Cycle of Lies: The Fall of Lance Armstrong Read online

  Riders like Armstrong could get drugs in several different ways—from Hendershot, from their personal doctor or a team doctor, or by buying them over the counter themselves. Each rider would bring those drugs to Hendershot and he would administer them by injecting them into the rider, by mixing a potion of them for the rider to drink or inject, or by injecting them into IVs the rider would receive, based on the doctor’s instructions. Sometimes the drugs would also come in pill form, and Hendershot would dole those out, too.

  In the early 1990s, by Hendershot’s estimation, less than half the teams in the pro peloton had a doctor on staff. Those teams were ahead of the curve. “Drugs level the playing field, but the better your doctor is, the better you are going to be,” Hendershot says, adding that he believes that almost all of the doctors were administering drugs to their riders.

  He said he knew substances that Testa had given the riders, but didn’t want to name them because he believes that Testa—unlike other doctors in cycling—actually cared for the riders’ health, and cared less about winning or money. Testa told me in 2006 that he never administered drugs to his riders. Hendershot put it this way, though: A doctor who refused to give riders drugs wouldn’t last in the sport.

  Hendershot was constantly worried that something he was giving the riders would hurt them—or even possibly kill them—especially when he was administering substances that riders had injected into the IV bags themselves or when the riders’ personal doctors would prepare concoctions for Hendershot to give. He was concerned that he would be culpable if anything ever went wrong, but was constantly rationalizing his actions. Even as he provided drugs to riders, Hendershot said, he told himself, “You’re not a drug dealer. This isn’t organized. This is no big deal.”

  He knew he was lying.

  He rationalized the lie by saying the process was overseen by Testa. If the drug use was not mandated by the team, it was at least quasi-official. Hendershot trusted Testa to make sure the drugs did nothing to hurt the riders.

  Armstrong liked Testa so much that he moved to Italy to be near the doctor’s office in the little town of Como, north of Milan. Not long after joining Motorola, Armstrong began to live in Como during the racing season. He brought along his close friend Frankie Andreu, and in time several other riders joined them, including George Hincapie, a New Yorker, and Kevin Livingston, a Midwesterner. All became patients of Testa. All would later become riders on Armstrong’s United States Postal Service Tour de France winning teams.

  Hendershot said all those riders likely believed they were doing no wrong by doping. The definition of cheating was flexible in a sport so replete with pharmacology: It’s not cheating if everybody is doing it. Armstrong believed that to be the dead-solid truth. For him, there was no hesitation, no second-guessing, no rationalizing. As Hendershot had done, Armstrong grabbed the ring.

  April 20, 1994. Three riders from the Italy-based Gewiss-Ballan team stood atop the podium in their light blue, red and navy uniforms after dominating the Flèche Wallonne, a one-day race in Belgium’s hilly Ardennes region. Two held bouquets of flowers above their heads as they waved to the crowd. Armstrong seethed. The Gewiss riders were flaunting their success at his expense. He had finished 36th, fully 2 minutes and 32 seconds behind the leaders.

  About fifty kilometers from the finish of that Flèche Wallonne, the Gewiss riders had broken away from the pack and, as Armstrong put it later, “demoralized everyone.” They pedaled faster as the peloton diminished into a tiny speck on the horizon behind them. They had raced along the narrow, dipping roads to the final climb up the Mur de Huy, a steep ascent with gradients as high as 26 percent. They rode up the Wall as if it were tabletop-flat. Moreno Argentin crossed the finish line first, while teammates Giorgio Furlan and Evgeni Berzin finished two-three.

  It was there, in Belgium, in 1994, that the exhausted peloton realized the amazing power of EPO. The winning team’s doctor told them about it. In fact, he told the world. After the race, a reporter from the French sports newspaper L’Equipe, Jean-Michel Rouet, interviewed the doctor, Michele Ferrari, and asked him if his riders used EPO.

  “I don’t prescribe this stuff,” Ferrari said. “But one can buy EPO in Switzerland, for example, without a prescription. And if a rider does that, don’t scandalize me. EPO doesn’t fundamentally change the performance of a racer.”

  The reporter said, “In any case, it’s dangerous! Ten Dutch riders have died in the last few years.”

