THE 2003 TOUR de France is seven months away. It might as well be tomorrow. Lance Armstrong's inner clock is ticking, ticking, which might explain why, sitting on a stage yesterday with doctors and politicians, the world's greatest cyclist and the recently anointed Sports Illustrated Sportsman of the Year is twitching.
Armstrong made an appearance yesterday at the Anne Arundel Medical Center. He jetted in (with another stop in North Carolina to follow) to help celebrate the cancer center's $13 million expansion. In a tent full of surgeons, radiologists, nurses, patients, cancer survivors and hospital benefactors - all stars in the fight against cancer - Armstrong's presence still made him the focal point of the proceedings.
It was a presence defined by energy desperately seeking an outlet. The feet bounced. His hands jiggled. He pulled at his sports coat like he couldn't wait to shed it. For a minute, you figured Armstrong was itching to slip into his Lycra bike shorts, hit the road and go. Just go.
It was downright painful to watch. It was as if this man can't stand to be separated from his bike. But soon enough, you could see Armstrong was glad to be here. It was no chore - taking the podium to talk about this strange and inspiring confluence of cancer and cycling.
It's impossible to separate them now. Six years in the clear from his near-fatal fight against advanced testicular cancer (he crosses his fingers) and four consecutive Tour de France wins later, Armstrong can't distinguish the line that separates the two forces that drive him.
The bike and cancer. Cancer and the bike.
"I was blown away. I didn't expect to be sick, let alone have advanced testicular cancer. I was probably having the best year of my career. But the doctor told me to go get a chest X-ray. I thought, 'Hmmm, I'm having a problem down there and now I'm getting a chest X-ray.' I knew it was serious," Armstrong told the audience.
"When I got back to his office, he put the X-ray up on the light. He said, 'You have testicular cancer.' I said, 'Are you sure?' He said, 'I'm so sure that you're having surgery at 7 a.m. tomorrow.' I guess he was sure."
The autobiography Armstrong co-authored in 2000 with writer Sally Jenkins, "It's Not About the Bike," details the grueling treatment Armstrong underwent to combat the cancer that rose up into his stomach, lungs and brain.
Many cancer survivors in Annapolis yesterday were eager to tell about their experience reading the book, knowing that if Armstrong could get through his treatment and come back to win the Tour de France, they were going to win, too.
Regardless of his book, regardless of his foundation, regardless of his celebrity status and endorsement millions, Armstrong will never be done giving testimony. As he spoke, the 32-year-old Texan tapped into a compelling vein of power and truth. All the fidgeting and the fast-twitch muscle tension dissipated. He was home here.
"I never would have, never could have won the Tour without the illness," Armstrong said. "I give thanks to the illness. I give thanks for what I went through. I don't want to do it again, but some days I need more perspective in my life. It was a wonderful experience for me."
This is a rare thing. An otherworldly class of athlete - perhaps one of the most fit people on the face of the Earth - whose every climb up the lung incinerating side of a Pyrenees mountain; whose every donning of a winner's yellow jersey is a symbol of life.
He is driven to win his fifth Tour this summer, tying the record of his hero, Spain's Miguel Indurain. After that, there is the record, No. 6, before he'll even consider throttling back from this superhuman pursuit.
But now the cycling is not his only work. Armstrong is closely associated with BrainLAB, the makers of the Novalis Shaped Beam Surgery. This non-invasive radiosurgery is the centerpiece of the expansion at the Anne Arundel Medical Center. The shaped beam can deliver radiation precisely shaped to attack only the tumor and not damage the normal surrounding tissue. It is fast, painless, bloodless and it eliminates the risks of invasive surgery.
Under his cap of close-cropped hair, Armstrong still carries the silver-dollar-sized scars from the surgery he had in 1996 to remove two tumors. It's a surgery he wouldn't have to have today. For that, Armstrong is as emotional about the advances in technology and cancer treatment as he is driven to ride.
His place in cycling history has yet to be completely written, although four consecutive Tour victories finally got him the recognition many thought he deserved in 1999, when he won his first Tour. Armstrong took a gentle stab at SI for waiting four years to honor him.
"We come from a country where it's all football, baseball and basketball, with maybe a little golf and hockey in there. It's an honor that I come from a sport that is recognized," he said.
"I wholeheartedly believe that the Tour de France is the hardest sport in the world. Anything that's three weeks long is hard. When you throw in the elements, [the winner of the Tour] probably deserves to win."
As for Armstrong's legacy? That's a done deal. His work, his message, his delivery, his dedication is so very good.