Being Lance Armstrong

Where’s my cocktail?... just a tad of testosterone; doesn’t everybody? A drip of EPO and I’m ready to pedal down to Patagonia across the Pacific to the Punjab over to Waziristan, dodging drones, roadside bombs, stray bullets from bare arms… up the Steppes where I’ll meet with Pushkin or is he still dead, then play chess with Putin, my one testicle against his three. It’s downhill both ways on the Pyrenees. Which way to Paris? My legs are so, are so … not there I could pump up the Eiffel Tower and coast down the Pompidou, cycle the Seine left bank to my bank, pop the cork on a ’53 Bordeaux and guzzle my way to the next arrondissement through the Bois and shift gears to Montmartre, back in time to the cafes of starving artists with absinthe in their pee. Nothing wrong with that. Crowds cheering, flags flying, where is everybody? Did they spot my I.V. on TV? Did some one blow the whistle? I’ll deny then deny I denied; it’s the American way. They wanted a hero on a pedestal and I gave it to them; now I'm under the pedestal but it’s not about me, it’s all for my people, the Live Strong Foundation, the sponsors, the shoes and beer, the myth, the inspiration, it’s for the cause, the anti-cancer campaign, for the Tour, the team, for my country. I didn’t, I didn’t, I didn’t, I did …where’s Oprah?... prime time…how much? …can we haggle?... that’s not me, it’s the juice talking; stick a fork in me, I’m done.