a dollop of Art Deco kitsch. The first, extraordinarily violent, coupling in "The Fountainhead" of Howard Roark with Dominique Francon is not a general prescription for the relationship between the sexes but merely Rand's own erotic fantasy ("wishful thinking," she once announced, to the cheers of a delighted crowd). Likewise, her sometimes-overwrought style is no more than - well, judge this sentence from "Atlas Shrugged" for yourself: "She looked at the lone straight shaft of the Taggart Building rising in the distance - and then she thought she understood: these people hated Jim because they envied him." Call Dr. Freud. If sex in Rand's fiction can be savage, so is argument. Her sagas deal in moral absolutes, her protagonists are the whitest of knights or the blackest of villains, caricatures of good or evil lacking the shadings of gray that make literature, and life, so interesting. Yet "Atlas Shrugged" and "The Fountainhead," at least, have a wild, lunatic verve that sweeps all before them. Like Busby Berkeley, the Chrysler Building, or a Caddy with fins, they are aesthetic disasters, very American aesthetic disasters, which somehow emerge as something rather grand.

There is plenty in Rand to make a modern reader queasy, though you would not know so from Mr. Britting's worshipful text. For example, there is something to the claim that like so many of the intellectuals, left or right, of her time she succumbed to the cruder forms of social Darwinism. For a woman who worshiped man, Rand did not always seem that fond of mankind. But the accusation by Whittaker Chambers in National Review that there was a whiff of the gas chamber about her writings is wrong. Rand lived in an era of stark ideological choices; to argue in muted, reasonable tones was to lose the debate. As a graduate of Lenin's Russia, she knew that the stakes were high, and how effective good propaganda could be. Rand's nonfiction may have a greater claim to intellectual respectability, but it was the lurid, occasionally harsh, simplicities of her novels that would deliver her message to the mass audience she believed was out there. She was right. Her key insight was to realize that there was an appetite among Americans for a moral case for capitalism. In a restless age that believed in the Big Answer, neither historical tradition nor utilitarian notions of efficiency would suffice. Ayn Rand gave Americans that case, perhaps not the best case, but a case, and she knew how to sell it.

The establishment always disapproved. Critics sneered. Academics jeered. The publishers Macmillan turned down "Anthem" (1938), saying that Rand, a refugee from the Soviet Union, "did not understand socialism." Oh, but she did, and so did those millions of Americans who bought her books, books that played their part in ensuring that the dull orthodoxies of collectivism never prevailed here. The last image in Mr. Britting's biography is of an exultant Rand speaking at a conference in New Orleans in 1981, the final public appearance of this magnificent, brilliant oddball. Her hosts tried to lure her there with the promise of payment in gold coins and travel in a private rail car. Needless to say, she accepted.



THE COMPLETE CARTOONS OF THE NEW YORKER
Edited by Robert Mankoff.
656 pp.
Black Dog & Leventhal Publishers.
$60.

Now that America's urbane sophisticates have had to acknowledge their status as a fringe group so out of touch with mainstream moral values, tournament bass fishing, Nascar and Christian rock that their electoral and cultural clout is marginally less than that of Casper, Wyo., legions of self-doubting highbrows are asking themselves how this decline into decadence occurred. Because of what enfeebling bad habit did the proud and potent thinking class that gave us F.D.R. and J.F.K. fade into a cynical, ironic, smirking bunch of spiritual weaklings headed up by Al Franken and Michael Moore? Was the problem attending movies instead of church? Deserting Burger King for Whole Foods Market? No, I've concluded. The blame lies elsewhere. The seduction of America's elites by the vices of humanism and skepticism can only be blamed on the New Yorker cartoon, an agent of corruption more insidious than LSD or the electric guitar.

For proof of this theory, please obtain and study ''The Complete Cartoons of The New Yorker,'' a coffee-table book so broad and thick that it doesn't need a table under it because it's its own table -- just bolt on legs. And the book might have been even larger, its editor, Robert Mankoff, writes. Of more than 68,000 pieces of art that could have been included in its pages, only about 2,000 have been printed on paper, while the rest are reproduced on two CD's attached to the inside of the front cover. The book is an astonishing object, still. The thought that all (or even just all the best) New Yorker cartoons can be gathered in one volume means that the set isn't infinite after all. It's like finding out there are only so many sad songs or only so many attractive blondes.

The subversion of ruling-class piety by wit dates back to the mid 1920's and a cartoon by Peter Arno, the form's first master. A scantily-dressed flapper with heels like black daggers, endless legs and perfect posterior cleavage is pressing herself into the padded abdomen of a stuffy older gentleman in tails. He's dancing, but she's on the verge of copulating. ''Good God, woman! Think of the social structure!'' Funny? Sort of. Not really. It's something else; a smirky, gently cynical something else that will characterize the form for decades to come, right up until the present. The key phrase in this instance is ''social structure,'' of course, which the fellow has presumably picked up from some asinine conversation at his club or some best-selling history of Western Man, and the key visual detail is his mustache, so walrusy and pompous and well-brushed. The girl stands for jazzy Freudian libido, the man for repressed Victorian lust. Hers is the irresistible new attitude, and all the old gent can do to hold it off -- in her, but chiefly in himself -- is sputter high-minded jargon.

By the 1930's and 40's, the New Yorker cartoon had adopted two basic modes. First, it made fun of its readers' aspirations -- social, intellectual, economic and romantic -- by satirizing their language, their professions, their pastimes, their dress and their physical mannerisms. This was the humor of self-recognition, but also of self-congratulation, since a fool who can laugh at his folly is not a fool but something rarer and finer: a self-ironist. Under drawings of dance parties, cruise ships, tennis matches, clothing stores and theaters the artists set captions -- usually bits of dialogue -- that showed up their speakers as posing, posturing, preening, pedantic pretenders. James Thurber, whose influential innovation was to draw as crudely as a 5-year-old, making only the most cursory effort to individualize his figures (because, really, why bother; we're all just talking apes), gives us two couples seated at a table, holding up glasses of dark liquid. The fanciest of the drinkers -- he wears a bow tie -- says: ''It's a naïve domestic Burgundy without any breeding, but I think you'll be amused by its presumption.'' Thus did the wine snob get his donkey tail, and his kind has worn it ever since.

The second, less common species of cartoon relied more heavily on visual gags and traded in featherweight absurdism. Two politicians and an engineer stand at the edge of a massive and sweeping Western dam. ''The other side!'' one of the politicians bellows. ''The water's supposed to be on the other side.'' In a mute, seven-panel sketch by Otto Soglow, a generic male figure appears first in a crib, then in a playpen, then behind various grates and fences, and then, in the next-to-last image, inside a bank cage under a sign: ''Receiving Teller.'' The motif of bold vertical lines pays off with a picture of the poor everyman in jail, probably as punishment for embezzlement, the sole act of rebellion in his dry and pent-up life.

Toward the 50's this second, more graphic, laconic style started to predominate. The captions got shorter, or vanished altogether, while the drawings grew louder, cuter, trickier. The Jazz Age, its Great Depression hangover and World War II were all behind the country, and the cartoons seemed to lack a subject for a while, substituting trickiness for punch. This enervated spirit of the early cold war is crystallized in a creation by Chon Day: A pudgy, tie-wearing nonentity of a man holds a pistol to one side of his head while plugging a finger in his opposite ear. He doesn't want to hear the shot, he doesn't really want to fire the shot -- he just wants a respite, a little peace. He's spent. (The cartoon rather closely reprises an earlier piece done by Saul Steinberg in 1946 that shows another suited sad sack aiming a revolver not at his temple but at an apple perched on his bald scalp.)

