‘Try spinning.” You remember the advert, don’t you? Black dude, with his midriff cascading over his shorts like a cellulite waterfall, getting advice as he huffed and puffed over his unsuccessful fitness regime.
So there I was, trying to spin. I laughed off the tights, and thought better of the sweatband and vest combo. After all, it was a spinning class, not a fashion faux pas exhibition.
I don’t know what I was thinking, joining the crazy gang at gym for the Saturday morning spinning class. It’s torturous enough trying to stay on a bike for 20 minutes, but these suckers for pain and treacherously positioned scrotums go the whole hog (75 minutes) on “Super Saturday”.
Within 20 minutes of my “Tour de Arse”, I realised why most people figure cyclists to be a bit of a crazy breed. By the time I was done, my knees felt like jelly, and my thighs felt like they were about to start a fire.
It’s no wonder that the likes of Lance Armstrong went to such extraordinary lengths to make life a bit easier.
The “athletes” surrounding me last Saturday weren’t even on real bikes, but the combination of an over-eager instructor, funky music and being part of a peloton seemed to inspire them to reach for new heights. Grown men and women were battering their bodies at the crack of dawn, doing anything to make sure that they didn’t quit before the person next to them.
Imagine then, what it must be like for these crazed fanatics who scale mountains, whizz around corners and batter their bodies into submission for weeks on end. In a sport as competitive as cycling, the temptation to “get some help” must be overwhelming.
We are all humans, after all, and it is in our nature to try to find a loophole or create a shortcut to success.
Of course, the minor problem with Armstrong is that he did a whole lot more than just “be human”. He sold the world a dream. He convinced us that he was Superman, conqueror of cancer and master of the small matter of a few mountains dotted across France.
Were we so wrong to trust in him?
In fact, after this, who can be trusted? If a guy who cheated death can get back to full health and then cheat his way to riches and world acclaim, who on earth can we trust out there to play within the rules?
Hey, who is to say that Usain Bolt won’t get exposed as a fraud 10 years from now? Or Michael Phelps? Or Messi, for that matter?
Sadly, this is the reality of what happens when icons suddenly fall from grace. It makes us cynical, reluctant to embrace the endless possibilities of the human body.
And for the fans and followers who are suddenly confronted with this uncomfortable truth, it’s like the little boy who finds out that there is no tooth fairy. It cuts you deep.
It’s a blow to our faith in the purity of the human race.
Money and power masked what Armstrong and his league of grubby gents were doing for years, but eventually the truth came out. But now, how do we know who else is playing us for fools?
The world of endurance sport is littered with extraordinary athletes who push themselves, training in obscurity to reach new heights. For the most part, theirs is a world that only makes headlines when it is for the wrong reasons.
In an instant, their legitimacy as clean athletes has been put into doubt. Of course, when poster boys fall, the shock waves hit the entire industry.
A friend pondered recently how Lance Armstrong can sleep at night, amidst all these allegations, the threats of lawsuits and the shame of being exposed as a cheat.
Who knows. Maybe he doesn’t sleep, riddled by the guilt of a billion-dollar farce. Then again, maybe he just pops a special pill, and the stress and anxiety melt away, to be confronted on another day.
It’s just that easy for some.