  Then Ferrari, who has long denied doping any of his athletes, said something that would haunt him for years. “EPO is not dangerous, it’s the abuse that is. It’s also dangerous to drink ten liters of orange juice.”

  In other words, it’s all part of a balanced breakfast.

  But to the uninitiated, confusion reigned. Armstrong, Andreu, Hincapie and Livingston—four riders who would become the core of American cycling—threw questions at their own team doctor, Testa. What does EPO do? Is it dangerous? Do you think other teams are using it? Can you help us use it?

  Testa tried to convince them they didn’t need the drug. He said the riders’ natural abilities would be enough for them to succeed in the sport, and that it was just a rumor that all riders used EPO. “People are trying to make money off of this, you don’t need it. Studies show that it apparently doesn’t help very much.”

  Still, Testa felt EPO use was inevitable. So he gave up trying to keep his riders from it. One day, he handed each rider an envelope containing studies about EPO and instructions on its use. He told the riders how much EPO to take and when to take it. “If you want to use a gun, you had better use a manual, rather than to ask a guy on the street,” he told me. While he facilitated the drug use, Testa denies ever dispensing any doping products.

  The training ride was a leisurely spin during which the Motorola riders cruised along for hours, loosening their legs. It was March 18, 1995. The day before, on the way home from Milan-San Remo—where he finished 73rd—Armstrong grumbled to Hincapie, a longtime friend, “This is bullshit. People are using stuff. We’re getting killed.”

  Armstrong pushed the issue while the team pedaled alongside Lake Como the next day. He was twenty-three and already a world champion, and had won a single stage of the 1993 Tour de France. But he considered that only the beginning. Growing brasher by the day, he wasn’t going to let a bunch of European pussies kick the crap out of him because they were using a wonder drug and he wasn’t.

  Armstrong approached rider after rider. “I’m getting my ass kicked and we’ve got to do something about it. We need to get on a program.” They knew what he meant. They agreed it was time for EPO. The new drug was ubiquitous. Riders carried thermos jugs packed with ice and tiny EPO glass vials. Clink, clink, clink. You could hear the vials rattle against the ice. Clink, clink, clink. In this era of cycling, it was the sound track of the sport.

  Armstrong might have chosen to use EPO on his own, but it wouldn’t have done him much good. Cycling, despite appearances, is a team sport. There is usually one leader on each team who sets the agenda and whom the other riders support. On Motorola, that man was Armstrong, arguably the best all-around rider.

  The rest of the squad are domestiques—secondary riders. Domestique is the French word for “servant,” and those servants sacrifice themselves to help the leader win, partly with team tactics and partly with aerodynamics. They take turns with other domestiques and ride in front of their leader—or to the side, if there is a crosswind—to punch a hole in the air and allow the leader to tuck in behind and save energy. The leader is being swept along in their draft, and expends up to 40 percent less energy than he would riding alone.

  The goal is to deliver the team leader as fresh as possible to the crucial point in the race. From there, he can take off and win the stage or take off and gain time on his competition in the overall race for the yellow leader’s jersey.

  Eventually, though, the domestiques burn themselves out and often peel off from their leader before s
truggling to finish the stage. So the stronger a leader’s domestiques are, the better his chances to win because they will be able to hang on and help him as the finish line grows closer.

  In 1995, Armstrong presented his domestiques with an ultimatum: If they wanted to be considered for the Tour team that year, they had to start using EPO. Don’t want to? Well, there’s the door. Armstrong was taking control. It was his success at stake. The Motorola program had been built around him. Finishing 73rd in a big race would not inspire sponsors to sign on. Motorola had already said it was ending its sponsorship at the end of the season. The pressure was on, then, to attract another sponsor to cover most of the team’s bills.

  When Hendershot took over as Armstrong’s soigneur, J.T. Neal became Armstrong’s personal assistant. In Como, he ran errands and generally made life easier for Armstrong while he raced or trained. When Armstrong dropped out of the Tour de France early—in 1993, 1994 and 1996—Neal picked him up for the trip to Como. He moved Armstrong from apartment to apartment between seasons. He ran the household. He once paid the bill to get the apartment’s electricity turned on after Armstrong and Andreu had let a bill go unpaid. He repaired the clothes dryer.

