Body, Cycling, Photo Essay

Secret Societies of the Sultanate

Soul, Travel Vignettes

The Story of a Pen

History, Mind

Understanding Turkey One Bite at a Time

Body, Cycling, Soul, Travel Vignettes

Racing Towards the Sun

Book Reviews

What We’re Reading – The Soul in Cycling

Book Reviews, Cycling, Mind

What We’re Reading – Cycling History

Body, Cycling, History, Soul

Le Tour: An Experience to Live

StickyJuly 19, 2024 roland.minez 1 Comment

“The peloton is moving, it never stops. If you’re in the peloton, you’re alive. If you’re not in the peloton, you are facing death.” – Marc Madiot, Director Sportif of the French Cycling Team Groupama-FDJ

The earth has rotated around the sun once more. July has arrived.

For much of the Western World- in the Northern Hemisphere, tradition dictates that means sun soaked days by the pool or beach. Maybe excursions to the mountains. For those in the United States it likely also includes barbecues and baseball games.

Summer is also the season for grand sports tournaments. Despite the litany of dire news reports from across the globe, this year -2024- is full of them. Euro Cup, Copa America, the Summer Olympics.

However, every year across the Atlantic, in France -the month of July means La Grand Boucle (or big loop) is in full swing.

Officially known as Le Tour de France it is without doubt or competitor (sorry Giro d’Italia) the most significant race in cycling. In characteristic French hubris, it is also routinely described as the greatest sports event in the world.

Not without reason. Ever since 1903, when Newspaper Editor Henri Desgrange concocted the idea of cyclists riding against each other around France, Le Tour has been the stage for heroic battles of human endurance. Desgrange came up with the concept to boost sales of the newspaper, l’Auto by leveraging the deep human fascination with feats of suffering that is hardwired in our species.

Monument to Henri Des Grange, creator and first director of the Tour de France.

On that first Tour de France, before two world wars would decimate Europe; 59 cyclists set off from Paris. The winner of the first stage from Paris to Lyon would arrive 17 hours and 45 minutes after starting. Competitors rode on bikes that weighed 44 pounds, had no gears, and no brakes. Fewer than 100 spectators watched that first stage, but after three weeks of Desgrange’s breathless coverage in l’Auto- 10,000 fans would welcome the winner in Paris.

Since that inaugural Tour de France, legendary feats have occurred that serve as guideposts in the history of the sport of cycling. And like all legends, they grow in the retelling. There was the time (in the earlier years before outside assistance was allowed) when a rider in the lead had to walk 15 kilometers to a village after his bike fork broke. He repaired it himself, without instruction, using the village blacksmith’s forge, but was penalized nonetheless when an official saw a peasant boy stoking the fires of the forge.

After a hiatus during the First World War, the tour returned in 1919 to a ravaged France with sixty-nine riders, many veterans of the trenches. Only eleven of them reached the finish line. It was that tour which introduced a yellow jersey for the leader of the race, in the same color the paper l’Auto was printed on.

Today, In its current form- the Tour consists of 21 stages over 23 days- sometimes starting in another country and usually ending with a sprint finish on the iconic Champs Elysee in Paris. This year the Tour started in Italy and, for the first time, will end far from Paris with an individual time trial (where riders race alone against the clock) from Monaco to Nice along the coast of the magnificent French Riviera.

France is the stage for the competition, and race organizers do their best to showcase the beauty of the country. Medieval chateaus, small villages, and sunflower covered farm fields serve as the backdrop. Impossibly steep roads that rise snake-like up to high altitude snow covered mountain passes (or cols in French) routinely serve as the crucible stages that determine the champions from their pretenders.

Some of these mountain stages have taken on mythic status for their difficulty and the historic battles that have taken place there. Each one of the 21 hairpin turns on the serpentine road to the ski resort of the Alpe d’Huez is named after a cyclist who triumphed on the climb during the Tour. The accomplishment is immortalized on plaques placed along the route where amateurs keen to test their mettle can admire them through their own fog of pain.

In the modern tour, there are 22 teams of eight riders each. A total of 176 of the best cyclists in the world. The overall winner finishes the 3 weeks in the fastest total time. No longer required to fix their own bikes; modern racers are supported by a highly evolved logistical system, with spare bikes, mechanics, masseuses, and radios to communicate with their Directors who follow by car. Every day the current leader in the general classification competition wears the coveted yellow jersey.

However, there are numerous races occurring simultaneously within the tour. In addition to the yellow jersey, a green jersey is awarded by points to the highest placed finisher at each stage, regardless of time, and is fought over by sprinters. A polka dot jersey is awarded to riders who have collected the most points given to those among the first to summit certain categorized climbs. A white jersey is worn by the best young rider under twenty five years old. For many teams who lack the budget for a rider with the supernatural talent required to chase the yellow jersey, a stage win on any individual day of the tour can make that team’s season and secure their financial future for another year of racing.

