Seven Deadly Sins: My Pursuit of Lance Armstrong

by David Walsh

All this was a fascinating glimpse inside a world which we all thought was closing as we watched. If nothing came of the SCA case, and that looked to be the likely outcome, the bottom line of the contract between the insurance company and Tailwind Sports was that SCA had to pay up if Lance was the official winner of the 2004 Tour de France. If Lance didn’t reverse his decision to retire then he would be riding off into a golden sunset, celebrated for ever as the man who had conquered cancer and France in that order, the guy who had made the world safe from little trolls.

  It was odd to discern the various weights of his concerns. I thought Betsy’s evidence was compelling but that Emma offered a more detailed forensic insight into life inside the US Postal team. And I had been hugely impressed with Stephen Swart during our time together in New Zealand in 2003.

  Armstrong seemed most shaken by Betsy, though. Not that this stopped him applying the boot elsewhere.

  Tillotson: She [Emma O’Reilly] has identified or said either to Mr Walsh or to others that, at one point in time during a Tour de France race, you asked her to dispose of some syringes.

  Armstrong: Uh-huh.

  Tillotson: Are you familiar with her statement regarding that?

  Armstrong: I’m familiar with that statement.

  Tillotson: Is there any truth to that statement?

  Armstrong: Absolutely not.

  Tillotson: Would you ever use syringes during a race – I mean, for any reason legitimate?

  Armstrong: You would use IVs for, like, replenishment of fluids. Just like any – like every – sport.

  Tillotson: Sure. But I’ve heard, for example, some professional athletes or cyclists would do injections of vitamins, hence the need for syringes.

  Armstrong: Yeah, sure. Yeah. And in Europe I think that’s much more accepted than the States. I mean, in Europe I think doctors are— the medical field would use a syringe, whereas here in the States, we would do it orally.

  Tillotson: Okay.

  Armstrong: There’s not the stigma around: I mean, in America, we see a syringe, you think, ‘Oh, no, is he a junkie?’ Whereas in Europe that’s fairly common.

  Tillotson: So I guess my question is, first of all, you never asked her to dispose of any syringes?

  Armstrong: Correct.

  Tillotson: But would you ever have had syringes on you to be disposed [of] in connection with any race?

  Armstrong: Me?

  Tillotson: Yes.

  Armstrong: No.

  Stephen Swart’s story about race-fixing was put to Lance. Was there any truth to Stephen’s statements that his team was offered $50, 000 in connection with attempting to fix the outcome of some races in which Lance was involved?

  Tillotson: Do you know why Mr Swart would say these things?

  Armstrong: As I said earlier, I have no idea why, other than perhaps, like Emma O’Reilly, he was paid for his testimony and needed the money.

  Tillotson: Do you believe that’s why Ms O’Reilly said these things about you?

  Armstrong: Absolutely.

  Tillotson: That she needed money?

  Armstrong: I’m not her financial advisor, but I think—

  Tillotson: Well, you have—

  Armstrong: We now know that Walsh paid his sources. Which he denied in the beginning – now admits. I don’t think any respected journalist would find that to be kosher.

  Tillotson: But other than that, do you have any other evidence to suggest that Ms O’Reilly was making up this in exchange for money, other than the fact that—

  Armstrong: I—

  Tillotson: . . . she received some compensation?

  Armstrong: Emma or Stephen?

  Tillotson: Emma. Oh, sorry . . .

  Armstrong: Pissed. Pissed at me, pissed at Johan. Really pissed at Johan. Pissed at the team. Afraid that we were going to out her as a – and all these things she said – as a whore, or whatever. I don’t know. But primarily, I have to confess, I think it was a major issue with Johan . . . And it wouldn’t have been a very good book if it was J.B. Confidentiel. There would not have been a lot of sales.

  There was other stuff, of course. All fascinating. Hein Verbruggen of the UCI had furnished a letter telling us about all the drug tests which Lance had passed and how great the laboratories were. On occasion the unfortunate timelines of events threatened to ambush even Armstrong.

