Cycle of Lies: The Fall of Lance Armstrong. Juliet Macur

the frailty of life.

      In the fall of 1996, Neal had guided his young charge through cancer treatments at the Southwest Regional Cancer Center in Austin. Neal knew the nurses and doctors from his own stint there, knew the cancer ward layout and arranged a private room for Armstrong.

      The seclusion of the private room was perfect for Lisa Shiels, Armstrong’s new girlfriend, a college senior who was serious about her schoolwork. She could study and give him the support he needed.

      Among the friends and family who rallied to Armstrong’s side, only a few thought beyond his survival. Bill Stapleton did. To keep Armstrong looking to the future, Stapleton suggested he establish a cancer charity in his name, so he could remain in the news during his recovery. Armstrong and some of his cycling buddies—Bart Knaggs, John Korioth, and Austin chiropractor Gary Seghi—thought it was a brilliant idea and talked it through during dinner one night. The foundation was a good PR move, but it could also raise awareness for testicular cancer, something that Armstrong felt could keep others from suffering his same fate. If he had known something about the disease, if he had caught it earlier, if his testicle hadn’t grown to the size of a lemon before he did anything about it, the cancer likely wouldn’t have spread to his abdomen or his brain. He thought the foundation could help save others from their own neglect.

      In 1997, Stapleton filed official papers with the Texas secretary of state that established the Lance Armstrong Foundation. Korioth, a bar manager in Austin and one of Armstrong’s closest friends, stepped up to run it. Knaggs encouraged some of his rich friends, including Jeff Garvey, a venture capitalist in Austin who was heavily involved in USA Cycling, to join the board of directors.

      Armstrong wanted all of his friends to help him in his new, off-the-bike endeavor. In searching for a headquarters for the foundation, he decided one of J.T. Neal’s renovated apartments would be perfect. Though the apartment may very well have had a market value of $650 a month, he offered $200—and Neal was offended.

      Neal didn’t want to give Armstrong another cut-rate deal. Armstrong was rich. Besides, Neal wanted to save money for his family’s future. Going through chemotherapy in Austin, he had seen death up close, had known people who didn’t make it. His own end was coming, maybe not next week, maybe not next month, but soon.

      So Neal said no to the $200 offer, and Armstrong was furious. He claimed Neal wasn’t doing everything he could to help build the foundation. Neal expected that reaction, because he had seen everyone in Armstrong’s life become yes men: Stapleton, Carmichael, Korioth, Ochowicz. He’d also seen all of them benefit financially and/or professionally from their association with Armstrong.

      “He had all the people coming around who liked money and who wanted to impress and he wanted to impress, and he got a lot of values and deals from people like that,” Neal said. “It was nothing I could handle.”

      The Lance Armstrong Foundation’s first fund-raiser was a race in Austin called the Race for the Roses, which eventually became the Ride for the Roses. The name suggested that Armstrong had learned the hard way about the need to stop and smell the flowers. Korioth’s cold calls seeking sponsorships were met by a surprising ignorance: Rare was the person on the other end who had ever heard of Lance Armstrong. But Michael Ward, a guitarist with the rock band the Wallflowers and an avid cyclist, contacted Korioth to say he wanted to help out with the fund-raiser by having his band play there. Korioth quickly agreed. For the fledgling foundation, it was a huge coup.

      Armstrong had not yet won the Tour de France, nor was he in the clear with cancer. The one-year mark with no reappearance of cancer would be a key date in his recovery. But Armstrong didn’t think that far ahead. No time for that. Besides continuing treatments and assuring the success of the Race for the Roses, he brought a new woman into his life.

      He met Kristin Richard at a news conference announcing his fund-raising event. As a public relations account executive, her job was to promote the race. Armstrong liked her looks, but he particularly loved that she was working so hard for him. She was his official cheerleader, paid to convince people to pay attention to him, his foundation and his big cycling event.

      He told Neal he had met this “hot new girl” from a stable, well-to-do family. Her father was a business executive. The family owned a home near New York City. To Armstrong, the Richard family seemed too perfect to be true. He told Neal that he liked the family’s normalcy as much as he liked Kristin.

      Shiels was history. Neal’s oldest daughter, C. C., bumped into her a few months after the breakup and told her she was sorry that the relationship hadn’t worked out. Shiels burst into tears. She had sacrificed basically her entire senior year of college for Armstrong and felt he had discarded her when she was no longer of use. Neal’s wife, Frances, said, well, that was Armstrong for you. “He treats people like bananas. He takes what he needs, then just tosses the peel on the side of the road.”

      Heartbreak notwithstanding, the Race for the Roses event succeeded beyond Korioth’s early hopes. To the casual U.S. sports fan, Armstrong’s accomplishments—a world championship and a couple stages won at the Tour de France—might not have meant much. But to cyclists, Armstrong was a big-time celebrity. Nearly three thousand riders showed up, including the Olympic speed-skating-legend-turned-cyclist Eric Heiden and Dan Jansen, a speed skater who won a Gold Medal at the 1994 Olympics. In the end, Korioth realized he should have expected a large turnout.

      Korioth saw how Armstrong’s fans felt as if they knew him intimately. They understood the agony of ascending a steep climb, the monotony of traversing long, endless roads. “It’s a very personal connection,” Korioth says. “They feel like they could go on a ride with him. And the thing is, they probably could.”

      Armstrong’s cancer deepened those emotional connections, intertwining the circle of cycling fans with cancer survivors. It brought together people who looked to him for inspiration, both as an athlete and a symbol of resilience.

      And so began Armstrong’s surge into the pantheon of American sports heroes. He had risen from his deathbed to a secular sainthood, and Americans were all but salivating to claim him as their own. He was someone the country could cheer for and be proud of, a man on a classic hero’s journey that had all the elements of a boy-done-good story. Not only could American cancer patients beat their disease, but in time they would realize that they also could go on to beat the damned French at their own game, the Tour de France. Armstrong would become a cancer-kicker, a France-kicker and an all around ass-kicker, and Americans are suckers for a sympathetic tough guy.

      In one sense, Armstrong satisfied a primal human need to create models for our sanctification. He was an underdog-turned-superhero, first in a cancer ward, later on a bike. Those who believed in him saw only the good side, or convinced themselves that was all there was.

      Just after Armstrong had been diagnosed with cancer, Kevin Kuehler, a competitive mountain biker, visited a doctor because he had experienced symptoms similar to Armstrong’s.

      That doctor said it wasn’t cancer, but four months later, Kuehler sought a second opinion. That time, yes, it was cancer. On the way home that day, Kuehler spoke to Armstrong on a call-in radio show.

      While nervously trying to explain his experience, Kuehler heard Armstrong cut him off. “Did you call for my advice,” Armstrong said, “or did you call just to talk?”

      Armstrong advised Kuehler to have the affected testicle removed, a surgery that he said would save Kuehler’s life. Two years later, Kuehler reached out to Armstrong again when the cancer reappeared in his lungs. That time, Armstrong arranged a conversation between his main oncologist, Dr. Larry Einhorn of the Indiana University School of Medicine, and Kuehler. Within forty-five minutes, Einhorn was on the phone with Kuehler, discussing a treatment option Kuehler hadn’t considered.

      That new treatment worked, and Kuehler survived to testify before the nation: “I think it’s phenomenal, what he’s doing. He could be cured and go on with his life, but he has chosen to go the more difficult route and help other people. Most guys don’t feel comfortable talking about what’s going on in their pants. But with this kind of cancer, the more you learn, the more you’re comforted. That gives Lance