Going against the better advice of my high school English and sex education teachers, this story starts with the climax. For anyone involved in wine, the three months from the end of August until the end of November are both the most exciting and the most frightening of the year. These three months dictate the final say in whether you happily learn that your wines will be served at the White House or whether you become the largest vinegar producer in your neighborhood. These are months of 60- to 80-hour work weeks (and many times more) that on one hand require complete control of the environment around you and on the other hand require you to give in completely to the whims of nature. These are months where all thoughts of family and friends dim in an ever growing purple haze as your sleep deprived mind attempts to reconcile the hundreds or thousands of details that'll make or break the next year of your life. This is Crush.

More specifically this is my accounting of Crush for David Coffaro Vineyards and Winery. This vineyard/winery is owned and operated by (take a big guess here) David Coffaro and I'm his assistant winemaker (i.e. only employee). This is the inside scoop of what we have to do in order to put a prime bottle of vino on your table. David Coffaro Vineyard and Winery consists of 20 acres of grapes that Dave planted in 1979 and a winery building that he's been operating since 1994. We make wines that are big and red; zinfandel, petite sirah, carignane, an "Estate Cuvee" (a blend of the previous grapes plus cabernet sauvignon) and a "Neighbors Cuvee" (our only non-estate wine whose blend changes from year to year). Like a sandblaster to Tammy Faye Baker's face, I hope to strip away the layers of overglamorized marketing rhetoric and highlight the best advice I ever got about becoming a winemaker -- "Don't do it!"

The excitement of crush takes place on two separate but intertwined stages that seem to spin and twist in independent motion. The first of these stages is the vineyard. The 20 acres of vines we grow is minuscule by industry standards (There are certainly vineyards that are smaller but we are definitely of the side of pretty-darn-tiny). The first job we have in the vineyard is to wait for the grapes to turn from a rather pretty translucent pink color into an intense dark purple/black color. This process is called veraison. Once the color changes we're in the picking ballpark and ready to play the game. The second step is doing a large amount of grape sampling from each block of vines. It's amazing how grapes will vary from one small block to another, even if they're only 10-100 feet away. For about a month before the actual harvest, my job is to pick a representative sampling of all the grapes we grow and monitor them for sugar content. In general we're looking for a level of 24 to 25 percent sugar, which we measure as 24 to 25 degrees Brix.

The Brix reading is only the second stage however. Knowing the sugar level lets you know the technical ripeness of the grapes but not their actual flavors. Somewhere in the early to mid-twenties (sugar level), grapes go through an incredible change of flavors that ultimately add to the complexity of flavors in the finished wine. This change can only be determined by tasting the grapes themselves. So during the final week before harvest Dave and I walk through every block and randomly snack on grapes to make sure they have the flavors we want. If the sugars are perfect but the flavors aren't there then we simply wait until they develop before picking. Once they do, Whamo!, it's time to wake up really damn early and pick some grapes!

Harvesting grapes is a demanding and sticky job. The grapes are about 25 percent sugar and as the workers dump their picking tubs into the half-tons bins, grape juice splashes everywhere. It's well worth the effort, however, because I get to drive a really cool tractor. Once the half-ton bins are full they are driven to the winery and weighed. From there they're taken, by forklift, into the winery and the grapes are put through a machine called a crusher/destemmer. Now, agricultural machine manufacturers are not very creative when it comes to naming their equipment. When I say we dump the grapes into a crusher/destemmer you can be well assured that the machine will probably crush (lightly) the grapes and destem then, doing very little if anything else. We then pump the destemmed/crushed grapes (a.k.a. "must") into a one-ton bin (again, no big guess on how much it holds). The must is then inoculated with yeast and the transformation into wine begins. [As a side note I should mention that this is specifically the process for making red wine. White wine is processed in a similar but distinctly different manner. I'll get into the whites later.]

The addition of yeast is technically a winemaking choice and not a requirement. Native yeasts, which accumulated on the grape skins in the vineyard, will naturally transform the grapes into wine. But most winemakers don't trust these native yeast strains for the same reason you don't let your crazy cousin Leroy baby-sit your kids -- you just don't know what might happen and, even though the results might be fine, it's just not worth taking the chance. Yeast contribute four things to the winemaking process: heat, alcohol carbon dioxide (CO2) and sulfites. The heat and alcohol produced make it possible to adequately extract the flavors and characteristics from the grape skins (almost all of the character and all of the color of red wine comes from the skins being broken down). Alcohol acts as a solvent that extracts organic compounds in the grape skins and the heat aids in and speeds up the chemical reaction involved in fermentation.