  Dr Craig Nichols, one of the doctors who had supervised Armstrong’s care and who was now chief of haematology–oncology at Oregon Health & Science University, said in a sworn affidavit that he had ‘no recollection’ of any statement by Armstrong while in treatment confessing to the use of performance-enhancing drugs. He added, ‘Lance Armstrong never admitted, suggested or indicated that he has ever taken performance-enhancing drugs.’

  Betsy and Frankie Andreu’s depositions were taken on 25 October 2005 in Michigan. On 27 October, Indiana University announced that the Lance Armstrong Foundation had funded a $1.5 million endowed chair in oncology. Craig Nichols’ affidavit was signed on 8 December.

  Naturally, Lance Armstrong didn’t like the implication when these dates were pointed out: ‘It was a million and a half dollars, and I understand that’s a lot of money. But to suggest that I funded that chair to get an affidavit or to get some clean medical records or some sanitised records is completely ridiculous.’

  More entertaining, if you liked this sort of thing, was the issue of Lance’s two unsolicited donations to the UCI, the governing body of world cycling. He had thrown $25,000 into the pot a few years previously and, according to the UCI, had recently pledged another $100,000. This seemed most generous for a man with such little respect for institutions or the blazers who run them.

  Tillotson: Now, we were talking about WADA and the UCI. You have made a contribution or donation to the UCI, have you not?

  Armstrong: I have, yeah.

  Tillotson: Do you know when that was made?

  Armstrong: Some years ago. I don’t recall exactly.

  Tillotson: Well, 2000, for example?

  Armstrong: I don’t know.

  Tillotson: Was there anything that occasioned that, that you recall? Like, I’m doing it because of X or Y or Z?

  Armstrong: I’m doing it to fund the fight against doping.

  Tillotson: And what made you— what triggered that? I mean, was there any particular event?

  Armstrong: The only event, or in support of that fight, just like I’ve done on other occasions.

  Tillotson: Why the UCI? I mean, why give the money to UCI?

  Armstrong: Because they’re our governing body.

  Tillotson: Okay. How much did you give?

  Armstrong: I think twenty-five thousand dollars.

  Tillotson: You say you think . . .

  Armstrong: Yeah, I say I think because I’m not one hundred per cent sure.

  Tillotson: Would it be within a range of that, though, if you’re . . . I mean, it wouldn’t be like—

  Armstrong: Well, it wouldn’t be—

  Tillotson: Two hundred thousand dollars?

  Armstrong: No.

  Tillotson: Or one hundred and fifty thousand dollars?

  Armstrong: No.

  Tillotson: I mean, it could be thirty or forty, or it could be twenty, is what I’m asking.

  Armstrong: It could be. I don’t think it’s that. But I think it’s no more than thirty.

  Tillotson: Was it by personal cheque?

  Armstrong: I don’t remember.

  Tillotson: Did you tell the UCI you were going to make it before you did?

  Armstrong: I don’t recall, but I don’t think so. I don’t know.

  Tillotson: You gave twenty-five thousand dollars, or approximately twenty-five thousand dollars, to the UCI, but you don’t remember if you told them beforehand that you were sending them a cheque?

  Armstrong: I don’t recall.

  Tillotson: Had you ever given any money to UCI before?

  Armstrong: No.

  Tillotson: Have you ever gi
ven any money since?

  Armstrong: I have pledged money since, but I don’t think I’ve done it yet.

  Tillotson: When did you pledge money?

  Armstrong: I don’t remember. Between now and then.

  Tillotson: No. I meant when did you make the pledge?

  Armstrong: Between now and then. I don’t recall exactly.53

  Tillotson: Who did you give the money to?

  Armstrong: Well, if you sent a cheque or a wire, I don’t know who received it, but—

  Tillotson: I mean, like . . . is it literally like one day the UCI guy comes in, opens up the mail, and there’s a cheque from you for twenty-five thousand dollars?

  Armstrong: I mean, I don’t know. I wasn’t in the mail room.

  Tillotson: Okay. But did you let anyone know this is coming?

  Armstrong: I told you, I don’t remember.

  Tillotson: Okay. Have you spoken to anyone at the UCI regarding your donation?

  Armstrong: Yeah.

  Tillotson: Who?