The different jerseys to be won in the tour decorate a mountain village.

And like life, the tour is much more than a physical contest. It is a strategic game, where the contenders attempt to conserve energy for the right moment and exploit the psychology of opponents. 1962 world cycling champion Jean Stablinski summarized this game of cat and mouse; “If you’re strong, make everyone believe you’re struggling. If you’re struggling, make everyone believe you’re strong.”

Make no mistake, although individuals triumph, it’s a team sport. Every rider on the team has a job. An experienced veteran is nominated as a road captain to make tactical calls and coordinate with the Director via radio. Domestiques, from the French word for servant, look after their team’s contenders by blocking the wind, bringing them food and water, and-if needed-giving up their own bikes so leaders can continue in pursuit for glory.

For most riders, life revolves around the Peloton, derived from the military term platoon, which is the large pack of riders who travel together down France’s roads. It is a refuge where the racers shelter from the wind until the moment comes for them to strive for laurels. Like French Director (and former racer) Marc Madiot said, to lose the peloton is to face death, or less dramatically, be dropped from the race.

The stark landscape of Mont Ventoux is moderated by the passion of true fans.

The prestige is so great from a potential victory and the race so challenging that all advantages are sought. The melding of man and bicycle means that technological advances- whether that be a lighter bike or more aerodynamic helmet- can be crucial. Not all advantages sought have been legal and the Tour has a checkered history of widespread use of performance enhancing drugs, sometimes with tragic results. In 1967, on the sun baked barren slopes of Mont Ventoux in Southern France, British rider Tom Simpson collapsed and died two kilometers from the summit in a lethal cocktail of ambition and amphetamines. American Lance Armstrong’s fairy tale recovery from cancer to seven time tour champion was ultimately marred by the revelation that he had cheated.

Water bottles offered at a monument to Tom Simpson

The tour continues, and a new generation of riders have arrived to push themselves to the limit at the event. An estimated billion fans across the globe tune in to watch Le Tour. Yet, it is the 15 million spectators who line the roads of France which truly make the event. It may be one of the last events where fans can (and sometimes do-with catastrophic consequences) reach out and literally touch their sports heroes as they pass by. No expensive tickets are needed to attend and no security checkpoints exist to screen all the people who come from across Europe and the world to be a witness to sports history.

For the forgotten rural communities in France, this is the one event that comes to them and places their world in the middle of the spectacle and the action.

Some of my strongest memories are linked to the Tour. In 1989, our family found ourselves in Paris, on the final day of the race. As an eight year old, I dimly remember the racers passing by us one at a time in a rare final day time trial from Versailles to Paris. American Greg Lemond, had recovered from being shot in a hunting accident and trailed Frenchman Laurent Fignon by fifty seconds on the final day. After the riders passed, my sister and I went to one of the classic carousels that used to dot Paris in those days. Suddenly, I heard my father shouting in ecstatic joy while staring at the small black and white TV of the carousel conductor. Lemond, improbably, and incredibly, had closed the deficit and defeated Fignon. After 3,300 kilometers of racing, Lemond won the ‘89 tour by eight seconds, still the smallest margin ever in Tour history.

Epics of history painted on the streets of Briancon.

In 2022, a friend and I came to climb the mountains and ride the roads of tour giants. Staying in the mountain fortress town of Briancon near the border with Italy; one could feel the growing excitement with the impending arrival of the tour. Giant murals were painted on the town walls of earlier tour racers. We climbed the impossibly beautiful Col d’Izoard where Lemond decisively stepped out of the shadow of his French teammate and ferocious competitor Bernard Hinault (a five time tour winner known as the Badger) to become the first American to win a tour in 1986. We tested ourselves, like so many before us, on the beautiful road that climbed high into the mountains.

Early in the morning, a few days later and sixty kilometers north of Briancon; I was in the little town of Saint Martin D’Arc desperately looking for parking. The Tour would arrive later that day, and the fans had already begun to stream in to find a location along the side of the road to join the action. I left my car, changed into cycling clothes, pulled out my bike, and began to climb the Col du Telegraphe a few hours before the racers were expected to arrive.

Father and Son try their hand on the Col de Telegraphe

While huffing up the climb, I saw all around me a migrating community of cycling fans that had established themselves along the road. Camper vans, tents, impromptu parties, and -everywhere- bicycles were a testament to the passion and commitment of all those who had traveled to this isolated mountain environment to be a part of the la grand boucle. Fathers and sons rode together. Impressively, a group of Belgian fans had occupied a corner and built a small encampment with buxom blondes in a cafe serving belgian beer on draft and decorated in style of the sixties, the heyday of their champion- five time tour winner- Eddy Merckx, known as the cannibal.

