Two weeks ago, Lance Armstrong, former cyclist, was banned for life from the sport and stripped of his titles and accomplishments as a result of having used and distributed performance enhancing drugs.
Armstrong began competing as a triathlete at age 16 and continued to succeed in the sport as he grew older. He began his career as a professional cyclist in 1992 when he joined the Motorola team. Armstrong won the 1993 World Championship and won numerous notable races in Europe in 1995, all contributing to his rising success.
In fall 1996, Armstrong was diagnosed with testicular cancer, which had spread to other parts of his body. He was given less than a 40 percent chance of survival and underwent surgery and extensive chemotherapy.
A year later, he was declared cancer-free, founded the Lance Armstrong Foundation for cancer support and research and, by 1998, signed a new racing contract with U.S. Postal and began cycling again.
According to the New York Times, in the following years, Armstrong was considered a hero on two wheels. He was a cancer survivor making his mark as quite possibly the most dominant cyclist in history.
His legacy, however, is a tainted one.
Most recently, Armstrong’s doping scheme was made public, and the pretenses of his career made public. The U.S. Anti-Doping Agency released a 200-page file documenting Armstrong’s long-run conspiracy including the use of banned drugs and blood transfusions to boost his performance. What’s more, his teammates also engaged in these activities.
Throughout history, it has been clear that our leaders, while capable of casting outward personas of guidance and inspiration, are often quite complicated individuals with just as complicated inner lives. The problem, however, is that Armstrong, like other “heroes” recently in the news, such as Joe Paterno, are not seen only as heroes. They are deemed icons. A statue, now removed, once stood to commemorate Paterno’s legacy, one that is also tainted by traces of deception and denial.
Paterno, now deceased, also led a life seemingly full of goodness and success — a life story once believed to be woven from the fabric of hard work and dedication.
Both Armstrong’s and Paterno’s stories lead us to ignore the larger faults that their successes seemed to bury. Their stories elevate them as heroes, placing them on pedestals from which their wrong-doings are ignored. As icons, we come to believe that these icons no longer need to play by the rules. And ultimately, they begin to believe this same myth.
The irony of Armstrong’s story is that he began as a clean athlete. One who made a comeback from cancer, won the Tour de France and created an organization in support of others suffering from cancer. In fact, his foundation seemed proof of his integrity: his innate goodness and philanthropic efforts became juxtaposed with his ultimate dishonesty. Armstrong’s efforts to grow the foundation were supported by the media and corporations, as well as his own personal determination.
Although the foundation was successful and benevolent, when the truth about Armstrong’s doping was revealed, it was too late. He lost his sponsors and was forced to relinquish his titles. An icon, fallen.
Prior to his demise, Armstrong continually denied doping and rode into retirement. While his story seemed too good to be true, too many continued to believe it. In an age when new icons seem to emerge every day, it is becoming even more important to question who we view as our heroes and whether their story is also too good to be true.