Bryn Lennon / Getty Images

Lance Armstrong won hearts and new ears in France and elsewhere for his other big passion outside of cycling — the fight against cancer.

OPINION

By JOHN LEICESTER

updated 4:26 p.m. ET July 26, 2009

PARIS - Well, well, there’s a sight you don’t see every day at the Tour de France: Lance Armstrong on the podium in Paris without — hold the presses — the race winner’s garish yellow jersey on his back.

Third. Not a result, in pure sporting terms, that ranks up there with the seven consecutive times he claimed the victor’s laurels on the crowd-lined Champs-Elysees, framed by the Arc de Triomphe in the background.

But how much more human.

Armstrong suffered on this Tour, the pain and effort etched into his craggy face. Like a wily fox, he used years of accumulated race smarts to compensate for what his 37-year-old body has lost in speed and resilience; a few seconds saved here, a few more clawed back there.

When the youngsters sped off ahead, he gritted it out behind. Winning, it became clear in the Alps, was beyond him. But he found enough gas in the tank to keep all but two other riders — winner Alberto Contador and runner-up Andy Schleck — at arm’s length all the way to Paris.

He spoke about hurting, about being tired — “I’m realistic. It’s part of getting older.”

He acknowledged that age and a 3½-year furlough from cycling had dulled his cutting edge.

And he was more likable and less otherworldly because of it.

Like that famed Paris arch of white stone blocks, Armstrong’s record of seven straight wins is hugely impressive. Imposing and likely eternal. But it also left many feeling a little cold.

The Texan was too pokerfaced, even uncouth and ill-tempered at times, to truly become a people’s champion. He made winning look like meat-grinding, relentless. No one else got a chance.

His single-minded pursuit of victory and sometimes brash ways ruffled French sensibilities. And the whispers and questions about whether a cancer survivor could be so dominant without resorting to banned chemicals refused to go away, no matter how much he insisted he was clean.

Combined, those factors ensured that what should have been his greatest triumph, his seventh win in 2005, left a bitter taste in many mouths. Tour organizers weren’t sad to see the back of him. His victory ceremony felt more like a divorce than the celebration of a seven-year union. Bitterness was evident in Armstrong’s podium speech, with his shot at “the people who don’t believe in cycling, the cynics and the skeptics.”

“I’m sorry for you. I’m sorry you don’t believe in miracles,” he said.

And off he disappeared into retirement.

Thankfully, that was not the final word.

Among the variety of reasons that drove his return to cycling was a desire to craft lighter, more positive final chapters to his racing career.

It’s been fascinating at this Tour to see Armstrong actually does care how people think of him and his legacy. He worked over the past three weeks and before to rub the tarnish off his image. He couldn’t win the race, but he won hearts and new ears in France and elsewhere for his other big passion outside of cycling — the fight against cancer.

He and the Tour are both better off for it. It wasn’t right that cycling’s most storied race and its greatest champion had parted on such sour terms.