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Even in the off-season, I had to travel more than I liked, usually for the cancer foundation or to honor my
endorsement contracts. I always tried to make it back home for dinner, but there were times when it was
impossible. A typical week: I went toEuropefor 48 hours for an appearance, and took the Concorde
fromParisback toNew York, changed planes, landed inAustin, and drove straight to a photo shoot. From
there I went to sign books, jerseys, and posters for cancer survivors. Then I drove home, changed, and
took a 35-minute bike ride. I showered, changed again, and spent some time with Kik and the kids.
Then I changed yet again, and we went to a gala-fundraiser for the cancer foundation.
Meanwhile, Kik was bringing a similar energy to motherhood anda perfectionism , too. She didn t take
the easy road. For instance, she didn t buy baby food; she wanted to give the kids real vegetables
instead of processed stuff, so she cooked fresh ones and mashed them up.
We had help, in the form of a nine-to-five nanny and a housekeeper, but we still struggled to stay ahead
of the game. I bought hours on a private plane, in order to get home at night and not miss too many of the
struggles or highlights.
I d walk in the door after being away, and Luke would launch himself at my stomach, and I d feel a
renewed surge of energy. I d peer at Grace and Isabelle with a deep curiosity: each of them was
changing daily. Soon Grace had outgrown Isabelle, and I wondered with a pang what else had happened
without me.
Luke got a new two-wheeler from Trek, and he was so excited when he first saw it, he screamed
 NEW BIKE, NEW BIKE! He leaped on it and took off, ripping around the house and skillfully angling
around furniture. I looked at Kik and said,  This is scary.
When he rode it outside for the first time, he crashed just like his father. Kik took him to a neighborhood
with no traffic and smoothly paved streets. Luke was so excited that he wore his helmet the whole way
over in the car. He jumped right on the bike and took off at top speed with Kik chasing him. He took a
sharp left and headed downhill, and onto a cobblestoned driveway. He hit the bumps, and went flying
headfirst from the bike and landed on his face. He got up bruised, scratched, and crying . . . but he just
wiped his nose on Kik s shoulder and got right back on his bike. Just like his father.
I was deeply curious about parenting, and wanted to be a hands-on father. I didn t shy away from the
responsibility. I respected and admired good fathers, most especially my father-in-law, Dave. I expected
myself to be good at it, and felt devoted to the job even when I wasn t sure how to go about it. I loved
doing the small fatherly things doting on the girls, taking Luke to school, talking to his teachers. The
smallest act of fatherhood was very symbolic to me, and vital.
But I was discovering what a hard job it could be. Juggling three children all at once, plus meeting other
responsibilities, was alternately joyful, chaotic, and overwhelming. There were so many small bodies and
needs to attend to that I couldn t even find time to go to the bathroom.
One morning when the girls were still brand new, Kik was exhausted from handling three children with
just two hands. I was out riding, and she was by herself. The twins went on dueling crying jags, and Luke
was racing around being rambunctious.
Kik couldn t put a baby down long enough to answer the phone, or to get out of her pajamas. All of a
sudden there was a knock on the door. Kik opened it, still in her pajamas and with an infant in each arm.
It was her dad, Dave.  Hi, honey, he said.  I called and then I tried your cell phone, and you didn t
answer either one, so I thought I would just stop in. I thought maybe you could use a hand.
 Bless you, Kik said.  Here, take a baby.
One afternoon Iwas out on my bike when my cell phone rang. It was David Millar, the great young
British cyclist and my friend, calling fromParis. He was out on the town and had had a few drinks and
decided to give me a ring.
 Please tell me you re not on your bike, he said.
 I m on my bike.
 No! You bastard! It s December bloody first! How long have you been on it?
  Three and a half hours.
 You bastard!
If you asked me when I started preparing for the next Tour, my answer was,  The morning after. To my
way of thinking, the Tour wasn t won inJuly, it was won by riding when other people weren t willing to. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]