  When Armstrong arrived in Como after a Tour, Neal began massage sessions to prepare him for the fall’s world championships. The men stuck together. Neal introduced Armstrong to art in Milan’s museums. Sometimes, they simply sat outside Armstrong’s place overlooking Lake Como, sharing low-calorie meals like tuna with balsamic vinegar and olive oil.

  A visit to Testa was often on the day’s to-do list. Though the soigneur Hendershot said he injected Armstrong with performance-enhancing drugs soon after Armstrong signed with Motorola in 1992, Armstrong himself claims he didn’t start doping until the 1993 world championships. He said Testa gave him Synacthen, a drug that stimulates the adrenal glands to secrete glucocorticoids. Riders say Synacthen makes them feel stronger and takes away some of the pain of a difficult ride. The drug was available on the Motorola team even before Armstrong pushed his teammates to use EPO. Hendershot said Armstrong was “as clean as he ever was” at those worlds.

  Neal figured Testa’s job was to inject Armstrong with every needle within reach. Testa was constantly giving Armstrong IVs with substances the doctor called “liver cleansers.” Stephen Swart, a teammate from New Zealand who had first raced in Europe in 1987, didn’t live in Como and see Testa regularly like the American riders did, but had heard about Armstrong’s drug use because the sport was so insular and rumors—especially pertaining to doping—traveled fast.

  Swart, a stern, strapping guy, thought Armstrong was mandating what the team’s directors wouldn’t. Jim Ochowicz, a two-time Olympian in track cycling who is considered the godfather of American cycling, had founded the 7-Eleven team, the first American team to race in Europe, and stayed with the team when Motorola came on as its sponsor. It was Ochowicz who first imagined Americans challenging the European old guard, and it was Ochowicz who had made it happen.

  In 1986, 7-Eleven became the first U.S. team to compete in the Tour, and one of its riders, Davis Phinney, even won a stage. For years, Ochowicz was the point person in the U.S. for international cycling, the negotiator dealing with sponsors and the European race directors. With journalists, for some reason, he liked to play down his knowledge of the sport’s inner workings.

  Often when Ochowicz was asked about Armstrong and EPO, or other performance-enhancing drugs, he took on a look as if to say, How could you even think such a thing? He would smile nervously and say, “I have no idea how to respond” (2005) or “I don’t know what the answer is” (2009) or “The answer is that I haven’t a clue” (2010). He has denied involvement or knowledge of any cheating on the team. Over the course of seven years, I would walk away time and again thinking Ochowicz was either a practiced liar or the most oblivious man ever to walk in cycling’s clink-clink world.

  Swart and other riders and employees insist it was impossible for Ochowicz to be that naive. He was a man Armstrong professed to be his “surrogate father.” Ochowicz stood up for Armstrong at his wedding and is the godfather to his first son. Swart and others said Ochowicz would leave the room anytime the team talked about doping.

  Hendershot said he felt the team managers, like Ochowicz, were the most unethical members of a team because often they turned a blind eye to the doping, and never seemed concerned about the safety of their riders. They relied on the doctors and soigneurs to make sure the cyclists didn’t overdose and drop dead, he said.

  Armstrong said Motorola’s EPO use began in May 1995 at the Tour DuPont, America’s best-known multistage race. Armstrong, who had finished runner-up the previous two years, became the second American winner after Greg LeMond. With his victory came a big payday, $40,000. Including bonus money, Armstrong collected $51,000. He shared it with his teammates.

  Swart said he received Testa’s EPO instructions in the spring of 1995 and that he and Andreu subsequently went to Switzerland to buy the drug. They used it for the Tour of Switzerland, which ran shortly before the Tour de France. Swart said he used EPO for the last time after the prologue of the 1995 Tour. Every morning and every night at that Tour, team employees showed up at the team hotel with bags of ice for riders’ thermoses, and were sometimes exhausted after an all-day hunt in countries that mostly serve their drinks at room temperature.

