BEFORE AND AFTER I want to die at a hundred years old with an American flag on my back and the star of Texas on my helmet,after screaming down an Alpine descent on a bicycle at 75 miles per hour. Iwant to cross one last finish line as my stud wife and my ten children applaud,and then I want to lie down in a field of those famous French sunflowers and gracefully expire,the perfect contradiction to my onceanticipated poignant early demise. A slow death is not for me.I don\'t do anything slow,not even breathe. I do everything at a fast cadence:eat fast. It makes me crazy when my wife,Kristin,driver our car,because she brakes at all the yellow caution lights,while I squirm impatiently in the passenger seat. "Come on,don't be a skirt,"I tell her. "Lance",she say ,"marry a man ." I've spent mu life racing my bike,from the back roads of Austin,Texas to the Champs-Elysees, and I always figured if I died an untimely death,it would be because some rancher in his Dodge4X4 ran me headfirst into a ditch.Believe me ,it could happen.Cyclists fight an onging war with guys in big trucks,and so many vehicles have hit me, so many times,in so many countries,I\'ve lost count.I\'ve learned how to take out my own stitches:all you need is a pair of fingernail clippers and a strong stomach.
If you saw my body underneath my racing jersey,you'd know what I'm talking about. I'ver got marbled scars on both arms and discolored marks up and down my legs,which I keep clean-shaven. Maybe that's why truck are always trying to run me over; they see my sissy-boy calves and decide not to brake.But cyclists have to shave,because when the gets into your skin,it's easier to clean and bandage if you have no hair.
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