The morbid streak that emerged around this time made a pop-culture sensation of Charles Addams. Memories of ''The Addams Family,'' the campy TV show spun off from his work, make it hard to assess his cartoons' original impact. They certainly didn't resemble their predecessors. To begin with, they were darker in hue, their objects and characters often framed in a barren, timeless gloom that's closer to Sartre and Beckett than Hollywood horror films. Instead of the dapper, devilish good fun offered by the TV show, a disquieting cruelty keeps cropping up. In a 1949 cartoon, an automobile pulling a travel trailer is parked alongside a high, sheer cliff. A man in a raincoat stands next to the car, facing the trailer's door, which faces the cliff. ''Oh, darling,'' he says, ''can you step out for a moment?'' Gothic fun-house spookiness? Not quite. The tone of blandly vicious marital malice feels troublingly real. By dividing the collection into decades that begin and end at the five-year mark, and by adding brief topical and historical essays, the editor seeks to convince us that the cartoons represent a progression of some sort linked to current events and social trends. One of the better essays, by John Updike (the other two good ones are Calvin Trillin's and Ian Frazier's), notes a lag between the subjects of the cartoons and the headlines of the day, particularly in regard to heated issues such as civil rights. In the decade from 1955 to 1964, Updike observes, only one cartoon features a black face.

That's more than a lag; it suggests that the cartoons were, for the most part, a refuge from reality -- or an antidote, like a stiff cocktail -- rather than a trailing reflection. Just because more and more drawings included TV sets and other period accouterments doesn't mean they engaged the the larger culture at any interesting level -- with some exceptions. One work of art, yes, art, by William Steig (who, with Steinberg, was one of the magazine's licensed weirdos) uses shaky psychedelic lines that thin and thicken and curl around themselves to give us a lumpy, not-quite-human creature standing glumly under a tall flower. ''The Burden of Self-Consciousness.'' It's perfect. It levels the era's turtlenecked existentialism with one decisive comic blow, but after its point is made it keeps on moving, burrowing through the eye to the subconscious and lodging there like an abstract parasite. Depending on the reader's age, a point will come in the book when the cartoons stop representing The New Yorker's history, let alone American society's, and start recalling bits of his own life. For me, this happened on Page 382 with a William Hamilton cartoon from 1972. I was 9 years old when I first saw it, growing up in a Minnesota village that had changed in four or five short years from a sleepy ma-and-pa farm town to a hip colony for outdoorsy Twin City professionals. This new crowd, which included my parents, was on a tear just then, drinking, dancing and divorcing. When my parents threw one of their smoky, noisy parties (many featuring fondue) a terrible sense of moral peril floated upstairs to my bedroom. Please save us, God. My fear that my family, and all of civilization, was about to collapse in some swinging, groovy orgy that would leave me and all other young children homeless merged somehow with certain objects: the bottle of Smirnoff vodka in our pantry, the copy of ''The Happy Hooker'' in my father's sock drawer and, most frightening of all, the stack of magazines beside the toilet in our downstairs bathroom.

I'd opened one of them once and seen a drawing -- angular, snappy and very mod in precisely the manner I found so menacing -- of a strange man and a woman seated in a restaurant in front of a crowded, lively bar. The man had long hair, big glasses, a droopy mustache and a flowery wide tie. The woman had a plume of frizzy hair, chunky earrings and startlingly thin arms. He was leaning back, smoking. She was drinking wine. She was saying something, but I didn't get the joke. It hardly mattered. The picture's feeling, its vibe, was disturbing enough. It haunted me. Seeing it again, I got the chills. (''It's hard to believe,'' the forgotten caption reads, ''that someday we'll be just so much nostalgia.'')

In the 80's and afterward, the cartoons tended to loosen up and grow freewheeling, branching out from ingenious visual jokes and the light comedy of upper-middle-class manners into more idiosyncratic terrain. Roz Chast's 1981 three-panel piece titled ''The Three Certainties'' begins with a faux-naïf skull and crossbones, ''Death.'' A check made out to the I.R.S. and surrounded by disembodied angels' wings signifies ''Taxes.'' The final panel shows a clown in a curly wig and a ruffed collar -- ''Bobo.'' Get it? Of course you don't. Such humor can't be gotten, in the old sense, only inexplicably chuckled at. Chast and her quirky contemporary counterparts practice a sort of comic expressionism that depends for its effects on the reader's ability to recognize, identify with and mysteriously anticipate the habitual, signature movements of individual artists' minds. The most one can say of a good Chast cartoon is that it's deeply Chast-like. And that's sufficient.

Such recent cartoons don't make a point, they are a point -- a sign, perhaps, that the genre has reached maturity. It's playing with its own traditions now and milking the expectations of a fan base whose tastes have become slightly jaded, even perverse. The appearance of this encyclopedic anthology, though it's nominally linked to the The New Yorker's 80th anniversary next year, can only feel a bit final and funereal, just as the volume's slablike heft makes it feel like a tombstone. And though it would be foolish to suggest the medium has run its course and that renaissance and revival aren't still possible (America might elect another Democratic Senate someday, too) one does sense that the cartoons have done the job they first set out to do: purging any lingering puritanism from their relatively well-heeled audience and replacing it with a smart-aleck self-awareness that suddenly -- just look around -- feels useless, lonely and crippling. But still amusing.



MUSIC

IRON AND WINE, "Jezebel": An artfully expanded version of a song that first surfaced on a Sam Beam demo circulating among the faithful as 09/20/02. Don't let the melody's passing similarity to Jewel's "Who Will Save Your Soul" put you off -- this is as memorable as anything he has ever committed to tape, officially or otherwise.

BECK, "E-Pro": If you're a sucker for big, dumb guitar riffs and choruses that go "Na, na, na, na, na, na, na," this is a nigh on perfect choice as the first single from the man's return to musical extroversion.

Other Tracks:
Recoil - Ani Difranco
Georgia on my mind - Willie Nelson
Twilight - Elliott Smith
Such Great Heights - Iron & Wine
867-5309 - Tommy Tutone
I'm from further north than you - The Wedding Present
You've been loved - Joseph Arthur
By the time it gets dark - Yo la Tengo
Virginia - Vic Chesnutt

POETRY

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock
T.S. Eliot

Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question...
Oh, do not ask, 'What is it?'
Let us go and make our visit.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening.
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains.
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys.
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me.
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

And indeed there will be time
To wonder, 'Do I dare?' and, 'Do I dare?'
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair--
[They will say: 'How his hair is growing thin!']
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin--
[They will say: 'But how his arms and legs are thin!']
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

For I have known them all already, known them all:
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?

And I have known the eyes already, known them all--
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?

And I have known the arms already, known them all--
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
[But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!]
Is it perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?
. . . . .

Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? . . .

I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
. . . . .
And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep. . . tired . . . or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head [grown slightly bald] brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet--and here's no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.

And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: 'I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all'--
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say: 'That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it, at all.'

And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor--
And this, and so much more?--
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow, or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
``That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all.''
. . . . .
No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous--
Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old . . . I grow old . . .
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.
I do not think that they will sing to me.

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.



FILM

Recommended:


Talk Cinema: Take My Eyes


Alias


Hotel Rwanda

LIVESTRONG

FAR SIDE

AMERICA!

