Scott Martin

Curse you, Lance Armstrong.

Sure, his seven Tour de France victories galvanized the worldwide cancer community, garnered massive exposure for U.S. cycling, inspired countless kids to put down their PlayStations and pick up their bicycles, resuscitated the bike industry, made rubber wristbands a fashion statement... blah-blah-blah.

But Lance's legacy has had a tragic effect on one vital segment of the population : me.

Every year, I compete in a couple of local road races. It's my version of saying a few Hail Marys or whipping myself with a thorn bush -- good for the soul.

I get up at 5 a.m., pay my $25, pin on a number and suffer like a dog for a couple of hours in hopes of finishing with the pack or -- if enough crashes and flat tires winnow the field -- winning an ugly T-shirt and a $15 wire-bead tire.

No more. Ever since Armstrong's triumphs, my local race scene has gone crazy. Every event draws huge fields, especially in the old-guy categories. Races fill weeks in advance.

Promoters split categories into A and B races, and still there's a wait list. My category for one popular race this spring filled a few hours after online registration opened.

And the level of competition : brutal. I'm dropped before I can clip in. Can't climb a 10% grade in your big ring ? Forget it. Lining up without a power meter is like showing up with baseball cards in your spokes.

Everybody has a coach telling them to watch their kilojoules, which I believe is some type of European gemstone.

I know : All this competition is good for cycling and will challenge me to work harder. But I don't want to work harder. I want an ugly T-shirt.

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