I learned via the mailbox today that Lance Armstrong was named this year's Sports Illustrated Sportsman of the Year. Fortiuitous timing, considering I just finished It's Not About the Bike, Armstrong's autobiography written just after his first Tour de France win.

You'd have thought that Armstrong would have won already. Heck, Greg LeMond only had to win two Tours to gain the honor, and he only had to overcome a hunting accident. Double your wins and God knows how many times you have to multiply to equal Armstrong's cancer, and he should get something else, too.

I have mixed feelings about the book. It was detailed where it had to be, more vague in other places. We got the message that Lance has no time for his real or adoptive fathers, is as devoted to his mom as she is to him, and has a wife who he continuously calls a "stud." He also mentions that the cancerous testicle that started it all was the size of an orange when removed. Ouch!

The inspiration of Armstrong's story, from his childhood to his win over cancer, is palpable. But there's still something about the book that rubbed me the wrong way, and I can't quite put my finger on it. It may be that I wanted more about his fight against cancer, or more about pro cycling. It could be that he's still a bit cocky, and it doesn't sit right. It could be that I know more about his wife and what they went through to have a child than I wanted to.

But, in the end, I think I still have the same level of admiration for Armstrong now than before the book. Certainly, I've enjoyed watching him blow away the competition in the Tour every year. So good for Lance.