An elderly French lady at the top of the mountain pass, waiting for the racers to arrive shared her timeless wisdom with me; “the Tour de France is something to do, to see, but most importantly to live; and is unforgettable.”

She was right, of course, the Tour is much more than a race. It is also simultaneously a moving festival, a spiritual gathering, and a circus. Before the racers arrived, a parade of elaborate vehicles passed by advertising various French products and tossed candy and coupons into the crowd. Among the caravan, were statues mounted on the tops of cars representing bicycle racers and the classic French comic hero Asterix, a little wily Gaul who fights the Romans.

Helicopters flying overhead announced the impending arrival of the racers themselves and a palpable excitement coursed through the crowd. Race officials and TV crewmen on motorcycles sped past.

That year, on that day, a young phenomenon was in the yellow jersey. Already a two time winner of the tour, Slovenian Tadej Pogačar is the cannibal of his generation; aggressive and impetuous, he had shattered the myth that modern cycling required extreme calculated caution and specialization.

Pogacar in yellow but not for long, this time.

The Dutch squad, Jumbo Visma studied Pogačar strengths and targeted a possible psychological weakness. Over the series of mountain climbs on that stage, they used every member of their powerful team to conduct a succession of blistering attacks to which Pogačar responded; before unleashing their contender Dane Jonas Vingegaard who delivered the coup de grace and snatched the Yellow Jersey.

For those fans along the road, we were blessed to be witnesses to a great contest between a titanic individual and a strategic team. Admittedly, the peloton passed by in a whirl but the excitement remained in the crowd and was felt in the friendly banter between strangers.

The traveling festival had moved on, the fans began to disassemble their encampments, and return to all the duties of modern life.

Since that tour, Jonas Vingegaard has himself become a two time tour winner. But the battle continues, and in 2024, Pogačar, as aggressive as ever, seems bent on asserting his dominance once more on the greatest race in cycling.

July will end, winter will come but-barring a world war- next summer will once again see the return of the world’s greatest cyclists to the countryside of France- charging through medieval villages, passing by countless farm fields, summitting high altitude mountain passes, and seeking glory in Paris. Along the roads, will come the millions of everyday people drawn to live the experience which is the Tour de France.

Even Tintin rides, and he wishes you well, from this Pushing Horizons Love Letter to Le Tour de France.

Cycling, Photo Essay

Tour of Oman 2022

February 22, 2022 Andrew Zapf 1 Comment

In a very short amount of time I developed an irrational excitement for the Tour of Oman. The universe of cycling has many famous names and legendary races. Initially I was drawn to The Monuments, the long-distance single-day races that have become fixtures on competitive cycling’s calendar. As a novice cyclist I have a comfortable 40-kilometer Sunday-morning route that I enjoy. I’m thoroughly impressed by those that compete in 300 kilometer single-day races. (The photos of the delayed 2021 Paris-Roubaix hold a special place in my imagination.)

Multi-day, multi-week stage races, like the Tour de France and Giro d’Italia, had not yet found a home in my brain. I’m still learning the tactics of riding in a team, setting up a sprint, or the unspeakable suffering of categorized climbs – repeated day after day. That is, until an article about the 2021 Tour of Oman popped up on my Google news feed. (Thanks, all-knowing algorithm!) The Tour of Oman hadn’t been raced since 2019, before the pandemic, and it was reinstated very late. Amazingly, it was announced only two weeks in advance!

Within days of the announcement arrow markers started appearing on the roads around Muscat. The race would pass the Royal Opera House, utilize the Muscat Expressway, ascend the mountain pass to al Amarat, and finish on the corniche of Muttrah. The six-day stage race would have world-class cyclists riding on some of the same roads my own bike recognizes. Familiarity with the routes and proximity to the race girded my newfound enthusiasm.

Work and other obligations kept me from watching the first five stages of the race. However, on day six, the culminating day, I was able to watch the end of the Tour. Just after lunch I traded my desk and computer screen for a sunny spot only 100 meters from the finish line.

After waiting alone the race gradually materialized around me. First the race officials arrived by car brandishing clipoards and radios. Then the police motorcycles zoomed through clearing any last traffic in front of the peloton. Press photographers appeared along the street seemingly from nowhere. After the stage had been set the first character appeared. A lone breakaway rider silently emerged from around a bend. After only a half minute he zipped past with the frantic energy of someone being chased. Whether he had hopes of winning or was trying his damndest to overwork his pursuers I do not know. Less than a minute later the peloton arrived to the scene. Like angry bees, it buzzed with energy as it whizzed by in pursuit. The race was on!

