To skinny guys with slow-twitch muscles, Lance Armstrong was a cool dude long before his battle with cancer. Imagine growing up, chronically unable to pick up a wayward ball and return it to its owners without worrying that your "return throw" would be about 54 degrees off course, jeers likely to follow. (Not too hard for some of us to "imagine", eh?) Armstrong probably wasn't that bad, but he wasn't great at conventional sports. The guy was built to do what he's doing — dominate the cycling world with a rare ability to process oxygen and endure pure pain. Others also find themselves singularly built for cycling, even if not to that extent. It can be surprising to find out late in life that you're good at some sport. The payoff can be shocking.

Anaerobic sporting events (those in which you place your body into oxygen debt through exertion) can be thought of as mini lives — as with cats but better. It's possible to take lessons learned in those many chances and carry them over into the one big event you don't want to lose, assuming you don't want to lose in life. It seems that some people haven't resolved that issue either way. Should they fight or float? For those who know they want to fight, many don't tap their full potential often. There's nothing better to quickly demonstrate these larger concepts in miniature than a bicycle race where you either win or lose.

It may be fun to ride and not win, but you're still a loser. Trust me on that. If you find yourself offering excuses more than not, losing cycling races can quickly hold your inferiority up to a mirror which inspires you either to drop the sport or make goals and then reach them. There is good news in that almost everybody can get much better, but that's not much consolation as you slink away from the finish line trying to get those loser, acid-sweaty tears out of your worthless eyeballs, you slithering waste of DNA.

Let's gather 'round and hold hands, people: "We're all winners here!"

Yeah. Uh huh. When that magic moment finally hits, and you're the one who whipped everybody — when you're the top dog — look your ma in the eye and tell her it feels the same as losing. Tell her that everybody's a winner. Once you hit that top step on the podium, you'll see the cruise director blah-blah for exactly what it is, and you'll curse its deluded devotees for trying to steal your thunder. You will be on your way to being human in real, positive terms.

You will also be further from antisocial than you'd have thought possible. There's a complex interaction in conventional cycling races where alliances among riders are made and broken many times. Unless you're riding below your class, you must work with others to win. Riding alone isn't something done successfully in most races. Most know that wind is a tactical issue in cycling, but if you haven't tried cycling in a group, the power of it may surprise you. Speed can easily be regulated when going downhill by sliding in and out of the slipstream of the rider in front — that guy who's pedaling intently just to go the same speed you're coasting.

On level ground, try using a speedometer at first to maintain pace when the leader peels off and drifts to the back of the line, leaving you "pulling" the pack for a bit. It can be painful to stay up there for more than 30 seconds or so before you also defer to the next rider in line, but ego does wonders for many. It's even common for new cyclists to unconsciously pick up the pace when their turn at the front arrives, they feel so on the spot. But they're quickly taken under wing and shown how it ruins the "pace line", turning it into a yo-yo and throwing away much of the efficiency. Experienced riders will often pull out to the side and ride solo rather than yo-yo with newbies.

Cycling in a tight pace line is usually a matter of trust or stupidity. Never ride closely on a new wheel until he's proven his smoothness. When good racer friends train, a distance of 2" or less is common between tires, at speeds sometimes exceeding 40 MPH. Want a thrill? Ride a tight 30 MPH sometime behind a moron who ticks his brakes without warning. You'll avoid him ever after.

Few things can teach the beauty of competitive relationships like the last five minutes of a friendly training ride. Typically, there will be a sprint point (a certain street sign, fire hydrant, etc.) that everyone knows is the official finish line. As it approaches, your "friends" from 10 minutes before will sneak glances at your gears to see if you're about to jump. You're doing the same to them as they try to shift into big gears so smoothly that it's not heard. Sometimes two conspirators will drop back and whisper-whisper-whisper the glorious game plan to end all game plans. Everybody's glancing with eyeballs only, anticipating some loony tune from behind who will stand on his pedals and draw sword, rocketing toward the front and, he hopes, beyond. There's no hiding it when it happens, and it's a declaration of war. If you don't get on a wheel for the first torrent of possibly many torrents in the unpredictable sprint, your prospects dwindle exponentially. The suffering is temporary. Say that to yourself repeatedly, perhaps alternating with "Must. Stay. On. Wheel," or "I am not a wimpy puke. I am not a wimpy puke." Then try it in life sometime. You may be surprised.

That last sprint (anywhere from 20 seconds to several minutes) is why you hung for the previous 40 miles of misery. You want to devour your buddy and leave him crying in your wake, unable to sleep that night because he can't believe that's all he had to give. Sort of like in Highlander, "There can be only one." Yes, there's the one behind him, and the one behind that guy, and, losing aside, there's some honor in putting in a good finish, but history remembers winners.

I still retrace in my mind races I've lost (most of them), and it can be a disaster if it happens late at night. The adrenaline starts running and poisons any chance of quick sleep. There's the curse of knowing I could have done better. Turning that into a positive for a future race — imagining new finish tactics — draws even more adrenaline. It's a complicated mess when the goal is to not be at the front for most of the race. It can take years to appreciate the available tactics. Of course, having them used on you with regularity speeds your education.

The crossover to life is not saccharine metaphor; it's real and identifiable. On the bike, you may think you've done a man's job on a solo breakaway, but notice what happens when you see another bike coming up alongside. Watch yourself do "impossible" things just because some guy you barely know from talking in the parking lot after rides has his front wheel 1 foot ahead of yours approaching the finish. You cannot walk away from that unmoved and uninfluenced in tangible, permanent ways.

What's amazing about these situations is that there's almost no resentment from any party. Those beaten don't curse the winner and whine about how they got a raw deal. They hurry to congratulate him sincerely, often with laughing awe. The life beauty is in the hidden message lurking behind this warrior bond: "We will meet again, my friend." It encourages fraternity. It forces modesty upon those who mistake victory for permanence.

To find the pinnacle of these precepts, look to those who ride in the time trial, often called the "race of truth" because there are no pack tactics. They ride alone, but in strong competition, started at minute or so intervals from the others. If one happens to pass another, he must not draft (ride in slipstream) during the pass. When you time trial you meet quite coldly the supreme mind game within yourself. It's hard to be sure if you're giving it your all for the entire distance when there's nothing but road in front of you. It gets lonely. Heart rate monitors can help you keep a constant, high pace without blowing up your legs, heart, or lungs midway through, but you still have to beat somebody else's time, often without knowing what it is unless you're one of the last to ride. Hard core TT junkies are known to vomit during competition because they're taking their bodies into Never Never Land. You don't think that takes heart, you haven't tried it.

Hard competition is painful, wonderful, and the only way to live. One way or another, we polish each other and everybody profits. Fat bottomed girls, the truth of sport plays rings around you. Get on your bikes and ride!