Okay, Okay

Lance Armstrong has apparently conceded the Tour de France to his teammate, Alberto Contador. The Spaniard smoked him on yesterday’s mountain stage, prompting Lance to admit that Contador is the “strongest in the race,” and reconcile himself to playing the role of domestique to the Astana team leader and yellow jersey wearer, now ahead of the American by over a minute and half in the general classification.

While it’s sad to see this passing of the torch and poignant to have the great seven-time Tour de France victor eat crow like this, I’m kind of relieved because now, I too, can admit to the world that, like Lance, I’m also setting aside my dreams of winning this year’s Tour.

Now, of course, my challenge was much greater to begin with, given that I haven’t a team, nor am I anywhere near France, and plus, I’ve never raced competitively except in local alleycat races. Also, being fifteen years older than Armstrong (who is, himself, the oldest competitor in this year’s Tour), doesn’t help; neither is it in my favor to be a good fifteen or twenty pounds heavier for my height than any world-class rider would be.

But I can dream, can’t I?

Until Lance conceded, I was willing to hold out hope that maybe, just maybe, I’d be riding my bike home from the store or somewhere and, all of a sudden, the race director for, I dunno, Rabobank, in town to meet with Bill Gates or something, would spy me grinding up Pine Street from downtown, and spontaneously decide to hire me, pump me up with the latest undetectable performance-enhancing drugs, and set me at the front of the pelaton on the road to stage victory after stage victory.

Now, however, I’ve come to grips with the undeniable truth that there’s no possible way for me win the maillot jaune, so what’s the point? Second place is first loser, right?

Maybe King of the Mountains, though.