Everything else was prologue. Today’s the day the seven went away.
Quick story, then I’m back to suspension design.
A few years back, my company took a strange phone call. We were an ecommerce bike shop, so every phone call was strange, but this one came from a friend of Floyd Landis. This friend knew my head of sales and customer service and felt compelled to call him up and inform him that Lance was fucked and that shit was about to get real. Evidence was going to surface by the pound. Game over.
Any friend of Floyd around this time must have been living a pretty strange life. This was around the time Landis was starting to get pretty fucking weird, so after the phone call and some sharing of its theme, we all just shook our heads.
Poor crazy Floyd, was the general consensus. I don’t think a single person in the room believed Armstrong was innocent; we just believed Floyd’s already messy existence was about to get a lot messier if he tangled with Lance.
And then today, this. It took a village, including Dave Zabriskie, quoted in the New York Times as “serenading Johan Bruyneel, the longtime team manager, with a song about EPO, to the tune of Jimi Hendrix’s ‘Purple Haze.'”
Is “goofy” one of the eight stages of grief? If so, I think it comes right before “acceptance.”
As yet unresolved, from what I can tell, is some serious house cleaning at the UCI.
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