Precisely today, July the 28th, Miguel Indurain, a mighty ciclyst is celebrating the twentieth anniversary of winning his first Tour de France. The man won five tours in a row, from 1991 to 1995, plus two Giros d'Italia in the same period. He never participated in La Vuelta de Espana but, paradoxically, never was a nation more proud of a Spaniard and more united as a nation as Spain when Indurain was winning practically everything we was into (apart, perhaps, the new phenomenon of the National Team of Football, but that is a different story, I think).
I was just a teenager at the time, but I feel that people was proud of this heroe for being that, a heroe, and a humble and nice person. Indurain was just the man who let others win individual races, who never spoke against anybody, who was kind and patient always. But still, a heroe: the man who will leave behind one by one all his rivals in going up the mountain with that characteristic rythm that made him endurable; the man who will fly against the clock, and even if getting a flat tire, he will run the distance in 2 or 3 minutes less than anybody else. Indurain made his success with Banesto and never held the pet of Credit Lyonnais, sponsor of the Tour.
I have watched tonight a few clips from those years and, in a flash, everything came to me so familiar: the color, the bikes, the image, the names, the winding roads, the heat over the green Alps... And the image of those summer afternoons clang to the TV, drinking ice coffee and watching mouth-opened the man on a bike. After all, I guess, and looking back reflectively, Indurain represented the heroe of all Spaniard: a fair and honest player who strives for winning against all odds, careless of everything else.
Indurain was that heroe: a heroe for all the Spaniards.
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