In these sad and nostalgic moments, when so many unforgettable memories of Big Mig rush through our eyes, it becomes certainly difficult to pick up a favorite moment. Indeed, one can say that all these years have been to Big Mig`s fans an almost uninterrupted streak of ``favorite moments``, favorite moments which all began a long time ago, on that fateful and steamy July afternoon of 1991 when the Tour first entered Jaca in northern Spain (how convenient it now seems Indurain`s decision of entering the history of the Tour when the Tour first entered the history of his country), the helicopter`s camera zoomed in on the short but rough climb leading to Jaca`s greeny and quaint suburban neighborhoods, and Spanish TV commentators, noticing that the relatively then unknown young Navarran called Miguel Indurain was at least trying a move, decided to withdraw from their up to then ruthless accusations against Banesto, Indu`s squad, for not attempting anything against the seemingly indisputable Greg Lemond`s domination of that year`s race. Big Mig would not progress very far on that day: the feverish peloton would catch him less than a mile after, transforming, for one more day, the podium ceremony into another homage at a foreign stage winner and another public praise of the fittingness of the yellow color on Lemond`s jersey. Spain would have to go to bed, one more day, with the unadulterated and ominous conviction that great and consistent triumphs, as opposed to the occasional prowesses provided by bold and sporadic heroes like Perico, would be something forever reserved to other countries. For one more day, the vague and illusive dream of ever enjoying a Spanish cycling figure remotely resembling in prestige the big names of Anquetil, Merckx, and Hinault, would have to be set aside in each of our hearts as just that, a dream.
But only for one more day.
For next day, indeed, on the Jaca-to- Val Louron stage, it became clear that those who had not taken seriously the warning signal heeded by Miguel Indurain with his symbolic attack on Jaca, had committed a big, big mistake. These did not include Greg Lemond, who, from very recent and vivid personal experience, knew better than anybody the dangers of underestimating the climbing ability of Miguel Indurain when he was trailing one`s wheel (Indurain had robbed Lemond in such a fashion of a very prestigious stage victory at Luz Ardiden, in 1990). No, Lemond knew better than anybody that, if there was somebody on that race who could jeopardize his yellow jersey, it was Indurain. Which is why Lemond was the first in responding to the to him not at all surprising brutal and sudden attack of Indurain at the Tourmalet`s summit (people who reproached Indurain for not attacking must have forgotten the critical attack which started it all). What the great Tour-champ Lemond did not have the slightest idea about, was the fact that the young, low-key and relatively anonymous Spanish fellow whose wheel he was so unsuccessfully trying to follow, would, six years later, become the greatest rider in the history of the Tour. Lemond, at that point, was absolutely ignorant of this.
And so, of course, was anybody else.
Indeed, those who were watching TV at that time, in Spain or abroad, could not have possibly imagined that the ten meter gap initially opened by Indurain on Lemond would in a matter of minutes grow so large so as to engulf any other rival in the general standings, let alone that the man mainly responsible for such a havoc, Miguel Indurain Larraya, would soon become as synonym of yellow jersey and Tour victory as Michael Jordan is today of NBA glory. What a delicate and destiny-filled, yet easy to slip by, moment. The great champ, with his powers waned, can do nothing but bow his head to the new rising star and hand him over the torch. Those who witnessed it will not certainly be able to erase it from their eyes. This does not include me, who at that point was still placidly and idly swimming in a residential club in the outskirts of Zaragoza, Spain; and who would need to go back home in order to check the TV and believe indeed that his new idol, my new idol (for I can now claim that I began to cheer for Indurain before, just before but before, his great hours came), was now the king of the Tour. No, all these ``favorite`` moments which so intensely bubble out in my mind now, do not include this critical and fateful one. But they certainly started off here. The most recent and artful biography on Indurain, ``El Rey Miguel`` puts it all beautifully. ``Lemond desperately tried but, extenuated, empty, finally had no other choice but to yield. Miguel was leaving him. One meters, ten meters... the end.``
Six years later, Indurain`s fans would have to experience the bitter and unpleasant other side of this inevitable reality when it was Indurain himself, extenuated and empty, who would have to yield powerlessly to the rise of a new and unappeasable Tour champ, Bjarne Riis. (The difference being, of course, that Bjarne Riis, then 32 and exploiting the last cartridges in his cycling reservoir, would not join the exclusive club of five-time Tour champions which is now composed of Anquetil, Merckx, Hinault and Indurain). So, Lemond`s fans, have no envy because we also know how to cry.
But, between these two momentous turning points, July 16th 1991 and July 16th 1996, there lies an almost uninterrupted five-year streak of bountiful and inebriating cycling glory which includes 5 consecutive Tour de France victories, a prowess unclaimed by any other rider in history (and this includes Anquetil, Merckx, and Hinault), 2 consecutive Giro de Italia victories, and a bunch of other ``minor`` achievements. And, above all, what lies in between is the story of how a plain and humble farmboy who, in the most epochal spirit, initially only wanted ``to be like his father``, became, and the fact that he did so with only the power of his heart could not possibly be any more true, not only a rolemodel as an athlete, but also, and most importantly, a rolemodel as a person as well.
So, now, if asked about what a knowledgeable and eminent Professor like Dr Greehamdo Moorgham would pick up as his favorite moments in Indurain`s career, I would say, simply:
All of it.
And, maybe, maybe, maybe, if pressed a lot further, I would, after long and wandering hesitation, yield to reveal one memory about Big Mig which, because of the secretiveness with which I have kept it, and because it deals with another critical event which went mostly unnoticed, but which could have changed the whole of Indurain`s career; could, perhaps, be labeled as something vaguely resembling ``my favorite``.
It is the story of Miguel Indurain and the banana