Lance Armstrong is angry. “I mean, listen, look. Travis Tygart and his band of haters can say what they want. Those Tours happened. . . . It was an unfortunate time, most of us if not all of us played by the same set of rules. . . . I consider myself the winner of those seven Tours.”
The memory is as vivid as the stain that could be seen darkening the road. It was a damp patch, a small puddle emanating from a stricken rider’s head, expanding on the asphalt as riders sprinted past, rubbernecking at 45 mph to catch a glimpse of the figure on the road. He was lying on his side, curled up in the fetal position.