Liar, liar, Lance on fire!

If Lance Armstrong were Pinnochio, he would have an appendage that would make any latter day Lothario envious of his generous endowment.

Armstrong’s protrusion would in all probability be seven inches long; one each bestowed to match his total haul of seven Tour De France victories. However, that physical enhancement would not do him much good were he to audition for a supporting role in some adult movie production.

Alas, it was Pinocchio’s nose, you might recall from your childhood, that grew with each fib he fabricated, not his manhood!

Lance – yes cycling made him globally famous that we are all on first name terms with him – is a liar!

No, I don’t fear a retinue of local lawyers descending on my comfy Awani cubicle to sue the pants off me.

Lance finally came clean in the made-for-television confession to Oprah, after years of vehement denial. Prior to this epic TV moment, he bullied those who dared question his pristine saintliness, sued them into submission and threatened those who dared squeal with unmentionable harm.

What now, that the veneer has vanished!

Apparently, his resolve crumbled seeing the unstinting filial loyalty and total trust in his wall of rectitude through the filial innocence of his 13-year-old son. Junior saw in dad a flawless icon, one hundred percent unblemished hero.

The rock of defiance he was, it took Lance nearly a decade after his last French victory to confront his demons. That stoicism must have broken when in the privacy of the WC, Senior knew his urine stank of EPO et al.

From the first Yellow Jersey he earned in 1999 to the seventh in 2005, it was his proboscis that grew in length ala Pinnochio each time he pedaled up the Pyrenees or coasted to victory down the Champs Elysee.

He confirmed taking a cocktail concoction of performance enhancers, blood boosters and masking agents in a `win at all cost’ pursuit of cycling’s greatest trophy. That he scaled every mountain and beat everyone else to the summit after overcoming testicular cancer only added brilliant prose to anyone’s script in this real life tale of the ultimate comeback kid.

Cue comeuppance.

This being America, where else but a confession on television. And to whom else but the big mamma of prime time TV – Oprah?

For such a public show of contrition in the quest of redemption, one cannot find a more fitting platform than the homey busom of Ms Winfrey for a disgraced superstar to open up in a no-holds barred mea culpa?

So with a great deal of expectation, millions of viewers tuned in to CNN at 0200 GMT on Jan 18 to watch this public self-flagellation in 90 minutes of pure, unadulterated television confession.

I normally turn to the BBC World Service to listen to its excellent ball-by-ball texted commentary of cricket games. But this time round they outdid themselves by giving a line-by-line, question-by-question update of the compelling grilling.

Oprah did not disappoint, going straight for the jugular by boldly asking Lance; Did you take EPO, did you do this… did you that…? To which Lance unwaveringly answered Yes..! Yes..! Yes…!

The BBC website responded by texting; Wow..! Wow..! Wow…!

Doubting Thomases who feared Oprah would pussy-foot and lead the posse of apologists from the front certainly were wrong-footed. We got what we were waiting for, a full-blown public confession – confirming what we thought we already knew all along.

The truth finally was extracted and it spluttered straight from the horse’s mouth.

Dribs of the gist of the interview were liberally released after the recording was done to give a foretaste of the confession to come but just tantalizingly scant enough for everyone to thirst for the great moment of television trial of tribulation.

One did not have to be a lycra-clad biking enthusiast to feel a sense of resigned de ja vu traipsing down the same tired old path. Professional cycling is known for holding dear the Olympian credo of Citius, Altius Fortius on the one hand but blatantly dispensing with the Courbetain code of fair play and honest endeavour in competition.

Lance himself declared that were he to sprint on his own motive power alone, he’d just have been an under-achieving member of the chasing pack and not at the head of the breakaway peloton. The final podium in Paris at the end of two weeks of summer toil was the ultimate holy grail – a grand booty deserving of effort in total disregard of the cost.

First across the finish line justified the means of getting there!

In the past, each of Armstrong’s victories led to a rush in sales of tight-fitting cycling shorts, aerodynamic riding helmet and sporty designer sunshades. Many a young cyclist took up the sport, enticed by the wholesome image of Lance the indomitable cancer-survivor, the epitome of the super-achieving American who stared the big `C’ in the eye and refused to blink.

After the TV show, comes the movie, and surely countless books; no doubt this time with the narrative centering on the subject having come clean. The search is already on for a Lance cycle-alike as lead actor. Books ghosted for him will no doubt now centre on some Phoenix-rising-from-the-ashes rehabilitation and the rush to redemption.

One library in Sydney Australia is already ahead of the curve. It took speedy action by “reclassifying” books authored by Armstrong as works of fiction – don’t we all love the Oz proclivity for gallows humour.

More appropriate perhaps if it is further relegated to the category of Fairy Tale Fantasy? That would make the the comparison with Pinnochio fittingly appropriate.

Lance after all took us all on one hell of a fantasy ride. Wait a minute, is he taking us for bit players in the sequel he is cooking? Dang!

RAZAK CHIK still remembers the fantastic feeling the first time he summoned enough courage to learn to ride an adult bike. Stood perpendicular facing the beast; left hand holding handle bar, right hand grabbing the seat. Turned body 45 degrees, left foot on pedal, pushed right foot off the ground setting bike forward. Once motion established, slid other foot under the bike’s horizontal bar to rest on right pedal. Balanced body so bicycle stood at an angle to the ground. It was only after several calamitous crashes into Grandma’s prized rose bush that he finally mastered the art of pedaled flight and experienced the unadulterated joy of bicycle riding.

Caricature Artist : Mohd Fadzli