Canada is "lucky we allow them to exist on the same continent"; "Without the U.S., Canada is essentially Honduras"
CNN Crossfire Transcripts

On November 30, as President Bush visited Canada to meet with Canadian Prime Minister Paul Martin in an effort to improve the two countries' strained relations, right-wing pundit Ann Coulter and CNN Crossfire co-host Tucker Carlson ridiculed the United States' northern neighbor. On FOX News Channel's Hannity & Colmes, Coulter said that Canadians "better hope the United States doesn't roll over one night and crush them. They are lucky we allow them to exist on the same continent." On CNN's Wolf Blitzer Reports, Carlson stated: "Without the U.S., Canada is essentially Honduras, but colder and much less interesting"; he went on to say that instead of following politics, "the average Canadian is busy dogsledding." And on Crossfire, Carlson referred to the "limpid, flaccid nature of Canadian society."

Canada is the United States' largest trade partner. According to the U.S. Census Bureau, U.S. trade with Canada accounted for a cumulative $38.5 billion dollars in September 2004 alone. Further, as Bush noted in a December 1 speech in Halifax, Nova Scotia, "Canada has taken a series of critical steps to guard against the danger of terrorism." In its country profile of Canada, the U.S. State Department website notes:

The bilateral relationship between the United States and Canada is perhaps the closest and most extensive in the world. It is reflected in the staggering volume of trade--the equivalent of over $1 billion a day in goods, services, and investment income--and people, more than 200 million a year crossing the U.S.-Canadian border. In fields ranging from law enforcement cooperation to environmental cooperation to free trade, the two countries have set the standard by which many other countries measure their own progress.

Below are excerpts from Coulter's and Carlson's Canada-bashing.

From the November 30 edition of FOX News' Hannity & Colmes:

COULTER: Conservatives, as a general matter, take the position that you should not punish your friends and reward your enemies. And Canada has become trouble recently.

It's -- I suppose it's always, I might add, the worst Americans who end up going there. The Tories after the Revolutionary War, the Vietnam draft dodgers after Vietnam. And now after this election, you have the blue-state people moving up there.[...]

COULTER: There is also something called, when you're allowed to exist on the same continent of the United States of America, protecting you with a nuclear shield around you, you're polite and you support us when we've been attacked on our own soil. They [Canada] violated that protocol.[...]

COULTER: They better hope the United States doesn't roll over one night and crush them. They are lucky we allow them to exist on the same continent.[...]

COULTER: We could have taken them [Canada] over so easily.

[ALAN] COLMES: We could have taken them over? Is that what you want?

COULTER: Yes, but no. All I want is the western portion, the ski areas, the cowboys, and the right-wingers.[...]

COULTER: They don't even need to have an army, because they are protected, because they're on the same continent with the United States of America. If we were not the United States of America, Canada -- I mean, we're their trading partner. We keep their economy afloat.[...]

ELLIS HENICAN [Newsday columnist]: We share a lot of culture and a lot of interests. Why do we want to have to ridicule them and be deeply offended if they disagree with us?

COULTER: Because they speak French.

COLMES: There's something else I want to point out about the French. Is it's fashionable again on your side to denounce the French.

COULTER: We like the English-speaking Canadians.

From the November 30 edition of CNN's Wolf Blitzer Reports:

CARLSON: Without the U.S., Canada is essentially Honduras, but colder and much less interesting.[...]

CARLSON: We exploit your [addressing Canadian Member of Parliament Carolyn Parrish] natural resources, that's true. But in the end, Canadians with ambition move to the United States. That has been sort of the trend for decades. It says something not very good about Canada. And I think it makes Canadians feel bad about themselves and I understand that.[...]

CARLSON: Canada needs the United States. The United States does not need Canada. [...]

CARLSON: I think if Canada were responsible for its own security -- you would be invaded by Norway if it weren't for the United States.[...]

CARLSON: [A]bsolutely the countries will remain allies and there will always be politicians who see it to their benefit to stomp on Bush dolls [referring to action taken by Parrish]. But no, I don't think the average Canadian feels -- the average Canadian is busy dogsledding.[...]

PARRISH: No, there's not a lot of dogsledding. There's a lot of dog walking, my friend. Not a lot of dogsledding.

CARLSON: Welcome to our century.

From the November 30 edition of CNN's Crossfire:

CARLSON: Canada's essentially -- essentially a made-in-Taiwan version of the United States.[...]

CARLSON: I'm surprised there was anybody left in Canada to attend the protests. I noticed that most sort of vigorous, ambitious Canadians, at least almost all comedians in Canada, come to the United States in the end. Doesn't that tell you something about the sort of limpid, flaccid nature of Canadian society, that people with ambition come here? What does that tell you about Canada?

CYCLING

The long ride: How did Lance Armstrong manage the greatest comeback in sports history?
July 15, 2002
New Yorker

A couple of weeks ago, on a sweltering Saturday afternoon, I found myself in
the passenger seat of a small Volkswagen, careering so rapidly around the
hairpin turns of the French Alps that I could smell the tires burning. Johan
Bruyneel, the suave, unflappable director of the United States Postal
Service Pro Cycling Team, was behind the wheel. Driving at ninety kilometres
an hour occupied half his attention. The rest was devoted to fiddling with a
small television mounted in the dashboard, examining a set of complicated
topographical maps, and talking into one of two radio transmitters in the
car. The first connected Bruyneel to the team's support vehicle, laden with
extra bicycles, water bottles, power bars, and other tools and equipment.
The second fed into the earpieces of the eight U.S. Postal Service cyclists
who were racing along the switchbacks ahead of us. The entire team could
hear every word that Bruyneel said, but most of the time he was talking to
just one man: Lance Armstrong.

We had been on the road for about three hours and Armstrong was a kilometre
in front of us, pedalling so fast that it was hard to keep up. It was the
sixth day of the Dauphiné Libéré, a weeklong race that is run in daily
stages. Armstrong doesn't enter races like the Dauphiné to win (though often
enough he does); he enters to test his legs in preparation for a greater
goal--the Tour de France. Since 1998, when he returned to cycling after
almost losing his life to testicular cancer, Armstrong has focussed
exclusively on dominating the thirty-five-hundred-kilometre, nearly
month-long Tour, which, in the world of cycling, matters more than all other
races combined. This week, he begins a quest to become the fourth person in
the hundred-year-history of the Tour--the world's most gruelling test of
human endurance--to win four times in a row. (In 1995, the Spanish cyclist
Miguel Indurain became the first to win five consecutively--a record that is
clearly on Armstrong's mind.)

The cyclists had covered a hundred and eight kilometres, much of it over
mountain passes still capped with snow, despite temperatures edging into the
nineties. Now the peloton--the term is French for "platoon," and it
describes the pack of riders who make up the main group in every race--was
about to start one of the most agonizing climbs in Europe, the pass between
Mont Blanc and Lake Geneva, which is known as the Col de Joux Plane. In
cycling, climbs are rated according to how long and steep they are: the
easiest is category four, the hardest category one. The
seventeen-hundred-metre Joux Plane has a special rating, known as hors
categorie, or beyond category; for nearly twelve kilometres, it rises so
sharply that it seems a man could get to the top only by helicopter.

"We start the Joux Plane with a lot of respect for this mountain," Bruyneel
said quietly into his radio. "It is long, it is hard. Take it easy. If
people are breaking away, let them go. Do you hear me, Lance?"

"Yes, Johan," Armstrong replied flatly. "I remember the mountain."

With only a few days remaining in the 2000 Tour de France, Armstrong had
what most observers agreed was an insurmountable lead when he headed toward
this pass. He was riding with his two main rivals of that year: Marco
Pantani, the best-known Italian cyclist, and Jan Ullrich, the
twenty-eight-year-old German who won the Tour in 1997, and who in the world
of cycling plays the role of Joe Frazier to Armstrong's Ali. As they started
to climb, Armstrong seemed invincible. Halfway up, though, he slumped over
his handlebars, looking as if he had suffered a stroke, and Ullrich blew
right by him.