The CO2 has a separate and interesting effect on the fermenting grape skins. As the CO2 is released by the yeast cells it catches in the grape skins and causes them to float to the surface of the fermentation bins. This forms a solid layer of covering the top of the bins like ice on a lake. This layer is called the "cap" and can get so thick in larger tanks that a full-grown person can walk across it without falling through. The cap, however, presents a small problem. Since most of red wine's character comes from the skins, having them separate from the juice during fermentation can be bad. This small problem is solved by either "punching down" or "pumping over" your bins or tanks. Punching down involves taking a stick-like device (a 2x4, garden hoe, etc.) and breaking up the cap while at the same time mixing it with the juice. Pumping over involves hooking up a pump to the bottom of the tank and pumping the juice over the top of the cap. These actions insure that the grape skins have enough opportunity to breakdown into the wine.

We monitor the fermenting bins at Coffaro constantly and record the residual sugar levels and temperatures at least once a day. When our measurements show that there's one percent sugar or less left in the wine we prepare the press. We use what's called a bladder Press (For $200, what item is inside this press?). The bladder press is a long cylinder made up of a perforated screen. We pump the fermented juice and skins into the press and rotate it while inflating the internal bladder. This is such an efficient form of pressing that when we remove the grape skins -- the squeeze-dried skins is now called pomace -- they are dry, warm and flaky. They serve no real further purpose and are dumped back into the vineyard as fertilizer.

The pressed wine is pumped from the press into a selection of barrels that we've pre-chosen dependent on the wine varietal and individual character it exhibits. At Coffaro we use six to 10 different cooperages, with barrels ranging from American, French and Hungarian oak. However, this doesn't mean we make "oaky" wine. Barrels serve two general purposes; the first is storage and aging; the second is imparting flavor. Barrels only contribute oak flavors to wine for the first two-to-three years of their life, then, after that, are considered "neutral." As storage containers they can be used for decades with the proper care. So, although all of our wines are barrel aged, we only use 20-25 percent new oak to contribute delicate oak flavors. (This percentage varies from winery to winery. Some use as much as 100 percent new oak, some don't use any depending on the varietals grown and the style of wine preferred by the winemaker.

Once the wine is in the barrel we inoculate it with a malo-lactic starter. All red wines and most whites go through a process called malo-lactic fermentation (ML). ML is a bacterial process that changes the malic acid that's naturally found in wine (it's the same acid that makes green apples taste tart) and changes it into lactic acid (the same acid found in milk). This process makes reds more chemically stable, and for white wines it adds flavor (i.e. that "buttery" flavor in most chardonnays). Now that this is done both the wine and the winemakers get a chance to take a short break and recuperate before it's time to start the whole process over again.

Next time we'll learn why they call cellar workers "rats."

Having smuggled, er, legally transported wine in my checked luggage across country borders many times, BottleWise is a “D’OH, why didn’t I think of this first!� kinda thing.

My usual modus operandi for carrying wine in my suitcase is to double-bag the wine bottles in the finest grocery store plastic, twist-tie them twice for maximum liquid retention, then roll ‘em up in a pair of jeans or sweatpants or heavy sweatshirt for optimum shock absorption. Except for one unfortunate casualty (I saw my suitcase drop off the belt from the plane’s baggage door onto the tarmac, after which the gorilla, er, baggage handler heaved it 10 feet into the cart transport), this method has worked flawlessly over the years.

With BottleWise, they’ve taken my proven method and spruced it up a bit. When opened, the bag houses two separate compartments, each compartment holds one 750ml bottle in an airtight plastic sleeve. When folded and secured, the bag measures approx 16� x 11� x 5�, which is about the equivalent of two bottles rolled up in a pair of XL sweatpants. (BTW – I’m not an XL. I like my clothes baggy, okay!) According to the manufacturer, “In case of breakage, the airtight sleeve(s) keeps wine from spilling into your suitcase and ruining your underthings.� (Hmm, pinot-scented panties… never mind.)

