It’s more than a lie
I so, so, so want to believe that they're not lying anymore.

If Lance Armstrong has ever told the truth in his life, it was when he chose the title of his autobiography. Alex Gibney’s The Armstrong Lie makes this point all the more vivid—his lie was about power, fame, manipulation, competition, hubris, and dominance. The fact that this lie was enacted while riding a bicycle around France was almost inconsequential to its formation.

Still, as an avid cyclist myself, and a fan of professional cycling, the fact that Armstrong lied on a bike does matter to me. It threatens to cancel out all that is good about pro cycling, to take away everything that makes being a fan so spectacular, and replace it with an emptiness and a meaninglessness so deep that a hundred more years of the Tour de France might not fix it.

Thinking about the implications of everything that has come to the surface in the past few years, I really do question whether to pay attention next April for the Spring Classics, whether I should tune in when the Giro d’Italia kicks off the season of Grand Tours, and most of all whether all that time spent furtively following the live feed of the Tour de France at the office is worth it anymore.

But The Armstrong Lie will not let us make this decision lightly. It teases us, with the spectacular footage of the Alps and the Pyrenees that form in and of themselves a great reason to be a cycling fan—and whose majesty can never be tainted no matter what is coursing through the blood of the riders that climb them. It peeks in at the Tour de France’s outstandingly rich history, watching the riders of old storm through mountaintop bars mid-race to get their sustenance, seeing the old masters grunt as they climb Alpe d’huez without the benefit of a rear derailleur, to say nothing of carbon fibre or electronic gear-shifting. It tantalises us with the idea that if we remain true fans, one day we’ll be the ones in a campervan at the side of the road, dressed in a ridiculous costume and running alongside one of our heroes as he climbs to victory.

“Are you doping?” No one can ever give a truthful answer to that question which isn’t basically the same as a lie that Armstrong has told.

It reminds us that the best and most spectacular moments of a pro cycling race cannot be achieved by doping. The film shows a great moment from the 2003 Tour de France when Armstrong is forced off the road by a crash in front of him while descending from the Cote de La Rochette. He cycles straight down the mountain through the grass, cutting out a hairpin bend, and then dismounts to carry his bike through a ditch before re-mounting on the tarmac. This is why you watch the Tour de France, not to watch some skinny guy with improbably muscular legs churn his way up a 20% gradient at (literally) superhuman speeds.

As deep as my love for pro cycling is though, how can this love be true if it is based on a lie? Because, as Gibney makes clear, this lie is so much bigger than Armstrong. The Armstrong lie is the biggest and perhaps most audacious example of a series of lies told by dozens of pro cyclists in the last few decades (and by scores more over the past hundred years). It’s part of an even larger lie told by the UCI (pro cycling’s governing body) and indeed the entire pro cycling establishment, which goes: “the peloton is cleaner than it has ever been”.

I’ve heard that line spoken more times than I can count as I’ve watched coverage of the Tour de France and other races. At times, I think I believe it. I really want to believe it. Other times, like the moment I walked out of the cinema after The Armstrong Lie, I know it’s false. The peloton was cleaner than ever after the Festina affair, and then it was cleaner than ever now that Lance Armstrong has retired, and then it was cleaner than ever because Alberto Contador was banned for two years. And now, it’s cleaner than ever because a new breed of athletes—British athletes, with, like, morals and stuff—dominate the sport.

Midway through The Armstrong Lie there’s a clip of Armstrong in the heyday of his career, giving yet another response to questions about doping. “Don’t you know what I would lose if I was doping? My family, my career, the respect of millions of cancer survivors…”

Watching that clip, my heart sank. This was the moment I began to question whether I would tune in for next year’s season. This answer was familiar to me, because in 2012 I had read with great respect a piece in the Guardian with the exact same arguments, written by Bradley Wiggins.

I should point out I have no interest whatsoever in accusing Wiggins of doping. I very much hope that he isn’t, because I like him quite a bit and I enjoy rooting for him. My point is that, in responding to innumerable allegations against him, Armstrong has given every conceivable answer to the question, “Are you doping?” As a result, no one can ever give a truthful answer to that question which isn’t basically the same as a lie that Armstrong has told.

And this is the crux of the issue; I could deal with Armstrong being one bad, psychopathic apple who lied his way to the top. What I can’t deal with is what the film demonstrates beyond a shadow of doubt: that everyone was lying, and that everyone might still be lying, and even if they’re not lying anymore, no reasonable person could be expected to believe that they’re not lying anymore.

But I so, so, so want to believe.

The Armstrong Lie was part of the diverse programme of over 360 films shown at the 57^th BFI London Film Festival in partnership with American Express. Early on sale tickets to screenings, events and walking the red carpet are just some of the enriched experiences available to American Express Cardmembers at the Festival. For more information on the service American Express offers Cardmembers, visit amex.co.uk/potential