"I bonked," Armstrong said later, using a cyclist's term for running out of
fuel. A professional cyclist consumes so much energy--up to ten thousand
calories during a two-hundred-kilometre mountain stage--that, unless some of
it is replaced, his body will run through all the glycogen (the principal
short-term supply of carbohydrates the body uses for power) stored in his
muscles. Armstrong hadn't eaten properly that morning; then he found himself
cut off from his domestiques--the teammates who, among other things, are
responsible for bringing him supplies of food and water during the race.
"That was the hardest day of my life on a bike," Armstrong said later. He
was lucky to finish the day's stage, and even luckier to hold on and win the
race.

"This isn't just a stage in a race for Lance," Bruyneel said now, as
Armstrong approached the bottom of the slope. "He needs to defeat this
mountain to feel ready for the Tour." This time, Bruyneel made sure that the
domestiques ferried water, carbohydrate drinks, and extra power bars to
Armstrong throughout the day. They periodically drifted back to our car and
performed a kind of high-speed docking maneuver so that Bruyneel could
thrust water bottles, five or six at a time, into their outstretched arms.

Last year, Armstrong won the Tour, for the third time in a row, by covering
3,462 kilometres at an average speed of more than forty kilometres an
hour--the third-fastest time in the history of the event. In all, during
those three weeks in July, Armstrong spent eighty-six hours, seventeen
minutes, and twenty-eight seconds on the bike. "Lance almost killed himself
training for the last Tour," Bruyneel told me. "This year, he is in even
better shape. But the press still wants to talk about drugs."

It is, of course, hard to write about cycling and not discuss
performance-enhancing drugs, because at times so many of the leading
competitors seem to have used them. Strict testing measures have been in
force since 1998, when the Tour was nearly cancelled after an assistant for
the Festina team was caught with hundreds of vials of erythropoietin, or
EPO, a hormone that can increase the oxygen supply to the blood. But the
changes have brought only limited success: just this May, Stefano Garzelli
and Gilberto Simoni, two of Europe's leading cyclists, were forced to
withdraw from the Giro d'Italia, Italy's most important race.

Because Armstrong is the best cyclist in the world, there is an assumption
among some of those who follow the sport that he, too, must use drugs.
Armstrong has never failed a drug test, however, and he may well be the most
frequently examined athlete in the history of sports. Whenever he wins a
day's stage, or finishes as one of the top cyclists in a longer race, he is
required to provide a urine sample. Like other professionals, Armstrong is
also tested randomly throughout the year. (The World Anti-Doping Agency,
which regularly tests athletes, has even appeared at his home, in Austin,
Texas, at dawn, to demand a urine sample.) Nobody questions Armstrong's
excellence. And yet doubts remain: is he really so gifted that, like
Secretariat, he easily dominates even his most talented competitors?

"It's terribly unfair," Bruyneel told me as we drove through the mountains.
"He is already winning, and is extremely fit. Still, people always ask that
one question: How can he do this without drugs? I understand why people ask,
because our sport has been tainted. But Lance has a different trick, and I
have watched him do it now for four years: he just works harder than anyone
else alive."

Lance Armstrong's heart is almost a third larger than that of an average
man. During those rare moments when he is at rest, it beats about thirty-two
times a minute--slowly enough so that a doctor who knew nothing about him
would call a hospital as soon as he heard it. (When Armstrong is exerting
himself, his heart rate can edge up above two hundred beats a minute.)
Physically, he was a prodigy. Born in 1971, Armstrong was raised by his
mother in Plano, a drab suburb of Dallas that he quickly came to despise. He
never knew his father, and refers to him as "the DNA donor." He has written
that "the main thing you need to know about my childhood is that I never had
a real father, but I never sat around wishing for one, either. . . . I've
never had a single conversation with my mother about him."

He was a willful child and didn't like to listen to advice. "I have loved
him every minute of his life, but, God, there were times when it was a
struggle," his mother, Linda, told me. She is a demure woman with the kind
of big blond hair once favored by wives of astronauts. "He has always wanted
to test the boundaries," she said. Armstrong admits that he was never an
easy child. In his autobiography, "It's Not About the Bike," which was
written with the journalist Sally Jenkins, he said, "When I was a boy I
invented a game called fireball, which entailed soaking a tennis ball in
kerosene, lighting it on fire, and playing catch with it."

Armstrong was an outstanding young swimmer, and as an adolescent he began to
enter triathlons. By 1987, when he was sixteen, he was also winning bicycle
races. That year, he was invited to the Cooper Institute, in Dallas, which
was one of the first centers to recognize the relationship between fitness
and aerobic conditioning. Everyone uses oxygen to break down food into the
components that provide energy; the more oxygen you are able to use, the
more energy you will produce, and the faster you can run, ride, or swim.
Armstrong was given a test called the VO2 Max, which is commonly used to
assess an athlete's aerobic ability: it measures the maximum amount of
oxygen the lungs can consume during exercise. His levels were the highest
ever recorded at the clinic. (Currently, they are about eighty-five
millilitres per kilogram of body weight; a healthy man might have a VO2 Max
of forty.)

Chris Carmichael, who became his coach when Armstrong was still a teen-ager,
told me that even then Armstrong was among the most remarkable athletes he
had ever seen. Not only has his cardiovascular strength always been
exceptional; his body seems specially constructed for cycling. His thigh
bones are unusually long, for example, which permits him to apply just the
right amount of torque to the pedals.

Although Armstrong was talented, he wasn't very disciplined. He acted as if
he had nothing to learn. "I had never met him when I took over as his
coach," Carmichael told me. "I called him up and we talked on the phone. He
was kind of rude. Not kind of rude. He was completely rude. He was, like,
'So you are the new coach--what are you going to teach me?' He just thought
he was King Shit. I would tell him to wait till the end of a race before
making a break. He just couldn't do that. He would get out in front and set
the pace. He would burn up the field, and when other riders came alive he
would be done, spent." Still, Armstrong did well in one-day races, in which
bursts of energy count as much as patience or tactical precision. In 1991,
after several years of increasingly impressive performances, he became the
U.S. amateur champion, and the next year he turned pro. In 1993, he became
the youngest man ever to win a stage in the Tour de France; he won the World
Road Championships the same year.

In 1996, Armstrong signed a contract with the French cycling team Cofidis,
for a salary of more than two million dollars over two years. He had a
beautiful new home in Austin, and a Porsche that he liked to drive fast.
Then, in September, he became unusually weak and felt soreness in one of his
testicles. Since soreness is a part of any cyclist's life, he didn't give it
much thought. One night later that month, however, several days after his
twenty-fifth birthday, he felt something metallic in his throat while he was
talking on the phone. He put his friend on hold, and ran into the bathroom.
"I coughed into the sink," he later wrote. "It splattered with blood. I
coughed again, and spit up another stream of red. I couldn't believe the
mass of blood and clotted matter had come from my own body."

Within a week, Armstrong had surgery to remove the cancerous testicle. By
then, the disease had spread to his lungs, abdomen, and brain. He needed
brain surgery and the most aggressive type of chemotherapy. "At that point,
he had a minority chance of living another year," Craig Nichols, who was
Armstrong's principal oncologist, told me. "We cure at most a third of the
people in situations like that." A professor at Oregon Health Sciences
University who specializes in testicular cancer, Nichols has remained a
friend and is an adviser to the Lance Armstrong Foundation, which supports
cancer research. Nichols described Armstrong as the "most willful person I
have ever met." And, he said, "he wasn't willing to die." Armstrong
underwent four rounds of chemotherapy so powerful that the chemicals
destroyed his musculature and caused permanent kidney damage; in the final
treatments, the chemicals left burns on his skin from the inside out.
Cofidis, convinced that Armstrong's career (and perhaps his life) was over,
told his agent while he was still in the hospital that it wanted to
reconsider the terms of his contract. That may have turned out to be the
worst bet in the history of sports.

