Cycling Downhill with No Brakes

Lance Armstrong has submitted himself to America’s Mother Confessor, Oprah Winfrey. Millions of viewers tuned in to watch the disgraced cyclist try to rescue his reputation. Was he sorry, contrite, remorseful, and did he shed the requisite number of tears?

I don’t know and don’t care because the bottom line is that no mortal human can win seven consecutive Tour de France titles without pharmacological augmentation. It just ain’t possible, and all along most folks knew Armstrong was up to something, but he was a cancer survivor and his story made for good copy, and he dated Sheryl Crow, and hung around with movie stars, and headed a foundation that was supposedly doing good works, so we made him a hero, hoisted him on a pedestal and worshipped him.

In the process, we also made him very wealthy.

But what does it matter? For many years to come Lance Armstrong will be besieged by lawsuits from former friends and associates; if nothing else emerged from Oprah’s dog and pony show, Armstrong appears to understand that he is fucked, and royally so. All the people he abused and stepped on as he climbed the mountain of fame and fortune will return to haunt him.

We love to create a hero only as much as we love destroying one; this is what we do in America. The wall-to-wall Armstrong coverage will continue a few more days, and then the pathetic prick will drop off the radar, not to return until he writes a confessional book or claims to have found redemption in God. We will find someone to replace him on the pedestal; we always do because we’re suckers for an improbable story.   

I only wish Oprah would employ her vast media powers in something more useful, like interviewing all the crooked bankers and financiers and lobbyists and politicians who wrecked the economy in 2008, and left millions of Americans without houses or retirement funds.