Cycling is a sport where you get to witness some tremendous, and some unbelievable feats. Sudden attacks can move you to the edge of your seat and long range attacks can leave you mesmerised, staring at your TV for hours willing a brave rider towards victory. Then there are the times when a rider begins to crack. I wouldn’t say watching these moments are as enjoyable, there is certainly no rejoicing, but I wouldn’t miss them for the world. There is a type of voyeuristic fascination with seeing an old champion or new contender failing in their quest.
When I first started following cycling it was at the start of Miguel Indurain’s five Tours in a row. There was certainly no pizazz about the way he won those titles but I enjoyed watching non the less. The Tour de France was the only race I could watch back then, I hadn’t seen any other way to win a Grand Tour, and the way Indurain powered through the three weeks was impressive to me. That’s why it was so absorbing to watch him fall away from his rivals in 1996 seeing for the first time that what I thought was a machine was in fact human.
Going into stage sixteen Indurain was in 8th, 4 minutes 38 seconds behind the leader Bjarne Riis. He had already had a terrible day, his first at the Tour in over five years, on stage 7 when he bonked on towards the top of the final climb Les Arcs. After a decent time trial, where he equalled Tony Rominger’s time, and finishing with the favourites in Sestriere though his fans hoped that he would preform a miraculous comeback on the final two mountain stages. The first finished on Hautacam and the second, with five major climbs, went past Indurain’s childhood home and ended in Pamplona. But they were hoping for a miracle.