We wanted to test BottleWise appropriately, but with our limited travel budget (did I mention that we accept free press trips), we had to improvise. We filled each plastic sleeve with 750ml of water, then threw the bag abound a bit. Then, ‘cause we were bored, we “Myth Busted� its ass and threw it out of a second story window just to see what would happen. Nothing! It held perfectly.*

BottleWise also comes with a shoulder strap should you desire to wear it as a fashion accessory. There are two models: The Duo and the Duo Plus. Colors for the Duo range from black to, er, black. (Hey, it worked for Henry Ford.) If you order the Duo Plus, you get more color choices – Burgundy and Cork. Cork’s a color? Who knew. Personally, I’m waiting for the screwcap color.

Costs:
BottleWise Duo - $49
BottleWise Duo Plus - $59

Visit http://www.bottlewise.com for more info and/or to purchase.

* We can’t guarantee that your BottleWise bag will pass this test. But the sample they sent us did.

- DR

There are two types of tequila people: those who got sick on Cuervo during spring break and never went back, and those who enjoy a fine tequila in the way you'd savor a smooth scotch. (Cue rap music.)

Now, we don't normally associate tiki dolls or voodoo with Mexico (doesn't Haiti have dibs on those?) but Voodoo Tiki Tequila gets a pass. Gorgeous glass bottles with funky tiki dolls drowning inside, a sexy smooth taste, and a MAGIC WORD etched on each bottle. (Maybe they'll give you the lotto numbers sometime... not.) Prices range (boy, do they) and info is available at 1-VoodooTiki or http://www.voodooTiki.com.

Cocktail suggestions are online, though we thinks ya just gotta crank up the rap (or really irritating mariachi music) and savor the Anejo in a snifter. Drink enough and you can snuggle up with your yummy smelling, dead tiki doll. Ours was named Faith. We have Faith in Tequila, fo’ shizz.

Tequila. Whether it conjures images of swarthy, ammo-strapped banditos sidled up to the bar in a captive Mexican border town or fantasies of idyllic hours in hammocks on tropical vacations, the word tequila is perhaps the most evocative in the drinker's lexicon.

Tequila's siren song is mysterious and sexy, with a hypnotic off-key recklessness. She lures you in by seducing your mind, secure in the knowledge that your body - and taste buds - will have no choice but to follow.

While this exotic spirit has tempted drinkers around the world for centuries, few of us who make margaritas a staple of summertime understand or appreciate the journey tequila has taken from Mexico's highlands to the local supermarket shelf. It's not all blender drinks and body shots. Tequila has a long and increasingly turbulent history - one that's almost as complex as the spirit itself.

Once Upon A Time In Mexico...

The tale of tequila is at least as long as the history of Europeans in North America. The spirit's precursor, mezcal wine, was produced shortly after the Spaniards arrived in the New World in 1521. Unaccustomed to drinking plain water (which, in their European homeland was rife with bacteria and bugs, and often a one-way ticket to the plague pit), the Conquistadors were eager to create a new alcoholic beverage. They found the makings at hand in pulque, a nutrient-packed brew derived from the fermented sap of agave plants, which had been a staple of the native diet millennia before the arrival of these thirsty men. The Conquistadors set to work distilling pulque into a drink considerably more potent, and in less than a century they were cultivating local agave and turning pulque into mezcal wine for exportation back to the Old World. Fortunately for generations of drinkers that followed, the Conquistadors never did know how to leave an indigenous people's traditions well enough alone; mezcal wine eventually evolved into the treat we now call tequila.

Though the origin of the word itself remains a mystery, it's believed that tequila was named for the small town of Tequila in the Jalisco state of Mexico. The "Father of Tequila," Don Pedro Sanches de Tagle, Marquis of Altamira, saw the potential for this potent liquor and established the first tequila factory in his hacienda in 1600. Over the next hundred years, tequila was used for everything from generating taxes for public works to curing New World illnesses. It became so popular, in fact, that Spain's king began to worry about the competition tequila was causing, and in 1785 banned production of all spirits in Mexico in order to promote the importation of Spanish wines and spirits. Unwilling to give up their livelihood to a monarch an ocean away, makers of mezcal wines simply continued their trade in secret - at times literally baking agave underground - until the ban was lifted when King Ferdinand IV took the throne the following decade.

The tequila manufacturer who remains perhaps the most famous today, Jose Antonio Cuervo, was the first licensed manufacturer in Mexico in 1758. His family's Casa Cuervo proved very profitable, by the mid-19th century boasting fields of over three million agave plants. Cuervo was the first distiller to put tequila in bottles instead of barrels, selling the first in 1906. Though other tequila distillers rose to compete with Cuervo and continue to join the market today (perhaps the most notable being Sauza), pioneer Cuervo remains the world's largest tequila manufacturer.