The course took three 5 km laps around Muttrah before the ending near the sea. In those laps I saw the race tactics evolve from the 135 kilometer chess match into the sprint melee. The breakaway rider was caught by the peloton. The well-drilled teams rode in a tight formation. Wheel to wheel, moving in unison, their combined strength hurtling them forward. Their chosen sprinter shielded from the wind before the final burst. In the rear were the stragglers, bunched into sloppy teams, showing every meter of the previous 100 kilometer’s they’d traveled.

And lastly, it all came down to the bunch sprint finale. Lead-out riders peddled like demons to slingshot their sprinters for twenty seconds of fury. Weeks of training oriented toward victory at the finish line. In an instant the race roared to a finish and then faded like an echo.

Slowly the race glided to a stop. As the riders crossed the finish line they coasted down the road to waiting team members offering water and food. Within moments I was surrounded by competitors, staff, press, and knowing fans and gawking passersby all drifting amongts one another in the aftermath of the race. It was all within an arm’s reach.

In the flotsam and jetsam of the race’s finale I found myself from England’s legendary sprinter, Mark Cavendish. The “Manx Missile” sat on the curb still strapped into his helmet and shoes. Mark Cavendish had a marvelous sprint to win Stage 2 and earned the race’s green jersey as points leader. Over the next three days he had a collision in the desert, lost points in the mountain stages, and earned a time penalty. He lost the Stage 6 bunch sprint when his line was illegally blocked by another rider in the last 50 meters. No podium, no glory in Oman. I could hear him talking to his teammates, still jacked up on adrenaline and frustration from the final sprint. And . . . that’s the moment I chose to ask him for a photo.

In my years living in England I’d heard some elaborate swearing and creative cursing. But there’s nothing that gives a cleaner cut than the direct punch of a “F*ck off!” in the Queen’s English. For the briefest of moments after I interrupted his venting I could see those two words forming in the back of Mark Cavendish’s mind. Propelled by adrenaline-soaked competitiveness I wouldn’t have been surprised to hear them so close after the race’s finish. They never came, though. He indulged this fan and stood up for one, and only one, photo. (Update: Six days later he won Stage 2 of the Tour of UAE.)

I drove away before the podium ceremony and distribution of awards. Eventually the Tour dissolved into its separate parts. The big teams stowed their gear and cyclists into their buses. The smaller ones crammed into their rental cars. The true minnows hopped back into their saddles and rode the 30-plus kilometers back to their hotels.I guess training for the next race begins immediately for some!

The 2022 Tour crossed deserts, battled crosswinds from the sea, and humbled riders in the Omani mountains in a beautiful combination of six stages. After what I’d witnessed I’ll be waiting for the 2023 Tour of Oman with both rational and irrational enthusiasm. Hopefully the announcement doesn’t come to late.

Andrew Zapf is a co-founder of Pushing Horizons.

Photo Essay

The Beautiful Sultanate of Oman

February 10, 2022 Andrew Zapf Leave a comment

Summer in Oman is unrelenting. The heat rips the air from your lungs and the humidity weighs on you like a wool blanket. It’s miserable. But as the earth’s northern hemisphere tilts away from the sun a magical thing happens. Around November the ground no longer radiates heat, rather it collects moisture during the night. Occasionally it rains in December. By January you’d almost forget it was the dead of winter. In these months are the treasures of Oman most accessible.

2022 began with a flop. Mere days after celebrating the flipping calendar our home was struck by the Omicron coronavirus. During our quarantine we paced around our home, anxious, nervous, eagerly awaiting our release. The days of cool mornings and moderate days were slipping away like sand through a clenched fist.

Below are the photos from three successive weekend adventures. First, we warmed up our hiking boots with a local hike over the hill behind Muttrah. The area is dotted with fortifications built to defend the area from the Portuguese in the 16th century. We gazed down into the city from above, explored the market by the harbor, and inspected the fortifications of the Muttrah Fort.

The next weekend we drove 140 kilometers to visit the famous Wadi Shab. After paying the boatman to cross to the trailhead we hiked underneath the protective shade of the wadi’s high canyon walls. Our reward was a refreshing swim at the pools before retracing our steps.

Finally, we went even further afield. East and then south until we reached the golden Wahiba Sands. 13 miles into the desert we reached our campsite. Sorry, glampsite. Prepared dinner, luxury tent, and viewing platform to set up our telescope. It was only one night in the desert, but we spent the quiet hours of darkness literally watching the world turn beneath the heavens.

There’s more in Oman to see and do. In fact, these photos are being posted while we pack a bag for another weekend adventure. Tomorrow we head to the interior. Maybe we’ll find ancient markets, Arabian fortifications, or mountain splendor. Or maybe we’ll find all of that and more!

