Dear Lance Armstrong

If the tables were turned, and it was Lance Armstrong who finished uni and went to pursue his profession in Singapore, before completing a PhD and becoming an academic, and if I had been the one to pursue a professional cycling career with multiple tour wins and sponsorship deals, I would fully expect Lance to be the one typing away at a computer and saying what I now find myself having to say, and that is:

It could have been me Lance!

I look at your legs, and I think you pussy Sir Lancelot Armstrong. For all that cycling, they’re no more angry looking than mine!

And I’m the one who went from F-grade to A-grade and won a club championship in my very first year of racing, Lance. How long did you take? Hu? Hu! And by the end of that year I was crossing hills while every A-grade cyclist, in Newcastle Lance, the whole of Newcastle, was choking minutes behind me. And I never went in for your hoity toity organised training, or training diaries, or diets. I would just head up Mount Sugarloaf by myself between lectures, or down to Toronto on the freeway, all on a bowl of rolled oats, ’cause I was poor Lance. I was a student. Had you had my brains, that’s right, brains Lance, it would have been you sitting up to watch me win the tour. You know I could have been a contender. 

Since we’re all among friends here at Behoovingmoving, I would invite all my dear readers to suck on a Scotch and tell us why they know, and have proof, that they could have been a contender as well. It’s so nice just to get this stuff off of your chest. 

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