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and was charmed by that misty, dusty town tucked in the Italian Alps. Och was a wine lover,
and I benefited from his taste, learning to recognize fine food and fine wine. I discovered I had a
knack for languages. I was beginning to speak bits of Spanish, Italian, and French, and I could
even limp around in Dutch if I had to. I window-shopped through Milan, where I learned what a
really handsome suit looked like. One afternoon I walked into the Duomo, and in that instant all
of my ideas about art changed forever. I was overwhelmed by the color and proportion of it, by
the gray stillness in the archways, the warm parchment glow of the candles and the soaring
stained glass, the eloquence of the sculptures.
As the summer approached, I was growing up. On the bike, things began to come together and
my riding steadied. "It's all happening," Och said. And it was. An American race sponsor, Thrift
Drugs, put up a $1 million bonus for anyone who could win the Triple Crown of Cycling, a
sweep of three prestigious races in the U.S. I fixated on it. Each race was different: to get the
bonus you'd have to win a tough one-day race in Pittsburgh, then a six-day stage race in West
Virginia, and finally the U.S. Pro Championships, which was a one-day road race covering 156
miles through Philadelphia. It was a long shot, the promoters knew. Only a complete rider could
win it: you'd have to be a sprinter, a climber, and a stage racer rolled into one, and most
important, you'd have to be thoroughly consistent something I hadn't yet been.
All the riders talked about winning the bonus, and in the next breath we'd talk about how
impossible it was. But one night when I was on the phone with my mother she asked me, "What
are the odds of winning that thing?"
I said, "Good."
By June I had won the first two legs, and the press was going crazy and the promoters were
reeling. All that remained was the U.S. Pro Championships in Philly but I would have 119 other
cyclists trying to stop me. The anticipation was huge; an estimated half a million people would
line the route.
The day before the race I called my mother and asked her to fly up to Philadelphia. On such
short notice, she'd have to pay almost $1,000 round-trip, but she decided it was like buying a
lottery ticket if she didn't come, and I won, she'd always regret not being there.
I was resolved to ride a smart race, no irrational headfirst charges. Think the race through, I told
myself.
For most of the day, that's what I did. Then, with about 20 miles left, I went. I attacked on the
most notoriously steep part of the course Manayunk and as I did, I was almost in a rage. I don't
know what happened all I know is that I leaped out of the seat and hammered down on the
pedals, and as I did so I screamed for five full seconds. I opened up a huge gap on the field.
By the second-to-last lap, I had enough of a lead to blow my mother a kiss. I crossed the finish
line with the biggest winning margin in race history. I dismounted in a swarm of reporters, but I
broke away from them and went straight to my mom, and we put our faces in each other's
shoulder and cried.
That was the start of a dreamlike summer season. Next, I won a surprise victory in a stage of the
Tour de France with another late charge: at the end of a 114-mile ride from Chalons-sur-Marne
to Verdun, I nearly crashed into the race barriers as I sprinted away from the pack over the last
50 yards to the finish. A Tour stage was considered an extremely valuable victory in its own
right, and at 21,1 was the youngest man ever to win one.
But to show you just how experienced you have to be to compete in the Tour, I had to pull out
of the race a couple of days later, incapable of continuing. I abandoned after the 12th stage, in
97th place and shivering. The Alps got me; they were "too long and too cold," I told reporters
afterward. I fell so far behind that when I got to the finish line, the team car had already left for
the hotel. I had to walk back to our rooms, pushing my bike up a gravel trail. "As if the stage
wasn't enough, we have to climb this thing," I told the press. I wasn't physically mature enough
yet to ride the arduous mountain stages.
I still struggled with impatience at times. I would ride smart for a while, and then backslide. I
just couldn't seem to get it through my head that in order to win I had to ride more slowly at
first. It took some time to reconcile myself to the notion that being patient was different from
being weak, and that racing strategically didn't mean giving less than all I had.
With only a week to go before the World Championships, I made a typical blunder in the
championship of Zurich and used myself up before the critical part of the race. Again, I didn't
even finish in the Top 20. Och could have lost his temper with me; instead he stayed over in
Zurich for the next two days and went riding with me. He was certain I could win at the Worlds
in Oslo but only if I rode intelligently. As we trained together he chatted to me about
self-control.
"The only thing you have to do is wait," he said. "Just wait. Two or three laps is soon enough.
Anything earlier and you'll waste your chance to win. But after that, you can attack as many
times as you want."
There were no ordinary cyclists in the World Championships. I would be facing big riders, at [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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