LANCE ARMSTRONG squirmed once. There s a photo.

It wasn t one of his press-conference, get-me-away-from-these-dickheads-and-their-Floyd-Landis-questions squirms. That s bristling. Armstrong does that all the time. Like a couple of years ago, when I was interviewing him for this magazine and he brought up Outside s July 2006 issue. The cover showed Floyd Landis staring out, next to the line Lance who?

Oh, you know," Armstrong said, just the guy who won seven Tours de France. Whatever, man."

I squirmed.

That s something Armstrong does well: make other people uncomfortable. Even he refers to it as the look." It s how he controls the conversation, his bright light in the interrogation room. Someone gets out of line a rival, a teammate, a journalist and the emotion drops from his face. It s one of the fiercest stares ever. (Pity his kids when they start missing curfews.) He flattens his mouth, sets his jaw, looks straight ahead, and waits.

He waits for you to think about who he is, about the money and fame. He waits for you to think about the cancer and the yellow jerseys. Then he waits a little longer, for you to come to terms with the one advantage he has that makes everything else possible: Take it all away and he could still kick your ass.

But what if he couldn t? What if you were Alberto Contador?

Yes, Armstrong took third at the 2009 Tour de France. Yes, that would be a career-making result for many, even for a rider who wasn t returning from a four-year layoff and pushing 40. But Armstrong wanted more. He admits it. His racing showed it. He threw everything he had at Contador, dividing their team in the process. (They were, ostensibly, teammates.) Contador absorbed it all and still kicked his ass on the bike.