Armstrong did recover, but his first attempts to return to competition ended
in exhaustion and depression. "In an odd way, having cancer was easier than
recovery--at least in chemo I was doing something, instead of just waiting
for it to come back," he wrote. In 1998, he decided to make a more serious
effort to return to racing. Again, he couldn't stick with it. "The comeback
was still amazingly risky," Carmichael told me. "There wasn't a doctor on
this earth who could say that Lance Armstrong's lungs weren't fucked up, the
cancer wasn't going to come back. Nobody said, 'You will be successful and,
by the way, you will win the Tour.' He was afraid, so he just quit. I was
shocked. He beats cancer. Goes to hell and back. Goes to Europe. Trains his
ass off. Trained harder than ever. In the Ruta del Sol"--a five-day race
held each year in Spain--"he was fourteenth. He had never done better, even
before cancer, and all indications were that he was on the verge of the
greatest comeback in sports, and he said, 'Hey, I'm quitting.' My coaching
side just wanted to scream."

Carmichael and Bill Stapleton, Armstrong's close friend and agent, helped
persuade him that this wasn't the way to end his career. "We said, 'You will
look back on this and be disappointed--you are going out as a quitter,' "
Carmichael told me. Armstrong agreed to prepare for one last race, in the
United States. He, Carmichael, and a friend went to Boone, a small town in
North Carolina where Armstrong liked to train. "Early April," Carmichael
recalled. "The first day was nice. Then the weather turned ugly. I would
follow behind in the car as they trained. One day, we were to finish at the
top of Beech Mountain. It was a long ride, a hundred-plus miles, then the
ride to the top. Something happened on that mountain. He just dropped his
partner and he went for it. He was racing. It was weird. I was following
behind him in the car. This cold rain was now a wet snow. And I rolled down
the window and I was honking the horn and yelling, 'Go, Lance, go!' He was
attacking and cranking away as though we were in the Tour. Nobody was
around. No human being. Not even a cow. He got up to the top of that
mountain and I said, 'O.K., I'll load the bike on the car and we can go
home.' He said, 'Give me my rain jacket--I'm riding back.' Another thirty
miles. That was all he said. It was like throwing on a light switch.

Armstrong now says that cancer was the best thing that ever happened to him.
Before becoming ill, he didn't care about strategy or tactics or --and
nobody (no matter what his abilities) becomes a great cyclist without
mastering those aspects of the sport. Despite Armstrong's brilliant early
start in the 1993 Tour, for example, he didn't even finish the race; he
dropped out when the teams entered the most difficult mountain phase, in the
Alps. (He also failed to finish in 1994 and 1996.)

As Carmichael pointed out to me, Armstrong had always been gifted, but
"genetically he is not alone. He is near the top but not at the top. I have
seen people better than Lance that never go anywhere. Before Lance had
cancer, we argued all the time. He never trained right. He just relied on
his gift. He would do what you asked for two weeks, then flake off and do
his own thing for a month or two. And then a big race would be coming up and
he would call me up, all tense, telling me, 'God, I have got to start
training, and you guys better start sending me some programs.' I would say,
'Lance, you don't just start preparing things four weeks before a race. This
is a long process.' "

Cycling is, above all, a team sport, and the tactics involved are as
complicated as those of baseball or basketball. "Ever try to explain the
infield-fly rule to somebody?" Armstrong asked me when we were in Texas,
where he lives when he is not racing or training in Europe. "You have to
watch it to get it. As soon as you pay some attention to the tactics,
cycling makes a lot of sense."

Riding through the French mountains with Bruyneel, a genial
thirty-seven-year-old who has been with U.S. Postal since 1999, soon after
Armstrong joined the team, I saw what he meant. (Armstrong's athletic
advisers complement each other: Carmichael is the physical strategist, and
Bruyneel the tactician.) "It looks like Victor is good today, so let's save
him a bit longer for the Colombiere," Bruyneel radioed to Armstrong about
halfway through the day's ride. "Sounds like a good idea," Armstrong
replied. In other words, Victor Hugo Peña, a promising young Colombian
climber on the team, seemed strong enough to lead Armstrong over one of the
big peaks that the racers would encounter before the Col de Joux Plane.
Riders like Hugo Peña "work" for Armstrong; they are not attempting to win
the race themselves but, rather, focussing on preventing another team from
defeating Armstrong. Their job is to patrol the peloton. If a competing star
tries to escape from the pack in a breakaway, they must be ready to chase
him down, in order to tire him out and make him less of a threat later in
the race.

Until it is time to sprint, climb, or attempt a breakaway, there is usually
at least one team rider positioned in front of his leader. Riding directly
behind another man--which is called drafting--can save a skilled cyclist as
much as forty per cent of his energy. Asker Jeukendrup, a physiologist who
directs the Human Performance Laboratory at the University of Birmingham,
has carried out extensive studies of the energy expended by cyclists when
they race. Several years ago, Jeukendrup attached power meters to the
bicycles of several Tour participants during critical stages. A power meter
records a rider's heart rate, his pedal cadence, his speed, and, most
important, the watts that he generates with every turn of the wheels. (Watts
provide the most accurate measurement of the intensity of exercise; heart
rates vary and so does speed. The amount of work needed to climb a hill
remains the same no matter how fast you ride.)

Jeukendrup recorded the effort expended by a cyclist riding for six hours at
forty kilometres an hour in the middle of the peloton, shielded from the
wind. He compared this figure with the power needed to propel that same man
riding alone. In the pack, the cyclist used an average of ninety-eight
watts--which would never tire a well-trained professional. On his own,
however, the cyclist expended an average of two hundred and seventy-five
watts--nearly three times the power--to maintain the same speed. It is easy
to see what this means: in any race, the guy out front is often suffering in
his attempt to lead the peloton, while somebody like Armstrong, safely
tucked into a cocoon of teammates, can cruise just a few yards behind the
leader and be "pulled" at essentially the same speed, conserving energy for
later.

The peloton can cover up to two hundred and fifty kilometres a day without
stopping, like a rolling army; there is a "feed zone" about halfway through
each stage, where cyclists slow down enough to be draped with a cloth pouch,
called a musette, which is filled with fruit, power bars, and other
high-carbohydrate snacks. The team members take turns "working," or pulling,
at the front to give each other a rest. (Even competitors, when they ride
together, take turns out front, sharing the advantages of drafting.) In some
ways, cycling retains an odd chivalry that is more readily associated with
the trenches of the First World War. During last year's Tour, for instance,
at a crucial moment in the Pyrenees, Jan Ullrich veered off the road and
into a ditch; Armstrong waited for him to get back on his bike and catch up.
Ullrich almost certainly would have done the same for him. When a leader
needs to urinate, the whole pack slows down. It is an unspoken but very
clear element of the etiquette of professional cycling that nobody is
permitted to benefit by breaking away while an opponent urinates (or, worse
yet, when part of the peloton is caught at a train crossing). Anyone who did
would be unlikely to finish the race. After all, it takes little to knock a
man off a bicycle, particularly at high speeds; this is called flicking,
from the German ficken--which means "to fuck."