Andrew Zapf is a co-founder of Pushing Horizons.

Disclaimer: All views expressed are that of the author. As an REI Associate, Pushing Horizons earns from qualifying purchases.

Soul

Coming Soon: The Beautiful Sultanate of Oman

February 5, 2022 Andrew Zapf Leave a comment

South of Bidiyah, Oman. Photo by Andrew Zapf

Body, Cycling

Relearning to Cycle in Oman

November 16, 2021 Andrew Zapf Leave a comment

The past few months have been the doldrums for Pushing Horizons. Both Roland and I have been relocating our families this summer. All writing stopped. Worse yet, any spare capacity for idea generation became conscripted into the service of learning new jobs. Yet, transitions bring challenges and opportunities in equal measure. New countries, new languages, and new cultures necessitate adjustments in the rhythm of life.

Personally I’ve had to relearn how to cycle again these past months. I still haven’t reached my one-year anniversary in the sport, but I’d grown accustomed to a specific pattern while living in England. As a novice I easily slide into the subculture that leisurely rides between picturesque villages with occasional stops for coffee and Tom’s Cakes. It’s a soft landing into a sport that can have an aggressive edge. While I was waiting for my road bike to make the journey to the Sultanate of Oman I learned a bit about the cycling culture here. It is very different.

As is common with other desert countries, civilization is spread thinly along the coast in Oman like peanut butter on a cracker. Muscat is a city pinched against the Gulf of Oman by the Hajar Mountains. The Hajar can only be described as desolate. They rise rocky and treeless into the sky, providing a barrier against the even harsher desert of the interior. Around me there are the relatively flat cycling routes that parallel the sea and the more adventurous routes that cross the Hajar into the desert hinterland. In either case the choice of routes around Muscat allow riders to find routes with long descents and flat straightaways with the cycling clubs riding 60-100 miles on a typical weekend – but fewer cake stops.

I’m not yet familiar with the cycling routes in Muscat. First, I had to get my legs into shape again after a few months out of the saddle. My body also needed to acclimatize to the heat and humidity of the Arabian Peninsula in late summer.

I began my rehabilitation of my leg strength on a closed course. At the Civil Aviation Authority behind the Muscat International Airport there are is cul-de-sac of roads devoid of vehicle traffic outside of business hours. In a triangular shape I could ride three and a quarter mile loops to my heart’s content. On that course long-forgotten muscles could reawaken and the push-pull-push up-down-up rhythm could return to my legs.

Some days I woke before dawn, avoiding the heat, and rode loops while watching the sun emerge from behind the Hajar Mountains. At other times I rode in the evening. Pushing through twilight to put some work in before I closed the day. Traffic-less and unvarying, it was a sterile environment which my mind could detach from everyday concerns and wander freely once again. In the monotony of those loops I revisited memories in Snowdonia National Park and the Southwold Roubaix, planned the storming of the Bastille, and set about scheming adventures of the future when the COVID protocols are more permissive.

Riding at the Civil Aviation Authority for miles and miles netted mere inches of elevation gain. It was inevitable that I soon craved a challenge and change in scenery. This past weekend I stuck out on a proper orientation ride. Riding from my front door I attempted a twenty mile loop through Muscat. I wanted to avoid the heat and the uniquely hazardous Omani traffic thus I began a half hour before sunrise.

Through sleepy neighborhoods I pedaled into the unknown. Speed bumps, traffic circles, and frequent map checks kept my speed modest, but I was untethered and excited. I was alone on the road. There were more street dogs moving about than cars. As dawn crested I could see clearly see the fabric of this multicultural city. Oman was once an empire stretching from India and Persian, the Emirates, and down to Zanzibar. Those areas still shape the social landscape in Muscat. In the predawn hours I rode by shuttered shops servicing the various communities of the city. I passed Lebanese cafes, Indian hypermarkets, Afghani restaurants, and dry cleaners run by Pakistani and Filipino immigrants. Contrasting with the modest appearance of the “Royal Handsomeness Men’s Barbershop” my eyes rested on the minarets of the landmark Sultan Qaboos Grand Mosque – alerting me of Oman’s impressive path to modernity.

The ride through my new home city was a tour of my future’s potential. With each ride my legs gain strength. In time I hope to ascend the Al Amarat Pass, an intimidating switchback mountain climb, with Jan-Jaap – the local Strava Legend of that particular segment – and head into the interior. What a day that will be!

Andrew Zapf is a co-founder of Pushing Horizons.

Disclaimer: All views expressed are that of the author. As an REI Associate, Pushing Horizons earns from qualifying purchases.