Improvements in transportation during the 19th century helped take the fruits of Mexican distillers' tequila labor into North America and beyond. As its popularity increased beyond Mexico's borders, tequila also experienced a growing reputation within the country during the revolution of the early 1900s, when the drink became a symbol of national pride. Caught in a nationalistic fervor, Mexicans quickly cast aside imports in favor of home-grown products of all kinds. Before long, tequila became synonymous with hard-living, fearless gunslingers like Pancho Villa - heroes of the era. In America, the Mexican favorite experienced a surge in popularity during Prohibition, when thirsty drinkers were tempted by tequila smuggled across the border, and again during WWII, when hostilities made European imports scarce.

Legend has it that the drink tequila made famous, the margarita, was first mixed in Mexico or a nearby state sometime between 1930 and 1955. The cocktail made its way into gringo hands, and no lime or Mexican flag on a toothpick has been safe since.

Don't Call It Cactus

Though often confused, mezcal and tequila are not one and the same. Both are distilled from the agave plant, a succulent from the same family as the lily and the amaryllis, but only liquors made from the blue agave are called tequila. Contrary to popular belief, agave is not a cactus. Though agave shares a common habitat with many prickly cacti neighbors, it has a different life cycle, and there are 136 Mexican species in its own unique agave family.

The process of creating tequila begins when the blue agave plant ripens, usually eight to 12 years after planting. Because the plant must be ripe enough to have sufficient sugars for fermentation, a jimador first performs the crucial task of chopping leaves away from the plant's core to assess its ripeness. If the plant is deemed ready, the core - or piña - is cut away and taken to a distillery for roasting in furnaces called hornos. After roasting, the piñas are shredded, and the juices pressed out and placed in vats or fermenting tanks. Once in the vats, yeast is added to the juices to convert the sugars of the agave to alcohol. These agents are so vital to the process and to creating unique tastes in tequila that distillers keep very tight-lipped about their individual yeasts. The resulting juices then ferment 30 to 48 hours before undergoing distillation twice. The outcome is a rich, potent, colorless liquid between 70 and 110 proof. The color comes later, brought on by wooden barrel aging, or from the addition of caramel or wood essence. In the final step of processing, most tequila is filtered through cellulose filters or activated carbon before bottling.

Protecting a National Treasure

Mexicans are understandably proud and protective of their national alcoholic spirit, and between World Wars I and II, the Mexican government began efforts to closely monitor production and distribution of tequila. In 1944, the government decreed that any product called tequila had to be made by distilling agave in the state of Jalisco. Today, there are only five regions where tequila can be legally made; most are in the semi-arid plateaus and highlands of Jalisco and the adjoining states of Guanajuato, Michoacan and Nayarit, and the northeastern state of Tamaulipas.

To help guarantee the quality of tequila, in 1978 the Normas Oficial Mexicana (NOM) was established, regulating all agricultural, industrial and commercial processes related to the spirit. Since then, the industry has continued to grow, with more than 50,000 hectares of agave under cultivation and more than 500 brands of tequila available today. To help control the burgeoning industry, the Tequila Regulatory Council (TRC) was founded in 1994 to oversee industry production, quality and standards.

The fundamental standard set by these oversight agencies categorizes tequila based on the percentage of blue agave juice it contains. Tequila 100 percent Agave must be made with solely blue agave juices and bottled in Mexico. Tequila or "ordinary tequila" must be made with at least 51 percent blue agave juices and may be exported in bulk for bottling in other countries according to the NOM standard.

Which tequilas are "best" is primarily a matter of individual taste. With increasing manufacturers pumping cash into spiffy packaging, sexy bottles and glossy ads, a more expensive tequila doesn't necessarily mean a better product. There are numerous quality tequilas available for $20-$50 USD. Most brands available for under $20 are usually mixto (not 100 percent agave) and are mass-produced for local markets. A good and tasty way to find a favorite is to sample a wide variety of brands in the different styles: Blanco for its young, rough edge and rich agave flavor; Reposado, which is sharp and peppery; and the woody, smooth Anejo. Trying to settle on a personal favorite is a good excuse to work one's way across the tequila shelf at the local bar, one bottle at a time.

