is a retired Inquirer columnist
The mountains, those old familiar foes, are waiting for him - waiting with their spirit-shattering ascents and their wild, Satanic descents, waiting to test him again, just like in the good old days.
The Alps. The Pyrenees. Snow-capped fortresses, they beckon, tauntingly, to the man on the bike once more: Welcome back, Lance. Climb us if you can.
The mountains were where he would always crush them. The rest of them, the pursuing pack, would be staggering about in wobble-legged fatigue, standing straight up on the pedals and all but ready to surrender. And then he would dig in and, with those locomotive legs churning and those lungs working like bellows, will himself to the summit. The rest of them could only gape - physically beaten, psychologically destroyed.
Seven summers running, it went like that. Seven summers running, Lance Armstrong, the best cyclist ever, winning the Tour de France, dominating his sport as no one has before or since, and, what's more - much, much more - becoming a beacon of inspiration and resistance for those locked in battle with cancer.
Armstrong came back from the almost-dead, again and again and yet again, to win a race of insane demands - more than 2,000 miles in the broiling sun, shivering cold, and slashing rain, uphill and down. And in the ferocity of his determination - in his impassioned refusal to give up or give in - tens of thousands found a reason to fight, to go one-on-one with that cruel, insidious disease.
(Full disclosure: On the wall above the mantel in our living room is the sort of yellow jersey reserved for the winner of the Tour de France. It is signed by Lance Armstrong, and it is inscribed with a defiant encouragement to my wife, who, for a long, debilitating time now, has been spitting in the eye of the Big C. She has the mind-set of a middle linebacker, which makes her perfect for marching in Armstrong's Army, and I stand in awe of their valor. So we are not objective when it comes to Armstrong. Not even a little bit.)
Now Armstrong is back in the saddle. More than three years removed from his last competition, at the age of 37, he dares to try the Tour again. On the Fourth of July, in Monaco, he will propel himself down the start ramp and launch into a 21-stage, 3,500-kilometer test of endurance laced with risk - over the treachery of slick cobblestones, around devil's hairpin curves, and toward the mountains and their taunt echoing in the wind: Welcome back, Lance. Climb us if you can.
Is it hubris? Is it ego? Like so many athletes who find themselves adrift in retirement - without purpose, without adulation - has he, too, succumbed to the lure of bright lights? Reruns are almost always letdowns. When icons go down, they go down hard.
But this purpose has nobility in it. He rides "to raise awareness of the global cancer crusade." It is a cause that he threw himself into, that consumes him still, and that now impels him to risk his legacy.
But no. Wait. On second thought, his legacy will endure, whether he wins or crashes or does something in between. His legacy will live on in those millions of yellow bracelets urging the wearer and all who see them: "Livestrong."
"The main objective is the message of the foundation," Armstrong said. "The Tour is the biggest bike race in the world, and we need it to tell this story on the biggest stage."
The sport needs him as much as he needs it. It is shot through with scandal - dopers and juicers found out and sent into exile with distressing frequency. Cycling has taken a bigger public-relations hit from abusers of performance-enhancing drugs than baseball has.
So a triumphant Armstrong return would help revive a staggering sport. Like Tiger Woods, Armstrong transcends his sport. "What's good for Tiger is good for the rest of us" is the principle in golf, and the same applies to Armstrong and cycling. When he was away, race day seemed gray.
The reunion embrace is not quite unanimous, however. For years, a yapping pack of jackals has tried to discredit Armstrong, charging him with using chemicals and tainting his triumphs. His rebuttal has remained the same: that he is the most tested athlete in the world.
In March, the French anti-doping agency tested him - the 24th time he had submitted to a drug test in the last year. The result, to the jackals' dismay, was the same as always: clean.
What they cannot accept is the notion that one man, one solitary man on a bicycle, is capable of superhuman achievements without chemical aid.
And that, of course, gets to the heart of the matter: that what drives him and drives all of those warrior-survivors is their gloriously defiant, spit-in-the-eye-of-the-Big-C attitude.
This crusade already has its rally sign:
Hope.
Rides.
Again.
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