Body, Mountains

The Fan Dance

June 17, 2021 Andrew Zapf 1 Comment

In the early morning hours before the world has woken up it is possible to hear the faint crunch of boots treading on gravel and the quiet labored breathing of determined hikers. You won’t hear it every day, but in the Brecon Beacons the ritual reemerges regularly. Those sounds of quiet urgency come from the lungs and feet of the latest aspirants to join the Special Air Service (known worldwide as the “S.A.S.”), the United Kingdom’s military special forces.

The Brecon Beacons National Park is a beautiful expanse of green rolling mountains pocked with small lakes in southern Wales. To these recruits the beauty of the park is overshadowed by their immediate task – to complete a daunting 64 kilometer crucible through the park. Known as “Endurance” they must complete the course including a summit of the park’s highest peak, Pen y Fan, in under 20 hours. Standing at 886 meters, Pen y Fan gives the trial its second name: The Fan Dance.

If waking up pre-dawn is your thing then you can play along with the military recruits in a commercialized version of the event with the pay-to-play Fan Dance Series. At a mere 24 kilometers, it still manages to add over 1,600 feet in elevation. The third option is to wake up on a Saturday morning, enjoy a leisurely breakfast with coffee and scones, and attack Pen y Fan in the warm light of day.

Up until last month my five year old son had never climbed a mountain on his own. In the past he’d been pushed along trails in a stroller or carried when his little legs got tired. Something happened on his fifth birthday. A switch flipped. He started displaying grit and determination. His inner dialogue started coming out and I could hear him whisper encouragement to himself on our hikes. “You can do it.” He’d say, only to himself, but also loud enough for the sharp ears of his dad.

I planned a challenging, but achievable day for him. Starting out at the Pont ar Daf car park along the route A470, the direct route to the top was only 2.2 miles on a gradual slope. In the morning I fed him yoghurt and granola for slow release energy, and packed a few snacks for the way up. At the top my wife and I promised him a rest, playtime, and a small picnic. The day was set to be his.

There were no soldiers on the trail with us that morning. Only other hikers. Singles, couples, and families. For some reason our son picked out a smaller child being carried by another father and singled him out for competition. He must beat that kid to the top. At each rest stop he’d look around for that kid. If he saw him he urged us to keep going forward. His inner competitiveness propelled him to the top.

Once he knew he was going to win the undeclared race he slowed down to play with some rocks. He’d seen a lot of castles in our English travels and wanted to replicate them with the plentiful building materials at hand. He picked out three rather large rectangular rocks and carried them the last quarter mile to the summit of Pen y Fan. (There were quite a few out-of-breathe adults that admired him/expressed their shame to me while at the top).

For a five year old, a 4.5 mile hike with nearly 1,600 feet of elevation gained on The Fan Dance is a triumph.

Andrew Zapf is a co-founder of Pushing Horizons.

Disclaimer: All views expressed are that of the author. As an REI Associate, Pushing Horizons earns from qualifying purchases.

Book Reviews, Mind

What We’re Reading – Historical Fiction

June 10, 2021 Andrew Zapf 1 Comment

Summer time is approaching and it’s time to find the right books to throw in the beach bag, download on the tablet, or remain perched by your favorite rocking chair. Winter is for the dense works that educate, inform, and develop the mind. Oftentimes accompanied by hearty meals and warm drinks. Summer reading demands the opposite. When not out enjoying warmer weather, a bit of well-deserved vacation time, or just decompression from a long year of coronavirus stress it pays to have a good book at hand.

This spring I’ve been indulging in some fiction. Not straying from my normal habit too far, I’ve picked up a few books that have augmented my recent travels around Great Britain. I now offer these works of Historical Fiction for your consideration:

The Long Ships by Frans G. Bengtsson

“A man would have to look far before finding more rewarding beggars than you,” said Orm, “for not one of you but has a tale to tell. If your story is good, Rainald, let us hear it.”

“Stories about sin are always good to hear,” said Ylva.

The protagonist, Orm is a great fictionalized hero of yore, with a named sword and a strong arm. He’s honorable, wise, and quick of wit. He earns the respect of his enemies and everlasting devotion of his friends. He’s also well-traveled. As a boy he’s swept up into the world of sea-faring vikings, raiders of the sea, and spends years (and many pages) on his adventures. In his fictionalized lifetime he’s a slave, bodyguard, warrior, chieftain, treasure hunter, husband, friend, and father. He’s truly a character a reader can seek inspiration and set aspiration to.

