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given that terrible diagnosis knows, people who have cancer
need to have hope. Desperately. For me, the yellow band
symbolized it in ways I couldn’t quite fathom, but the
attraction was instant. It connected me to the more than one
million Americans who would get cancer that year, and every
year since. Livestrong was relatively new at the time, and
the yellow band—along with the pink ribbon of Susan G. Komen
for the Cure— was just generating momentum.
(MORE: Lance Armstrong Had Little Choice But To Dope)
The world of cancer and cancer research absolutely needed a
kick in the ass and Lance give it one. He became cancer
policy’s domestique, pulling it up the mountains of
indifference that had made cancer somewhat invisible to
policymakers, refusing to accept that enough was being done
to cure, or at least curtail, a disease that will kill
477,000 Americans this year. He applied the same competitive
fervor he did on the Tour—yes, the kind that got him into
trouble—to badger everyone from the Presidents to
philanthropists to spend more money for cancer research.
Livestrong organized fundraising drives that assembled
thousands of people for bike rides, runs and walks—
survivors, patients, and relatives of cancer victims— that
were both moving and motivating. And Livestrong became a
center of information and support. More recently, Livestrong
opened a navigation center in Austin that helps guide people
through the cancer bureaucracy, and the tough choices that
they must make. It’s a model being replicated across the
country. (Livestrong has its critics, too, as well itshould.
So does the American Cancer Society. We need to hold all
charities to the highest standards.)
