LITMIR.BIZ

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after he lied, lied and lied some more, the most notorious athlete of our generation realizes I’m suddenly holding a lot of rope. And I realize that, even now, he imagines himself to occupy a position of almost absolute power.

      “You can write what you want,” he tells me in one of our many conversations. “But your book is called Cycle of Lies? That has to change.”

      I’ve interviewed him one-on-one in five different countries; on team buses that smelled of sweat-soaked Lycra at the Tour de France, in swanky New York City hotel rooms, in the backs of limos, in soulless conference rooms; and for hours by telephone.

      Now, in the spring of 2013, after his whole world has come crashing down and moving trucks are en route to dismantle his beloved estate, I’ve come to visit him at home in Austin, Texas, for the first time.

      Yes, fine, come on out, he said. Beset by endless obituaries of his celebrated (and now fraudulent) career, he wanted to ensure that I wrote “the true story.”

      So here I am parking beneath the grand oak that Armstrong had moved because, why not? I look at the house and think of his yellow jerseys. A month after the United States Anti-Doping Agency released 1,000 pages of evidence against Armstrong and stripped him of his Tour titles, he had Tweeted a photo of himself lounging, arrogance itself, on an L-shaped couch in this house, his seven yellow jerseys hanging ceremoniously behind him: “Back in Austin and just layin’ around.” That was November 2012. Seven months later, will I find him still defiant?

      Before I can pull the keys from my car’s ignition, a cherubic face under tousled, curly brown hair appears at my window and two small preschooler hands slap the glass. It’s Lance’s youngest son, Max.

      Armstrong stands behind him in flip-flops, wearing a black T-shirt over black basketball shorts that brush his scarred knees. His eyes are hidden by dark sunglasses.

      “Say hi to Juliet, Max,” Armstrong says.

      “Hi, Joo-leee-ette!” Max says. Then he turns to his dad and asks for ice cream, a request that makes his father giggle, something I’d never seen him do before.

      “Yes, you get ice cream,” Armstrong says. “You’ve been good, buddy, really good.”

      We walk up the front steps until Armstrong stops at the door. He moves his eyes to the tree, the house, the life he has enjoyed.

      “Great place, right?” he says.

      “Yes,” I say, “are you going to miss it?”

      Armstrong doesn’t want to move, he has to. His sponsors have abandoned him, taking away an estimated $75 million in future earnings. He would owe more than $135 million if he were to lose every lawsuit in which he is a defendant. To “slow the burn rate,” as he calls it, he has stopped renting a penthouse apartment on Central Park in Manhattan and a house in Marfa, Texas. Next to go is this Austin estate, traded in for a much more modest abode near downtown.

      His former sponsors—including Oakley, Trek Bicycle Corporation, RadioShack and Nike—have left him scrambling for money. He considers them traitors. He says Trek’s revenue was $100 million when he signed with the company and reached $1 billion in 2013. “Who’s responsible for that?” he asks. “Fucking right here.” He pokes himself in the chest with his right index finger. “I’m sorry, but that is true. Without me, none of that happens.”

      After his sponsors cast him aside, he tossed their gear. There’s a chance you could catch a glimpse of one of his Dallas friends wearing Armstrong’s custom-made yellow Nike sneakers, with “Lance” embroidered in small yellow block letters on the shoes’ black tongues. A Goodwill outlet in Austin is replete with his former Nike clothes and Oakley sunglasses. The movers, who packed up his guesthouse a week before I visited, will have to contend with whatever brand-name gear is left in his garage: black Livestrong Nike caps, black Nike duffel bags with bright yellow swooshes, Oakley lenses and frames and a box of caps suggesting “Yes on Prop 15,” a 2007 Texas bond plan for cancer research, prevention and education supported by Armstrong.

      It was 1989 when Armstrong moved to Austin from Plano, a suburb of Dallas, showing up in this progressive town as a rough, combative and pimply-faced teenager, with frosted wavy brown hair, a gold hoop in his pierced left ear, a silver chain around his neck with a dangling pendant in the shape of Texas, and a fake ID.

      On an income of $12,000 a year, and with the help of a local benefactor named J.T. Neal who had taken Armstrong in, he lived in a studio apartment for $200 a month. He dressed it up with an oversized black leather couch, a matching chair and, above the fireplace, a red-white-and-blue colored skull of a Texas longhorn.

      From a cramped studio to a sprawling estate: a reflection of Armstrong’s ascension into modern American sainthood—a cancer survivor who beat the world’s best cyclists in a grueling race, dated anyone he wanted and made millions in the process.

      Armstrong loves this house. He loves its open spaces and floor-to-ceiling windows. He loves the lush, landscaped yard where his kids play soccer, and the crystalline pool (a “negative-edge pool, not an infinity pool, get it right”). Behind the house are rows of towering Italian cypresses.

      He moved here in 2006 after winning a record seventh Tour de France. He once said the place was his safe house—inside it, “nobody’s going to mess with me.” Having eluded near-constant attempts to expose his doping, he could take a left down the main hallway, then a quick right, and disappear into his walk-in wine closet to grab a bottle of Tignanello and toast his good luck.

      On a table next to a couch is a 36-inch model of the Gulfstream jet that had been Armstrong’s favored means of long-distance flight. It’s white with black and yellow racing stripes. He and his buddies often stood up when the plane took off, “surfing” as it rocketed into the sky. Armstrong had sold the plane for $8 million in December 2012, as he braced himself for the inevitable legal fees that would follow USADA’s exposé of his cheating.

      Just as we settle into his media room on the big house’s second floor, his twin daughters, Grace and Isabelle, burst in. The preteen girls are replicas of their mother, Kristin: beautiful and blonde. Their open smiles reveal gleaming silver braces.

      “Hi, Dad! Did you buy those skirts for us off the Internet?” Isabelle asks as she and her sister use the couch as a trampoline.

      “Yeah, Dad, did you buy the skirts?” Grace seconds.

      “No, not yet,” Amstrong says. “It’s almost time I had a beer. It would be nice if one of you ladies got me a beer. Shiner Bock.”

      Grace shouts, “Shiner Bock! Don’tcha know, it’s a beer—that’s B-O-C-K. It’s not a twist-off.”

      Once he has the beer in hand, Armstrong looks at me and says, “So this is my awful life. Just so awful.”

      He says how much he likes having kids in the house—children are transparent and pure, too young to con him. I ask if he feels like people have taken advantage of him, if he feels used.

      “Uh, yeah,” he says.

      “Who?”

      “Everybody. Get in line.”

      The kid who once decorated his living room with a steer head has become a collector of sophisticated, expensive art. His sensibilities are apparent, if perplexing. Upon entering his house you see a panel of stained glass eleven feet tall and five feet wide that, upon closer inspection, is actually a panel comprised of hundreds of colored butterflies—a Damien Hirst piece called The Tree of Life. Hirst is known for his provocative installations (e.g., a severed cow’s head being feasted on by maggots in a glass case). In 2009, when he decorated an Armstrong racing bike with butterflies, the animal rights group People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals called the work “horrific barbarity.”

      The more I see of Armstrong’s art throughout the house, the odder his curatorial eye seems. To call his choices dark is to be kind, to call them controversial is too simple. All Armstrong will say of any of them is that they are “fucking

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