Apart from the Olympics and World Cup soccer, the Tour is the most popular
sporting event in Europe. In France, July is a carnival, complete with
thousands of cars, buses, motorcycles, and helicopters following the Tour,
and daily television coverage. This year, at least fifteen million people--a
quarter of the country's population--are expected to line the highways to
watch the cyclists whiz by in a blurred instant. Every morning, kids mass
outside the team buses, begging for autographs. If a spectator is lucky,
someone in the peloton will toss a used water bottle his way; it is the
cycling world's version of a foul ball.

The Tour de France is exactly what its name suggests: a tour of France. The
race takes place over the course of three weeks, with a day or two of rest,
and the course is altered slightly each year, so that it passes through
different villages. Each day, there is a new stage; when all the stages have
been completed, the man with the fastest cumulative time wins. (This year's
Tour will be the shortest in its history; some people believe this is an
attempt to reduce Armstrong's advantage.) As a commercial and logistical
endeavor, the Tour could be compared to a Presidential campaign or the Super
Bowl. Its budget is in the tens of millions of dollars, and the winner
receives close to four hundred thousand dollars. The money comes from
location fees, paid by towns that host a stage, and from advertising
revenues and broadcast licenses. The Tour is treated as if it were its own
sovereign state within France: it has a police force and a travelling bank
(the only one in the country open on Bastille Day). The entourage includes
riders, mechanics, masseurs, managers, doctors, cooks, journalists, and race
officials. Each team starts the race with nine riders (though it is common
for as many as half to drop out), who usually work to further the goals of
their leader, like Armstrong or Ullrich--who injured his knee earlier this
year and will not compete.

Since individual excellence can get one only so far in a race of this
magnitude, it is also crucial to have the right team, to provide
organization, finances, and experience. U.S. Postal has all that; it is, in
its way, pro cycling's Yankees--with climbing specialists, sprinters, and a
powerful bench. This is why so many cyclists agree to work as domestiques,
putting their success second to Armstrong's. "You work for a teammate who is
older and more experienced," Victor Hugo Peña told me late one day between
stages of the Dauphiné.

I was curious why a talented cyclist would agree to play such a role. "It is
an apprenticeship--you have to learn the business," Hugo Peña said. "If you
get respect, work well, and are good, you move up." Armstrong himself worked
as a domestique when he was starting out. He told me that he finds the
system reassuring. Bruyneel, who was a successful professional, and won two
stages in the Tour, agreed. "What does a man gain from riding for himself
and coming in fiftieth?" he said. "If you see your job as helping your team
win, you will get more out of that than simply riding and losing. It's fun
to be part of a winning team." And it is also profitable; even a journeyman
cyclist can make a hundred thousand dollars a year. (This is nothing like
what the winners make, of course; between his salary and the endorsements,
Armstrong earned about fifteen million dollars last year.) Still, there
comes a point when a talented cyclist no longer wants to occupy a supporting
role and tries to establish himself as a potential leader. For several
years, Armstrong's deputy on the U.S. Postal team was his friend Tyler
Hamilton. This year, with Armstrong's encouragement, Hamilton began riding
for a Danish competitor, CSC Tiscali, and, as one of its leaders, he placed
second in the Giro d'Italia.

The physical demands on competitive cyclists are immense. One day, they will
have to ride two hundred kilometres through the mountains; the next day
there might be a long, flat sprint lasting seven hours. Because cyclists
have such a low percentage of body fat, they are more susceptible to
infections than other people. (At the beginning of the Tour, Armstrong's
body fat is around four or five per cent; this season, Shaquille O'Neal, the
most powerful player in the N.B.A., boasted that his body-fat level was
sixteen per cent.)

The Tour de France has been described as the equivalent of running twenty
marathons in twenty days. During the nineteen-eighties and nineties, Wim H.
M. Saris, a professor of nutrition at the University of Maastricht,
conducted a study of human endurance by following participants in the Tour.
"It is without any doubt the most demanding athletic event," he told me.
"For one day, two days--sure, you may find something that expends more
energy. But for three weeks? Never."

Looking at a wide range of physical activities, Saris and his colleagues
measured the metabolic demands made on people engaged in each of them. "On
average, the cyclists expend sixty-five hundred calories a day for three
weeks, with peak days of ten thousand calories," he said. "If you are
sedentary, you are burning perhaps twenty-five hundred calories a day.
Active people might burn as many as thirty-five hundred."

Saris compared the metabolic rates of professional cyclists while they were
riding with those of a variety of animal species, and he created a kind of
energy index--dividing daily expenditure of energy by resting metabolic
rate. This figure turned out to range from one to seven. An active male
rates about two on Saris's index and an average professional cyclist four
and a half. Almost no species can survive with a number that is greater than
five. For example, the effort made by birds foraging for food sometimes
kills them, and they scored a little more than five. In fact, only four
species are known to have higher rates on Saris's energy index than the
professional cyclists in his study: a small Australian possum, a macaroni
penguin, a large seabird called a gannet, and one species of marsupial
mouse.

This spring, Armstrong, who doesn't relax much to begin with, was spending
up to thirty-five hours a week on his bicycle. When I met him, in April, he
had just flown to Austin from Europe, where he had been racing, for a
forty-eight-hour "drop-in," in order to raise money for the Lance Armstrong
Foundation. This required him to take the Concorde from Paris to New York,
change planes, and, once he'd landed in Austin, drive to an afternoon photo
shoot. Then he signed books, cycling jerseys, and posters for cancer
survivors and sponsors of the foundation. After that, he went to a
fund-raising dinner. A few hours later, the foundation's annual charity
weekend, the Ride for the Roses, would officially begin, with an outdoor
rock concert at the Austin Auditorium Shores arena. But Armstrong was
feeling restless; he hadn't been on his bicycle for nearly a day. So he
changed, and went for a thirty-five-mile spin. At eight-thirty that evening,
he was standing backstage at the benefit concert, which featured Cake and
the Stone Temple Pilots. I met up with him there; Armstrong, who is
surprisingly slight, wore jeans, sandals, and a Nike golf cap. He didn't
seem a bit tired.

Every ounce of fat, bone, and muscle on Armstrong's body is regularly
inventoried, analyzed, and accounted for. I asked him if he felt it was
necessary to endure the daily prodding and poking required to provide all
this information, and to adhere so rigidly to his training schedules.
"Depends whether you want to win," he replied. "I do. The Tour is a
two-thousand-mile race, and people sometimes win by one minute. Or less. One
minute in nearly a month of suffering isn't that much. So the people who win
are the ones willing to suffer the most." Suffering is to cyclists what poll
data are to politicians; they rely on it to tell them how well they are
doing their job. Like many of his competitors in the peloton, Armstrong
seems to love pain, and even to crave it.

"Cycling is so hard, the suffering is so intense, that it's absolutely
cleansing," he wrote in his autobiography. "The pain is so deep and strong
that a curtain descends over your brain. . . . Once, someone asked me what
pleasure I took in riding for so long. 'Pleasure?' I said. 'I don't
understand the question.' I didn't do it for pleasure. I did it for pain."
Armstrong mentioned suffering (favorably) in each of my conversations with
him. Even his weekend in Texas, which was ostensibly time off from the
grinding spring training schedule, seemed designed to drive him to the brink
of exhaustion; there were dozens of meetings with donors, cancer survivors,
and friends. On Sunday, he led the foundation's annual ride with his friend
Robin Williams, a surprisingly fit and aggressive cyclist. Williams and
Armstrong rode at a fairly rapid pace for about two hours, at which point a
car suddenly pulled up alongside them on the highway. Armstrong hopped off
his bike, climbed in, and was driven to the airport to catch a plane for New
York and then Paris. During his forty-eight-hour drop-in, the Lance
Armstrong Foundation raised nearly three million dollars.

