For a guy who barely made it out of high school, I find it incredibly
ironic that I have been awarded an honorary degree from Tufts University.
I feel that I have a lot in common with graduating students, even
though I’m now 35 years old, because they are heading out into the world
to find new challenges and horizons. I am the same way. I have done professional
sports for 20 years. I only know one thing—how to suffer on a bike. But
that’s all over, and now I have graduated to another level in my life and
face new challenges.
The story that often gets told about me is the story of the victories
and yellow jerseys and the top step on the winner’s podium. What gets lost
sometimes is the story of cancer survival and fighting for my life and ultimately
coming back.
In case you don’t know, I was diagnosed with testicular cancer
in 1996—not something as a 25-year-old kid in Texas you love to talk about.
When I finished chemotherapy in December 1996, I wasn’t sure that I would
ever make it back for the one-year checkup. I was off the bike for the next 18
months.
In 1998, when I decided to come back, there were no guarantees. When
I got back into the sport, I needed a team. Well, I barely found a team and started
to train. I figured that since I was so sick before that if I ridded my body of
all the cancer, I would come back and win immediately. I had abdomen, lung, and
brain metastases, and I thought, “Let’s get rid of all that stuff,
and I’ll win everything.” I trained that way.
The reality was, however, that I didn’t win. Worse, I fell
out of love with the sport and out of love with the bike. I didn’t like
my job. I did not like Europe. I quit and came home in the spring of 1998. That’s
a story that nobody tells. I was done with cycling forever. I proceeded to hang
out with my friends, drink beer, and play golf. I was not living the life of a
professional athlete until, one day, some friends sat me down and said, “You
can’t go out like this. You’ve got to get back on the bike, at least
finish the year. You made a commitment to your team and to cancer survivors that
you'll try this. You have to at least finish the year.”
So I went and found a remote training camp in Boone, North Carolina,
with a coach and a friend. For eight days in the pouring rain, 40 degrees, I fell
back in love with the bike. That was the start of the comeback—and the rest
is history.
At the end of 1998, I decided to focus on one thing: the biggest
bike race in the world. I’m not sure how I went from not sure whether I
wanted to race again to, “Why don’t we just win the hardest bike race
in the world?” But we did it. It was all about risk, about taking chances.
But at the same time it was a peaceful time because when nobody expects much of
you, and you don’t expect much of yourself, there’s no risk.
I look at life now and all the challenges that I face as a father
and advocate. Those are real challenges, and I long for the day when people said,
“You’re damaged goods.” Actually, I don’t long for that
day. But there was something peaceful about being in a low-stress environment
and making the comeback that we can all talk about today and I can reflect on
in 20 years and be happy about.
Now I have graduated from cycling. My education has been on the road.
My education has been through illness. My education has been on a death bed. I
realized that the only way to live life and to lead life is actively and as active
citizens.
My new life started the day I left the hospital in December 1996.
My doctor pulled me aside and said, “I want to talk to you about the obligation
of the cured.”
I realized that he was being serious. Of course, I loved the idea
that he wanted to talk to me about a “cure,” thinking he might sneak
me some secret stuff that works every time. But it was nothing to do with that.
It was about how you walk out of the hospital: Do you walk out the side as a private
citizen who never shares his story and never gets involved, but hopes he lives
and goes on to lead a normal life—or do you walk out the other side and
announce, “I’m a cancer survivor, and I’m proud of it. It changed
my life forever, and I’ll tell you my story.” In reality, I hope there
comes a day when I don’t have to tell that story anymore. But I chose this
path. I chose active citizenship. And I challenge you all to choose this path
as well. Active citizenship is much better.
When I walked out of that hospital, I never thought that I would
ever get back on the bike. I never thought I would come back. I never thought
I would win a stage in the Tour. But it happened, and it gave me the opportunity
to stand in many places and share my story and try to give hope to millions of
people worldwide. I feel blessed and humbled that I have this opportunity. You
may not have such a global opportunity, but you have a local opportunity, starting
in your home.
A few years ago, Nike came to me and said, “We want to make
a yellow band for your cause. We have these bands called ‘ballers’
because we make them for basketball players. We want to make some yellow ones
for your program, LIVESTRONG. We’ll make five million of them and give them
to you, and you can sell them for $1 dollar.”
We all sat around and joked about what we might do with 5 million
yellow bands that say “LIVESTRONG.” Amazingly, we went through five
million quickly. In fact, we could not keep up with the demand (we now have 55
million yellow bands).
This tells me that people want to be active in a cause. Of course,
I realize that not all 55 million people care about fighting cancer. In fact,
I see people smoking cigarettes wearing my wristbands. But, most of the people
wearing yellow “LIVESTRONG” wristbands do care and want to be involved
and active in the cause.
Imagine if I could mobilize this group of people and create a “LIVESTRONG”
army. Even if I could only capture 5 percent of them, I would have three million
people who said, “We care about this cause, and we want change. Cancer has
to be a national priority and, Lance, we want you to lead this army.” That
would effect real change.
When President Bush won the election in 2000, he won by 500,000 votes.
In 2004, he won by about three million votes. If you have three million people
who come together and say, “We care about cancer. It has affected me, my
family, my neighborhood, and my workplace, and we demand change,” change
will happen. That’s the power of the people, and that’s the reality
of mobilizing an army and being active citizens.
My friends ask me, “Lance, what are you going to do now? You
are a guy who races through every city limits sign with your friends. You are
a guy who can’t stand to lose at anything. What are you going to do now
that you don’t have sports to fill your life?” The answer is simple.
I’ve got a cause that will give me an opportunity to make seven tour wins
look small. That’s my idea of active citizenship and mobilizing an army
of people who come together and effect change now and forever.
I encourage all of you to be active citizens. You don’t have
to join the “LIVESTRONG” army—there are other armies and groups
of people that mobilize all the time. I tell you it works. I have seen it happen.
It is up to us to make up the difference because we can’t always rely on
others to do it for us.
I challenge you to find your own “obligation of the cured.”
You don’t have to be diagnosed with cancer. But you—or your brother,
sister, mom or dad—might be. Find within you what it means—this obligation
of the cured. Be active. Be involved. Be heard. Be aggressive. Be smart. Don’t
be afraid.
I’ll ride right alongside you, because I am doing the same
thing. I knew one thing for 20 years, and now I look ahead and see that life is
very different. So let’s do it together. We can affect change all over the
world. I’m excited. I love a good fight. We all have good fights we need
to fight. Good luck to you. We can make a real difference. So don’t forget—live
strong! PE