The Long Ships is simple good ole, serialized storytelling. It’s not meant to be read straight through as Frans Bengtsson originally wrote the epic tale of Orm in two novels that have only recently been combined into a single book. Bengtsson’s own story is worth a little side-reading on. He’s a historian that poured all he knew about early medieval viking culture and lore into this story. He takes Orm across the known Western world throughout his adventures and makes the character react to Jews, Muslims, and Christian Europe. He processes the scale of the Byzantine Empire and the kingdoms of Africa, while he dabbles in the regional politics of the Norse people. Bengtsson takes the reader on a tour of history within the pages and it has a depth that modern viking tales seem to lack.

Vindolanda by Adrian Goldsworthy

“Now we are friends, until the kings says different. . . You are brave and know how to fight. Share a drink.” He offered his cup. Ferox took it, drank what he guessed to be half and handed it back.

“I like you, the German rumbled and clapped the centurion hard on the shoulder, the friendly blow feeling as if it would drive him a foot into the floor.

“I like you,” Ferox replied, a little surprised to find that he meant it.

It’s no secret that I’ve become enamored with the Ancient Roman Empire this past year. You can’t visit Hadrian’s Wall twice in a year without feeling a gravitational pull. On the second visit I made time to visit Vindolanda, the archeological site of a Roman fort that pre-dated the construction of Hadrian’s Wall in AD 122. While it’s proven a treasure trove for archeologists, it is little more than low walls in the outline of the fort’s buildings and walls. When I was browsing through the gift shop I came across Adrian Goldsworthy’s novel Vindolanda. All I needed to read was that he was a historian of Roman Britain and this was his fictionalization of much of what he knew. Into my library it went and I finished it before my trip to the north of Great Britain was finished.

The story revolves around Centurion Flavius Ferox, a Roman staff officer of infamous repute. He’s stationed in the north of Britannia to maintain relations between the tribes and the Roman garrisons. The novel is set in the early days of Emperor Trajan’s reign and there is much uncertainty in the air about Rome’s stability as an empire and presence in Britannia. As Roman officials and aristocrats arrive from far off Rome, Ferox must grapple with diplomatically educating them on the ways of the local tribes while also sniffing the air for challenges to Rome. Goldworthy’s narrative brings Vindolanda, and all of northern Britannia, alive with his descriptions of life at the fort, relations between the tribes, and where Rome is in its history.

I can say with complete honesty that there were some real page-turner episodes for me in this book. Both battles and feasts held me with rapt attention and there is enough human element to make me identify with Centurion Ferox. This novel brings to life the meager facts of what is known about Roman Britain, which incidentally owes a great debt to Vindolanda’s archaeological offerings.

The Last Kingdom by Bernard Cronwell

“Don’t go to Cridianton,” he told me.

“My wife is there,” I said. “My child is there.”

“Alfred is at Exanceaster.” he said

“So?”

“So the man who takes news of the battle to Exanceaster gets credit for it.” he said

“Then you go.” I said.

The Last Kingdom made this list because 1) I read it, 2) it’s also a popular Netflix series, and 3) there are serious flaws with it. I also happened to be at Bamburgh Castle, in the far north of England, where the protagonist was born and spends the entire novel (and series) trying to get back to. I genuinely enjoyed the first 300-or so pages of this. The Danish colonization of England is an interesting period as the descendents of Red Orm settled on the eastern shores of the island and battled the Saxons and Britons. I’ve been to the cities of York and Lincoln that have shared history with each civilization and seen the evidence of that history in the names and architecture that remain. For 90% of this book, it holds up.

***Mild Spoilers*** It all falls apart when the protagonist, Uhtred Ragnarson, stops following the societal rules for power, security, and advancement of his own era and starts adopting the decision making paradigm of the 21st Century. The quote above, when Uhtred decides to follow his wife to Cridianton, instead of claiming credit with King Alfred at Exanceaster, makes no sense for the early medieval societies he lives in. This diversion from reality pushes the accuracy levels of the subsequent novels, not to mention the whole television series, way down as Uhtred keeps failing to learn from his mistakes, refuses advice pertinent to the society, and spends years of his fictional life making illogical decisions. It’s too much and I won’t endorse it beyond page 324.

However, I can’t recommend Bamburgh Castle (pictured in the banner above), it’s vast beach, and lovely village highly enough.

Andrew Zapf is a co-founder of Pushing Horizons.

Disclaimer: All views expressed are that of the author. As an REI Associate, Pushing Horizons earns from qualifying purchases.

Body, Mountains, Soul, Travel Vignettes

Snowdon: Island in the Sky

June 2, 2021 Andrew Zapf 1 Comment

Cawsom wlad i’w chadw, darn o dir yn dyst ein bod wedi mynnu byw

Translation: We were given a country to keep, a piece of land as proof that we insisted on living

Etifeddiaeth by Gerallt Lloyd Owen, Welsh poet

The mountains of Wales do not have the majestic appeal of the Alpine crown of Europe, nor the impressiveness of spines that run across whole continents. Perched in the northwest of the country, Snowdonia National Park is a relatively tiny mountain oasis in a land of slate and bog. There lie mountains for the common man. Resolute and dependable, the Snowdonia range graciously cedes attention to Britain’s lowland attractions: Stonehenge, London, Oxford. With quiet dignity and solemnity, Mount Snowdon stands 3,560 feet tall as the Welsh sentry guarding England.