  Armstrong: I have spoken to Alain Rumpf, Hein Verbruggen, perhaps others.

  Tillotson: Do you know what they’ve done with the money?

  Armstrong: I just told you, I don’t know.

  Tillotson: Okay. Like, they didn’t buy some specific equipment or something with it that you’re aware of? It wasn’t earmarked—

  Armstrong: Which part of ‘I don’t know’ do you not understand?

  Tillotson: So you have no idea why you gave twenty-five thousand dollars to the UCI at all. And you don’t even know if you called anyone before—

  Armstrong: I don’t know. Personally – now, this is going to shock you – but my style is different than David Walsh’s. My approach has been more of an internal one, to support clean racing, to support clean sport. My idea of the best tactic is not to slander and defame everybody, and bite the hand that feeds you, and piss in the soup; but my fight and my commitment has always been there.

  Look back and study Lance Armstrong at that time and you are looking at a man who figured that he was virtually home and clear. He was in retirement. His enemies were being quietened or smitten by lawyers. He was an icon. He had this one last inconvenience to get through and he’d collect his money and go surfing. Everything would be on the record for ever but, if he won, he won big. And for ever. So he enjoyed the entire experience.

  On 8 February 2006 a settlement was reached. SCA Promotions paid Armstrong and Tailwind Sports $7.5 million – the $5 million bonus plus interest and lawyers’ fees. Armstrong’s statement came later, when news of the depositions began to leak: ‘The allegations were rejected,’ he said. ‘It’s over. We won. They lost. I was yet again completely vindicated.’

  Not quite the case. While the ‘final arbitration award’ noted that the arbitrators settled after ‘having considered the evidence and testimony’, the panel produced no findings of fact. The business was settled without a ruling. Bob Hamman has always said, ‘The panel did not rule on the case.’

  The SCA business was an ending in a way. Or so it seemed. Lance Armstrong had retired. All the evidence had been put on oath. Everybody had gone in there risking perjury if they lied. It was the only time in the entire Lance saga that people got to swear under oath.54 But nothing happened. For years the twelve volumes of depositions and questions lived in retirement, taking up a huge chunk of space on my computer. Then, like Lance, they came back to active life.

  I sometimes wonder if that’s what Bob Hamman had intended all along. He’s a man whose life’s work has been a study of chance and probability. People who have played bridge with Bob (and lost) say that what most strikes fear into them is his ability to read what is in their mind and what they have in their hand. He himself says he has what he terms ‘an inferring state of mind’.

  My theory is that the entire season of depositions and hearings was Bob’s way of clearing the fog and getting to see what his opponent was holding. There is a manoeuvre in bridge known as ‘the psyche’. It’s a complex form of bluff. A player conveys one thing while planning another. It’s Bob’s trademark.

  He must have known from early on that once the arbitrators made up their mind about the nature of the relationship between SCA and Tailwind that all Lance had to do in order to claim his money was to prove that he was the official winner of the relevant Tours. Bob, though, pressed ahead; he let the interest mount up and the lawyers’ fees mount up until the time came to settle up. He picked up his tab but by then everything, for the first and only time, was down under oath.

  I think Bob created a time capsule that he could always come back to and dig up. A month after the release of the USADA report in October 2012, I read that Lance’s lawyers had made an offer to SCA of $1 million to ensure that the case didn’t come back to haunt them. The offer was politely turned down. SCA want more than that.

  Pierre and I have looked back sometimes at L.A. Confidentiel and the modest waves it caused. For a while we never saw the big picture. The book gave Bob Hamman the chance to get twelve volumes of sworn testimony down.

  You can say that in the end Bob Hamman got lucky. Lance came out of retirement, unexpectedly, and didn’t have the emotional intelligence to appreciate the need to keep Floyd Landis on his side. You can say too that Bob’s refusal to pay the $5 million bonus in 2004 simply cost him an extra $2.5 million in legal fees to Armstrong and another $1.7 million to his own lawyers.

  That’s a lot of money to pay for volumes of sworn testimony and Bob wasn’t certain he had done the right thing when writing the cheques. So, did he just get lucky? I prefer to think that he did the right thing when refusing to pay $5 million to a man he believed to be a cheat and because he did the right thing, he earned his reward.

