I was wearing one of those yellow Livestrong wristbands yesterday, pre-Oprah. It's still on.
It isn't about Lance Armstrong, I've explained to my kids. It's about me. I survived prostate cancer five years ago, and it changed in useful ways how I think about life—aiming high, not putting things off, that sort of stuff. I rather like the continual reminder. I've never cared much for cycling, for myself or on TV, but it's hard not to admire a man of determination who keeps coming back.
Watching Lance Armstrong last night, I was prepared to feel betrayed and to dislike the guy who split up with Sheryl Crow when she had cancer. But I found I didn't. To my surprise, I liked him. I'm not proud of this, or saying I'd ever forgive him if he'd personally wronged me the way he wronged so many. But everything he said—and did—made a certain sense.