In Austin, Lance (other than Dubya, he is the only one-name Texan) has a
more devoted following than Bush, Lyle Lovett, and the Texas Longhorns
football team combined. One night during my weekend in Austin, I drove over
to Chuy's, an informal Tex-Mex place that is one of Armstrong's favorite
local restaurants. (It was famous locally even before a hardworking
bartender carded President Bush's nineteen-year-old daughter Jenna.)
Armstrong has a weakness for Chuy's burritos. I asked my waiter what he
thought of Armstrong. "When he walks in here, you can feel the buzz coming
right off him," he said. "When Lance shows up, people are delirious. They
love the guy. His life is like an Alamo-level myth, and everybody loves a
myth, particularly in Texas."

Armstrong tries to resist being described as a hero of any kind. "I want my
kids to grow up and be normal," he told me, backstage at the concert, as he
tentatively ate exactly two Dorito chips. He and his wife, Kristin, have
three children: a son, Luke, who is two, and twin girls, Isabelle and Grace,
born last year. "I want them to think their father worked hard for what he
got, not that it was the result of some kind of magic," Armstrong said.

Three types of riders succeed in long stage races like the Tour de France:
those who excel at climbing but are only adequate in time trials, in which a
cyclist races alone against the clock; those who can win time trials but
struggle in the mountains; and cyclists who are moderately good at both. Now
there appears to be a fourth group: Armstrong. He has become the best
climber in the world, although he wasn't much of one in his early years. And
there is no cyclist better at time trials. He lost nearly twenty pounds when
he was sick, but he is no less powerful and is therefore faster. Still, many
people have wondered how, so soon after a nearly fatal illness, he managed
to take such complete control of the sport.

"After the cancer, Lance got a second chance," Carmichael explained to me.
"It was that simple. You get a second chance at something that you took for
granted before and all of a sudden you see everything you could have lost.
When he came back, he just went into a different zone. He works as if he is
possessed. It's a little bit nutty, in fact, what he puts himself through so
that he can win the Tour de France each year." As a young man, Carmichael
was an Olympic cyclist himself, but he almost died in a freakish skiing
accident, in 1986. He returned to competition, but something was gone. While
he was trying to figure out what to do next, he took a job coaching the
United States national team. He has now been training people for fifteen
years. He works with many élite athletes in addition to Armstrong--runners,
hockey players, even one Indy driver--and also with thousands who just want
to ride faster every Sunday with their local club. He has a company,
Carmichael Training Systems, based in Colorado Springs, that employs more
than seventy-five coaches; his clients, including Armstrong, log on to the
company Web site to find their latest training instructions.

Carmichael believes that rigorous training is what ultimately turns a
talented athlete into a star. "Who hits more practice balls every day than
any other golfer?" Carmichael asked. "Guess what? It's Tiger Woods. Well,
Lance trains more than his competitors. He was the first to go out and
actually ride the important Tour stages in advance. He doesn't just wake up
in July and say, 'God, I hope I am ready for this race.' He knows he is
ready, because he has whipped himself all year long."

Armstrong describes his bike as his office. "It's my job," he told me. "I
love it, and I wouldn't ride if I didn't. But it's incredibly hard work,
full of sacrifices. And you have to be able to go out there every single
day." In the morning, he rises, eats, and gets on his bike; sometimes,
before a particularly long day, he waits to eat again (in order to store up
carbohydrates) before taking off. "We schedule his daily workouts to leave
late in the morning, so that he can ride for six hours," Carmichael said.
"He returns home about five or six o'clock, in time for a quick dinner--a
protein-carb smoothie, a little pasta. Then it is time for bed."

During the cycling season, Armstrong calculates each watt he has burned on
his bike and then uses a digital scale to weigh every morsel of food that
passes his lips. This way, he knows exactly how many calories he needs to
get through the day. When he is racing, his meals are gargantuan. (It took
three men to lug the team's rations--boxes full of cereal, bread, yogurt,
eggs, fruit, honey, chocolate spread, jam, peanut butter, and other
snacks--into the hotel breakfast room during the Dauphiné.) On days when a
race begins at noon or later, Armstrong will eat two heaping plates of pasta
and perhaps a power bar three hours before the race, after having had a full
breakfast.

When I visited Carmichael in Colorado Springs, he showed me Armstrong's
training schedule for a few weeks this spring. On April 28th, a Sunday,
Armstrong competed in the Amstel Gold, a one-day annual World Cup race in
Holland. He finished fourth, covering the
two-hundred-and-fifty-four-kilometre course (which included thirty-three
climbs) in six hours, forty-nine minutes, and seventeen seconds. His average
speed was 37.32 k.p.h., the same as that of the winner, who beat him by
about three feet. Carmichael scheduled a rest day and urged Armstrong to
stay off his bicycle. "He almost never listens when I tell him to do that,"
Carmichael said. "But I tell him anyway." Tuesday was an easy day: a
two-hour ride, maintaining an approximate heart rate of a hundred and
thirty-five beats a minute. The next day was more typical: five hours over
rolling terrain, with a heart rate of about a hundred and fifty-five beats a
minute and an average effort of three hundred and twenty watts. Friday was a
slow ride for two hours. Then, on Saturday, Armstrong rode for four hours
with two climbs, each lasting about half an hour, during which he kept a
heart rate of a hundred and seventy-five beats a minute with a power
expenditure of about four hundred watts. After that, Carmichael had him
draft at a fast rate behind a motorcycle for two hours without a break. In
addition, Armstrong always stretches for about an hour a day, and during the
off-season he spends hours in the gym, improving his core strength. "Nobody
else puts himself through this," Carmichael said. "Nobody would dare.

I have been riding a bicycle since I was a boy, and over the years, as the
technology improved, I kept trading up, from heavy steel to aluminum, and
then to titanium. Only once have I travelled more than a hundred miles in a
day; I have never entered a race (or wanted to), and I don't ride
particularly fast. Yet, like a lot of middle-aged cycling enthusiasts, I now
have a bicycle that is far better than I am and I have become a fetishistic
devotee of the sport. I have never quite permitted myself to attend bicycle
camp or to take lessons from a bicycle mechanic (though I have considered
both). But I have never seen Campagnolo gears, an aerodynamically advanced
set of wheels, or a complicated cycle computer that I didn't want to buy. My
apartment is littered with catalogues advertising "carbon titanium
supercycles," and bicycling magazines with stories about obscure pro races.

Every month or two, Carmichael tests Armstrong's capacity to generate ----or
--and, when I told him that I rode a lot, he suggested that if he tested me
in the same way I might have a better sense of what these measures really
meant.

Our plan was to cruise up into the mountains not far from Carmichael's
office, in a converted grain barn in downtown Colorado Springs. The wind was
strong enough so that he asked if I wanted to reconsider. The answer was
yes, of course, but that's not what I said. We rode for about five miles
through the thin air six thousand feet above sea level. Carmichael chatted
the whole ----about pedal motion, femur length (the longer the better, since
length improves leverage), gearing choices, and the finer details of
carbon-fibre technology. I gasped and answered only when I had to. We rode
into North Cheyenne Cañon until, finally, it looked as if we had ridden as
far as he could ask me to go. Carmichael got off his bike. "Now the test
begins," he said. He pointed at the mountain slope--it wasn't as steep as
some of the slopes in France, but it looked unconquerable nonetheless--and
said, "I want you to ride as fast as you can up that road for ten minutes
and then come back."