  In the end, Bob looked down and found that he was holding a hand that he liked. L.A. Confidentiel was right in there, a key player in a high-stakes game.

  19

  ‘The good people sleep much better at night than the bad people. Of course, the bad people enjoy the waking hours much more.’

  Woody Allen

  I took 2006 as my gap year. My sabbatical, sort of. Time to go away and plug myself into a recharger, and finally write a book in English about this whole saga. It pleased me that From Lance to Landis: Inside the American Doping Controversy at the Tour de France was published by Ballantine Books, an imprint of Random House in New York. In the Arctic world that is home to trolls, the ice was melting.

  That was also the year the SCA arbitration finished, the year the Sunday Times settled with Lance, the year that the Tour de France took off without its winner for the last seven years.

  The Tour. No Lance. No me. I was okay with that. Paul covered the event for the Sunday Times. I did other things. I coached a boys’ football team. I wrote my book, stayed at home and it was easier than I thought it would be.

  Then Floyd Landis won the Tour de France. And a day later, as the riders would say, they popped him. Did I feel a little jealous of Paul? No. A lot jealous? Yes.

  In Floyd Landis we could see the genes that would let Lance continue. More squat, more muscular, less handsome, less cunning, but Floyd was Floyd and he had a will that sometimes made Lance look like a kitten. Certain people in life you don’t want to mess with.

  Floyd broke his hip in 2003 on a ride just north of San Diego. He didn’t just break it as normal people would understand things: there was no crack, no hairline fracture. Nope, he broke the top right off his femur.

  For most people that would be the hint to go and do something else. Floyd had some titanium pins inserted, each of them four inches long, and they held the top of the bone in place. They also snagged his muscles and ligaments as they moved over the bone while he trained. So he had them replaced. Next day he headed to Europe to join the boys at training camp for the Tour. He rode the Tour all the way home. Not a problem that his hip was just rotting away like a damp fire-log.

  Not normal. Nothing about Floyd Landis was normal.

  He came f
rom the most unusual of backgrounds. Lancaster County in Pennsylvania has a large congregation of devout Mennonites, which makes it a no sex, no drugs, no rock and roll type of place. Every writer wanted to write a portrait of the cyclist as a young man.

  Floyd was reared in Farmersville, as a Mennonite with all the trimmings: church three times a week, no television, no sport, no exertion on Sundays, no dancing, no revealing clothing, no mingling with the unrighteous. His early races he couldn’t wear shorts less the wrath of God hindered him. Finally Floyd decided that God had other things to be worrying about.

  Young Floyd Landis developed a passion for mountain bike racing. Slightly sinful but he was good at it. At the age of 16, his parents had taken him aside for a little chat: ‘If you continue competitive cycling, your soul will burn for eternity.’ Floyd didn’t believe that. Maybe Paul and Arlene Landis didn’t really believe it either. They became their son’s greatest fans.

  Floyd moved to California at the age of 19. He’d seen one movie, Jaws. He’d never tried coffee, alcohol or sex. He caught up. He started road racing in 1999 and signed for US Postal just three years later. Straight in under the wing of Lance.

  Landis was both odd and straight up. In Girona, where the Postal boys were living, he kept an apartment which would have been small for an impoverished student. For a pro biker it was a joke. He got about the town on a skateboard. He worked like a lunatic. He questioned everything. He made people laugh. He had the word ‘winner’ stamped all over him.

  Nothing could stop him, not even that hip he busted up in 2003. He could only mount the bike from one side, couldn’t cross his legs when sitting and was in pain most of the time. Who cared about hell for eternity when cycling was purgatory on earth?

  Lance ushered Landis into the inner sanctum with unprecedented haste. Soon he and Floyd were off riding together for long stretches. Big bro. Little bro. He could see what the kid had. In 2002 and again in 2003, Landis spent five weeks before the Tour down in St Moritz in the company of Lance Armstrong and Michele Ferrari.

  Floyd was inside and still he was outside. Unimpressed. When something offended his sensibilities he couldn’t handle it. He could rationalise doping. Other things he couldn’t tolerate.55