Lance Armstrong broke my heart. Or a tiny little bit of it, anyway.

I was a devout Lance groupie ever since reading his autobiography at university. It was the first time I had ever had any interest in the Tour de France (except when I was a kid and had a really annoying French exchange boy staying with me. He watched Le Tour on TV all day which spared us both from having to play together). Lance had cancer. He nearly died. He survived. He won the Tour de France! What a story! What a hero! What an inspiration!

Then when Lance gave Ullrich “the look” on Alpe d’Huez on 2001 I was completely smitten. Shortly after that I set off to cycle round the world. I thought of Lance often. When I was struggling up long mountain passes I’md get up out of the saddle, give my imaginary opponents “the look” and put on a sprint.

When it felt like the world was against me I thought of Lance’s “How do you like them apples?” quip, the me-against-the-world attitude that gave him such strength.

I lingered a few extra days in Vancouver just to watch and celebrate one of his Tour victories. Because for as long as I was cycling round the world, Lance was winning the Tour. At times it felt like we did it together. There I was, out on my own,”on my bike, busting my ass six hours a day” [a line from this inspirational / jaw-droppingly-bullshitting Nike Commercial]. So was Lance. Out on our bikes. Busting our ass. Us against the world. Hard work and sacrifice would get me round the world. Hard work and sacrifice won Lance seven consecutive Tour de France titles. I evangelised Lance’s story. I bought copy after copy of his book and gave them to people. I was stupidly excited when I eventually got a Livestrong yellow bracelet. I was fully signed up to the cult of Lance. He was my hero.

I arrived home at last. I began to write my story. It was a struggle. Nobody wanted to publish my book. But screw you, world, I’mm going to persevere anyway. I’mm going to finish this story. I sat at my desk day after day, month after month. Above my desk was a poster. It showed Lance, far from the cheering crowds and the glory of victory. He was alone, riding up a mountain in the Pyrenees in foul winter weather. The quote read,

“I rode, and I rode, and I rode. I rode like I had never ridden, punishing my body up and down every hill I could find. I rode when no one else would ride.”

Me too, Lance. Me too. I’mm going to write this bloody book and it’s going to be as good as I can possibly make it. You and me against the world, Lance. Hard work will triumph in the end.

Through all the years of allegations about Lance’s drug use I defended him strongly. I secretly suspected that he might be up to something. But I hoped -I really hoped- that he was clean. That he was the inspirational figure he always loudly proclaimed himself to be. He passed hundreds of tests. I wanted to believe. So I believed. I felt sorry for all the cynics. Sorry they couldn’t believe in miracles. The Tour de France is a great event, and hard work wins it.

And that is the sentence that does it for me. For this is what Lance chose to say when handed the microphone on the podium on the Champs-Elysees.

Finally, the last thing I’mll say to the people who don’t believe in cycling, the cynics and the sceptics: I’mm sorry for you. I’mm sorry that you can’t dream big. I’mm sorry you don’t believe in miracles. But this is one hell of a race. This is a great sporting event and you should stand around and believe it. You should believe in these athletes, and you should believe in these people. I’mll be a fan of the Tour de France for as long as I live. And there are no secrets – this is a hard sporting event and hard work wins it. So Vive le Tour forever!

This elevates my disgust way above what I felt when Tyler Hamilton of the heroic feats with a broken collarbone (he hurt so bad, rode so hard that he ground his teeth down, for crying out loud!!), or Floyd Landis of the super-human solo breakaway both got outed as cheats. In fact, virtually everyone from those days got caught sooner or later. I feel pretty contemptuous towards all of them. But at least folk like David Millar, in his excellent book, portray a sense of self-disgust and regret at what they did.

The only regret Lance Armstrong appears to feel, since he was left with no option but to admit to having cheated in every single one of his Tour victories, is that he got caught.

Cheating was one thing. Showing no remorse is another. Being an unpleasant bully yet another. In fact I always used to defend Armstrong for “not being a nice guy”. I didn’t care about that. If you want someone nice, I always said, go read about Mother Theresa. But if you want someone inspirational, a role model for hard work and perseverance, then Lance is your man. Because not only was he a champion, he was vocal about how he raced clean, about hard work and good old-fashioned heroism.

And this is the crux of why I feel so disappointed by Armstrong. He could have just cheated and kept his head down as best he could, like all the rest. He could have stood on the podium, avoided eye contact with the world and muttered a platitude or two. (He could, if he had the wit and the humility have declared he was now going to draw the raffle tickets, as Bradley Wiggins did this year). But no, he created this wonderful, mythic hero story. Yet he was nothing of the sort. He’s a lying, cheating scumbag.

So, on to the future. Because cycling is a wonderful sport. Its essence is pure and simple. It’s about guts and hard work. That’s why I love it. That’s why it will survive. The abscess will be lanced. The new superstars -Wiggo et al- ride clean and work hard. And, best of all, The Tour de France is coming to Yorkshire next year! The greatest bloody sporting event on Earth is passing just a couple of miles from the lanes where I learned to ride and dreamed of the adventures that a bicycle can take you on! And I shall be there, cheering on the Tour. Because I at least agree with Lance when he said,

“I’mll be a fan of the Tour de France for as long as I live.”

Finally, because I don’t suppose I’mll want to watch these ever again, here are a few of my favourite moments from the wonderful years when I believed in the myth.