  During one rest day of that 1995 Tour de France, Armstrong and his Motorola team gathered in Testa’s room. They found him using a small machine called a centrifuge. He asked each to stand in line so he could take a small blood sample and place it in the centrifuge, which spun the blood to separate it into three categories: plasma, red blood cells and white blood cells. His goal was to measure their hematocrit level. Too high a hematocrit level meant they had used too much EPO and might be placing themselves in danger of a heart attack. (Riders had heard stories of some cyclists setting alarms to wake up in the middle of the night to exercise, so that their EPO-thickened blood wouldn’t cause them to suffer cardiac arrest in their sleep.)

  With half of the Tour and so many punishing miles behind them, the riders’ hematocrit levels should have dropped well below normal. With the EPO they had used, though, their bodies were making new red blood cells at that very moment. Their hematocrits soared, as if they had not pedaled a mile. They were fresh.

  Swart saw that most of his teammates had hematocrits of more than 50. His, he recalled, was the lowest of everyone’s, at 47 percent. He remembered the others’ numbers: Andreu’s was at about 50. Andrea Peron, an Italian, had the highest, at 56. (There have been no conclusive findings that Peron ever doped.) Armstrong’s was either 52 or 54, at least ten percentage points above his norm. Even with that edge, Armstrong, the strong one-day racer, would go on to finish 36th in that Tour, nearly an hour and a half slower than Miguel Indurain, the winner.

  The telephone call came to Kathy LeMond in the middle of the night. The wife of the American cycling star Greg LeMond heard screaming and crying when she picked up the receiver in their home in Belgium. Then she heard a voice say, “He’s dead! He’s dead! I tried to help him, but he’s already dead! I touched him—he’s cold! He’s dead!”

  The voice was that of Annalisa Draaijer, the American wife of the twenty-six-year-old Dutch cyclist Johannes Draaijer. That night at the Draaijers’ home in Holland, three days after her husband had returned from a race, Annalisa heard Johannes make a gurgling sound as they lay in bed. She tried to wake him, but his body was limp. He had died beside her. She knew no one else to turn to.

  Greg LeMond had raced with Draaijer on the Dutch team, PDM. Their wives bonded because both spoke English. Now their friend was dead. As soon as news of Draaijer’s death became public, there was speculation that EPO use had caused the cyclist’s blood to thicken into mud and cause a heart attack. No one ever proved Johannes Draaijer died because he was on EPO. But to Greg LeMond, nothing seemed more obvious.

  “He died for what?” LeMond asks. “For
nothing . . . Everybody knew what was going on, but nobody stopped it. Nobody.”

  CHAPTER 5

  In the fall of 1995, Lance Armstrong went in search of Dr. Michele Ferrari. He wanted to work with the man who had transformed the Gewiss-Ballan bikes at Flèche Wallonne into flying machines.

  But Ferrari had become a kingmaker in cycling and had grown increasingly selective about his clientele. So even strong riders like Armstrong needed to undergo a physical before any deal was closed. Because he was afraid of going anywhere alone, Armstrong convinced his girlfriend, Monica Buck, a former Miss Hawaiian Tropic from Texas, and J.T. Neal to accompany him to Ferrari’s office in Bologna. They climbed into Armstrong’s car for the two-and-a-half-hour drive from Como on autostrada A1, due southeast.

  It wasn’t the most comfortable ride. Neal didn’t want him to go, and was cross that he’d gone ahead and made the appointment. All he said, in his soft Southern drawl, was, “Lance, don’t get greedy now.”

  Only twenty-four years old, Armstrong had nearly $750,000 in the bank. But Neal knew that Armstrong idolized people like Ochowicz, the Motorola team manager who ate at the best restaurants, stayed at five-star hotels and ordered only the priciest wines. Armstrong could see only one route to get there—and that was with Ferrari leading the way. He had asked Eddy Merckx, the five-time Tour champion from Belgium, to introduce him to the doctor, and Merckx obliged.

  Buck, meanwhile, was a petite, voluptuous aspiring actress who had come from Texas to visit Armstrong. Neal worried about her. Lance had a way with women. He had dumped Buck’s predecessor, Danielle Overgaag, a top Dutch cyclist who had lived with him in Austin, because she’d been “too opinionated.” Neal had the feeling that Armstrong would never have gone to see Ferrari if Overgaag had still been in the picture. But at summer’s end, in 1995, Armstrong had Neal remove Overgaag’s belongings from the Como apartment to make room for Miss Hawaiian Tropic, who seemed already to be straining her welcome.