Tequila's Uncertain Future

While tequila has a good-time reputation as the key ingredient of backyard fiestas and frat parties, there's a dark side to this South-of-the-Border libation. The popularity of Mexico's national treasure has, in some ways, caused tequila more harm than good. Growing demand has led to discontent among agave farmers who, in 1996, organized a protest against exploitation by some producers. Their blockade ultimately cost the industry millions, and the loss was passed on to consumers via price increases.

Another blow struck the tequila industry in 1997, when producer Don Jesus Lopez Roman was killed in a gangland-style execution outside his factory. Roman, whose Tequila San Matias distillery was founded in 1884, had become unpopular after taking a vocal stance in support of bottling all tequilas in Mexico and banning bulk exports to ensure content and quality. His murder remains unsolved.

If labor disputes and murder aren't enough, a recent plague of pests, diseases and impending shortage of agave has led to potential crisis. Faced with spiraling agave costs, several distillers have discontinued their low-end brands to concentrate on their premium, higher-priced tequilas. The buzz among bartenders is that as availability of blue agave declines, the price of tequila will rise and quality may not go along for the ride.

But those who love tequila for its unique, sultry taste and colorful history won't be dissuaded by these natural and man-made dramas. As the Conquistadors discovered, once you've been captivated by this ancient spirit, there's no turning back from tequila.

True aficionados say the only way to enjoy tequila is straight up, but these tasty recipes are definitely worth a shot.

Twist of lime
Crushed ice
1 1/2 to 2 oz. anejo tequila

Rim old-fashion glass with lime twist, and fill with crushed ice. Add tequila and lime twist.

Aztec Sky

3/4 oz. gold tequila
3/4 oz. Blue Curaçao

Serve as a shot.

Mexicali Rose

1 oz. blanco tequila
4 oz. cranberry juice cocktail
1/2 oz. lime juice

Shake and strain. Garnish with lime wheel.

1/2 oz. tequila
1/2 oz. Grand Marnier
1/2 oz. Tia Maria

Serve as a shot.

Beergarita

1 1/2 oz. tequila
1/2 oz. triple sec
1 oz. lemon juice
9 oz. cold beer
Splash of lime
Salt

Rub rim of beer mug with lime juice, and dip in salt. Shake all ingredients with ice, then strain into salt-rimmed mug. Fill with beer and serve.

Apollo

1 1/2 oz. tequila
1 oz. Galliano
1 oz. Blue Curaçao
Cream

Shake tequila, Galliano and Curaçao with ice, and strain into cocktail glass. Float cream on top.

Everyone's heard tales of folks who ate the worm in a bottle of tequila and were rendered temporarily able to glimpse into a parallel universe. Truth is, tequila worms and their supposed visionary properties are the stuff of Hollywood movies and high school urban legends. One will never see a worm in Mexican-bottled tequila, though some U.S. bottlers toss in a critter for novelty.

If you're really hankering for a worm with your booze, it's possible to find some types of mezcal that include a gusano or "butterfly caterpillar" in the bottle. Even this isn't a Mexican tradition. Those in the know say the addition of worms was a marketing ploy developed in the 1940s - the drinkers' equivalent of the toy prize in cereal boxes.

Cycling the Tour de France has been likened to running 20 marathons in 20 days. I’m pretty sure I couldn’t run one marathon in 20 days.

Yet there I was, under the blistering sun of Provence, slowly pedaling my way up one of the most dreaded, soul-crushing climbs of last year’s Tour: Mont Ventoux. What lured me to that beast of a hill was a longing to do more than just watch the Tour de France. I wanted to experience the Tour de France. I yearned to ride the very roads that, just hours later, would be chewed up by Lance Armstrong, Laurent Jalabert and Joseba Beloki. I wanted to white-knuckle it down the same hairpin turns, and be cheered on by the giddy spectators who’d camped out for days, waiting for that colorful tsunami of Spandex to speed by. Basically, I hungered for a taste of what the world’s most grueling sporting event really felt like.

That’s what landed me, my husband and 13 others on a Tour de France cycling trip with Backroads, an adventure travel company. The plan was to follow the last third of the three-week race as the riders whizzed their way past the lavender fields of Provence, up the mythical Alps and down the cobblestoned Champs-Elysées in Paris. Along the way, we’d stay in four-star hotels, consume obscene amounts of French fare and work off those calories by cycling 40 to 60 miles a day (except during the trip’s three rest days). We’d get to bike some of the most memorable segments of Tour de France routes. We’d also tackle short sections of last year’s course, a torturous 2,032-mile journey.