I was seriously winded within two minutes. My legs were burning within five.
I remember watching four men and women climbing a steep rock face and
rappelling down. They waved at me, but I was far too light-headed to risk
lifting an arm from the handlebars. Finally, I couldn't take it anymore. (I
managed to continue for eight minutes and thirty-two seconds. Naïvely, I had
asked Carmichael what I should do when I reached the top. "You won't be
seeing the top," he had said.) I turned the bike around and met up with
Carmichael, and we coasted most of the way back to the office. Then we
looked at my data: I had generated an average of two hundred watts on the
test, and had climbed exactly one mile. Carmichael told me that a decent pro
cyclist would have put out at least four hundred watts, and that the
stragglers at the end of the peloton (known as the gruppetto) would clock in
at perhaps three hundred and fifty. Armstrong--in top Tour shape--would have
come close to five hundred.

I stared at the graph of my performance, which Carmichael and his colleagues
had printed out for me. I had managed to generate four hundred and seventy
watts for just ten seconds. That's about average for Armstrong over the
course of a four-hour ride.

After that humbling experience, I went across town to see Edmund Burke, a
former physiologist for the U.S. Olympic cycling team, who has written
several books on training for cyclists (including one with Carmichael). "I
think the genius of Chris is that he understands how much small gains
matter," Burke said. "In fact, small gains are all you will ever see. People
will say, 'You have shown only half a per cent of improvement.' Well, half a
per cent is huge. I am not talking marketing or sales here. I am talking
about élite athletic performance."

Carmichael takes nothing for granted and relies heavily on technology. (He
noted with approval, for instance, that Greg LeMond won the Tour by just
eight seconds, on the last day of the race, in 1989. He was the first
cyclist in the Tour to use aerodynamically tapered handlebars for the final
time trial. "It made all the difference," Carmichael said. "Technology might
not win you the Tour. But why wouldn't you want to have the best chances
possible?") Every few months, Armstrong trains in a wind tunnel, which
allows Carmichael to measure his aerodynamic efficiency under a variety of
conditions. He will push his seat back a centimetre or his stem up a few
millimetres. (Each adjustment is a trade-off between power and speed; when
you sit farther back, you can use more of your leg muscles, but you also
expose more of your body to the resistance of the air.)

Carmichael takes the same radical approach to the physical limits of
endurance. It had long been assumed, for example, that aerobic power doesn't
vary greatly in adults. Carmichael refutes this emphatically. "Look at
Lance," he said to me in his office one day. Over the past eight years,
through specific programs aimed at building endurance and speed, Armstrong
has increased this critical value--his aerobic power--by sixteen per cent.
That means he saves almost four minutes in a sixty-kilometre time trial.

In fact, Armstrong is superior to other athletes in two respects: he can
rely on his aerobic powers longer, and his anaerobic abilities are unusually
high as well. When muscles begin to work beyond their aerobic ability, they
produce lactic acid, which eventually accumulates and causes a burning
sensation well known to anyone who has ever run too far or too fast.
Somehow, though, Armstrong produces less lactic acid than others do, and
metabolizes it more effectively. "For whatever physiological reason--and
science can't really explain it, because we don't know that much about what
is occurring--the effect is clear," Carmichael said. "Lance goes on when
others are done."

At the end of last year's Tour, the French sports newspaper L'Équipe ran an
article with the headline " SHOULD WE BELIEVE IN ARMSTRONG?," suggesting it
was time to consider the possibility that, since Armstrong has never been
found guilty of doping, he may indeed be innocent.

After I watched Armstrong train and spent time with his coaches, the only
way I could be convinced that he uses illegal drugs would be to see him
inject them. After all, the doubts about him have always been a function of
his excellence. Greg LeMond, America's first Tour de France champion (he has
also won three times), put it well, if somewhat uncharitably, after
Armstrong won the 2001 Tour: "If Lance is clean, it is the greatest comeback
in the history of sport. If he isn't, it would be the greatest fraud." It is
impossible to prove a negative, and so Armstrong can do nothing to dispel
the doubts. But his frustration is clear; in 2000, he made a television ad
for Nike in which he said, "Everybody wants to know what I'm on. What am I
on? I'm on my bike, busting my ass six hours a day. What are you on?"

If the French don't approve of Armstrong, it is not only--or even
principally--because they suspect him of using drugs. They don't believe
that he suffers enough. French intellectuals love the agony displayed on the
roads each July in the same way that American writers love to wail over the
fate of the Red Sox. Thirty years ago, before much was known about sports
nutrition, riders would finish the race--if they could--having lost twenty
pounds, their eyes vacant even in victory. Armstrong represents a new kind
of athlete. He has been at the forefront of a technological renaissance that
has made European cycling purists uncomfortable. Referring to the gulf that
now exists between the race and the racers, the French philosopher Robert
Redeker has written, "The athletic type represented by Lance Armstrong,
unlike Fausto Coppi or Jean Robic"--two cycling heroes from a generation
ago--"is coming closer to Lara Croft, the virtually fabricated
cyber-heroine. Cycling is becoming a video game; the onetime 'prisoners of
the road' have become virtual human beings . . . Robocop on wheels, someone
no fan can relate to or identify with."

"It's so funny to hear people talk that way about Lance," Craig Nichols,
Armstrong's oncologist, told me. "The fact is that no cyclist can have seen
more pain than he has. The hard work and the inconvenience of the Tour just
can't scare him, because he has been through so much worse."

Despite Bruyneel's warning not to push himself on the treacherous slope of
the Col de Joux Plane, Armstrong was spinning the pedals a hundred times a
minute, faster than any other competitor. (This cadence is a technique that
he, Carmichael, and Bruyneel have been working on for years.) With just two
days to go, Armstrong was in the lead of the Dauphiné Libéré, and there was
little doubt that he would go on to win the race. ("There are not so many
guys left," Bruyneel said to me with a smile and a shrug. "If he feels good,
you have to let him go.") It would have been understandable--maybe even
smart--for Armstrong to take it slow just a few weeks before the Tour. Yet
clearly he wasn't going to be satisfied unless he also took this stage.

"Good job, Lance!" Bruyneel cheered into the radio. "Go! Go! Go!" Armstrong
picked up speed; he was dropping his opponents one by one. "Moreau is done,
Lance, he is over!" Bruyneel shouted into the radio as Armstrong whizzed by
Christophe Moreau, the lead rider for Crédit Agricole. "Go if you can. But,
remember, the mountain is not your friend."

"Kivilev is dropped, Kivilev is dropped!" Bruyneel screamed, as Armstrong
began to pedal faster. "Lance, get on Menchov's wheel. He is a great train
to the top." Denis Menchov, of the Ibanesto.com team, is a fine climber.
Bruyneel had hoped that Armstrong would glide in behind him and conserve
energy on the way up. Instead, Armstrong blew past Menchov, and then
overtook the last two men between him and the summit. He wove through the
fans gathered at the top of the mountain.

Armstrong shifted into a higher gear to descend, and suddenly he was in
trouble. His radio stopped working, his leg began to cramp, and Kivilev and
Moreau were gaining on him. 'Twenty-seven seconds," Bruyneel said. He was
screaming. "Lance, they are gaining!" We could see the little ski resort of
Morzine in the near distance. Chalets were built everywhere into the steep
slopes of the mountain. The thickening wall of fans suggested that we must
be near the end, but we were driving so fast that it was hard to tell.

Incredibly, Bruyneel drove right up beside Armstrong. He was in pain and was
massaging his thigh while pedalling as fast as he could. "Six seconds!"
Bruyneel shouted out the window at full speed. "Move!"

Armstrong barrelled across the finish line, six seconds before his rivals.
He got off his bike and hobbled directly into a tent that had been set up
for drug testing. When he emerged, he came over to say hello. I
congratulated him on winning the stage. "It's always fun to win," he said,
smiling broadly. "But, man, I am in such agony."

D'Arcy and Richard Finley