“How hard can this be?� I naively wondered as I sat on my couch, lazily thumbing through a Backroads catalog. “It’s not like we’re doing the whole Tour. Just part of it.�

But that “part� happened to be the part with the mountains. Big, colossal, mammoth mountains.

Even so, I saw this as a once-in-a-lifetime experience. If the prognosticators were right, I’d be witnessing Lance Armstrong pedal his way into the history books, becoming the first American ever to win six Tours. I’d be right there, literally, on Armstrong’s road to victory. Mountains, shmountains, I reassured myself. I’m 34 years old; I take spinning classes. I’ll be just as good as anyone else on the Backroads trip.

I knew I miscalculated that last part as soon as I got a glimpse of the other Backroads travelers. Most of the men’s legs were shaved closer than mine. This meant there was either a disproportionate number of transvestites on the trip, or these were some serious cyclists. It turned out to be the latter, which meant my husband and I were destined to play the role of lanterne rouge, the red lantern that hangs from the back of a train. It’s Tour-speak for “the slowpokes.�

But unlike the Tour, this was a vacation, not a competition. At least that’s what I kept telling myself as I crawled up Mont Ventoux, which I think is French for “makes you curl up in a ball and cry for Mommy.� The 6,273-foot mountain juts out of the Provençal landscape like a giant tumor; and this tumor is anything but benign. Comedian and cycling aficionado Robin Williams summed it up this way: “Even the mountain goats don’t like it.�

Ventoux is a relentlessly steep 13-mile climb to the barren, lunar-like summit, where exhausted British cyclist Tom Simpson keeled over and died during the 1967 Tour. As I started to wonder if the same fate might await me, a burly Frenchman with a moustache as big as my handlebars decided I needed a little pep talk.

“Allez! Allez!� he repeatedly shouted in my ear as I crept up the mountain in granny gear. My French friend was telling me to “Go! Go!� which was what I wished he would do, since sweat was stinging my eyes, my legs felt like the beleaguered stage during “Riverdance� and the last thing I wanted was a hairy cheerleader.

But his words pushed me on, if only to put a little more distance between me and his Burgundy-infused breath.

I’d hear the “Allez! Allez!� refrain countless more times from the throngs of onlookers who’d staked out their spot on the mountain, waiting for the Tour to wheel by in a few hours. Folks like me were merely the warm-up act.

We all know the French are very good at some things (food) and not so good at others (war). But they’re extremely adept at the high art of tailgating. When they weren’t rooting on amateur cyclists like me, they killed time by sipping wine, nibbling on brie and baguettes, playing cards and painting riders’ names on the street.

At my heady speed of 4 mph, I had ample time to witness all of these pre-race festivities. It became clear that, to the French, the Tour is much more than a sporting event. It, like Jerry Lewis, is a cultural phenomenon. Unlike Jerry, it’s easy to understand the Tour’s appeal. This is a race packed with more drama than a Jerry Springer show, and with at least as much potential for bloodshed. Catastrophic crashes. Drug raids. Cheating. Smack talking. Not to mention jaw-dropping displays of athleticism. It’s hard to imagine just how much pain these guys put themselves through until you’ve sampled some of it firsthand.

Mont Ventoux is a kick-in-the-teeth climb, even when you’re cycling it with fresh legs like we were. But the Tour racers had logged 120 miles that day before broaching the base of Ventoux. And they still managed to go up it faster than I went down it. How’s that for an ego-deflater?

It truly is a humbling experience to watch more than 150 Tour riders sail up the very road you just cycled. They make it look so easy. But your burning quads and aching back remind you that it’s not.

I thought cycling Ventoux would leave me too exhausted to cheer on the racers. But one glimpse of that Texan wearing the coveted yellow leader’s jersey had the effect of a dozen espressos. There he was. Lance Armstrong — cancer survivor, cyclist extraordinaire — about an arm’s length away from me, plowing up the very mountain that made my legs feel like overcooked fettuccine. Despite being chased by a pack of cyclists who wanted nothing more than to strip that golden jersey off his back and feed it to him in tiny pieces, he looked more serene than I do in a bubble bath.

Other racers gulped oxygen like frat boys chug beer. But Armstrong seemed to be barely breathing while he pumped his pedals like pistons. I knew I was watching an über-athlete in action. I had a front row seat at the Tour de Lance, and I’d earned it. At the top of my overworked lungs, I shouted the words I’d once heard from a wise, mustachioed Frenchman: “Allez! Allez!