Wales was largely unknown to me. After having taken a weekend to ascend England’s highest peak, Scafell Pike, I surmised that visiting the Welsh equivalent would be a worthy introduction to the ancient kingdom. I had hoped that by going in winter I would experience the ocean-facing mountainous edge of the British Isle at its most pure and magical. Ideally, it would be at its least crowded, as well. In the dark days of January and February, much of the Welsh tourism industry shuts down to wait out the coldest and rainiest season. Hiking paths are accessible most of the year; lodges and facilities for hikers are not.

Wales is perpetually rainy, and that type of climate feeds the imagination and gives birth to all sorts of myths. In the misty mountains there might plausibly live a knight-eating dragon. The eeriness of a stormy night fuels the storytelling around the warming fire. Among them, the legends of Britain’s King Arthur have many ties to Wales generally and Snowdonia National Park in particular. The Lady of the Lake guards the sword Excalibur in one of Snowdonia’s dark lakes, while the Knights of the Round Table lie in enchanted sleep in one of Snowdownia’s caves until the rule of Arthur returns to the British Isles.

I arrived in Snowdonia at nightfall from East Anglia. I traded the flatlands of Cambridgeshire for the wild interior of northwest Wales. Flooding streams and deep mud forced me to abandon my vehicle and trek the last half-mile to the weekend’s lodgings, known to the local Welsh as Helfa Fawr. A raw Atlantic wind blew across the treeless hillsides. Sheep reflected by my headlamp’s light bleated their complaints as the herd parted as we passed. Following in a trot, their ghostly presence drove me forward in unneeded urgency to the lodge door.

The single-story building cowered squat and low under the surrounding hills. It had been empty for months, and it’s dark stillness provided no welcome. It had been a derelict ruin of a barn until rebuilt to service hikers. Inside, the thick stone walls trapped frigid stale air. Not even a picture on the wall to warm them. The three bedrooms were spare, furnished with bunk beds and vinyl mattresses. I rolled out my sleeping bag on a lower bunk and lit a tea candle to help warm the enclosed space. Despite the efforts of a wood-burning stove I still slept with a cap on.

There were several other hikers in the lodge. People I’d never met before nor would never see again. We were drawn together by our mutual affection of the mountains. As the cold night gave way to an overcast morning we were drawn from our sleeping bags by kitchen smells and promise of the summit. Nervous energy caused a few rucksacks to be opened and repacked. Noticing one young hiker wearing denim, I offered a spare pair of hiking pants. Another prepared a GoPro camera, intent on creating a home movie of the experience. Together we were a motley group of novice and experienced hikers bound to share the trail.

Our local guide arrived in time to stuff the last piece of toast into his mouth while flattening a 1:50,000 scale map across the dining table. With his finger he traced our route for the day. From the doorstep we’d retrace our steps back toward the main road. In the warmer months the Snowdonia Mountain Railway follows a 15 mile track up from Llanberis village to the mountain’s summit. We’d connect with the Llanberis Path and walk roughly parallel to the rail line. Our lodge’s location in the park allowed us to connect to it a third of the way up. On the map the Lanberis was a pleasant line with a gentle curl. We expected to reach the summit in an easy three hour walk. Afterwards, it was an open question how we’d descend the mountain. It wasn’t the most adventurous or ambitious plan for our day in the park, but the weather would compensate accordingly.

The weather was going to be the most active variable of the day. In the early morning the overcast skies appeared a bit standoffish. They only offered a bit of drizzle with light wind in the valley. The clouds seemed to retreat with each step uphill as we followed the muddy track across dewy fields. The initial sensory experience was the smell of soggy sheep shit ushered into our nose by cold air. As we ascended, my eyes were greeted by ever-grander views of the park, and the temperature was tolerable at the base of the mountain. Although it was January we started the hike with jackets off, warming up in our fleece layers. Gazing downward only the dirty-white wool of grazing sheep dotted the treeless, boulder-strewn hillside. There was absolutely no wildlife to be seen. There were no secrets in the exposed landscape. As we ascended past the shuttered Mountain Railway stations we soon learned how exposed our path was.

At Clogwyn Station, about two miles from the summit, and only two hours into our walk, we experienced the last placid moments of the ascent. Up until then we chatted easily amongst ourselves. Old coggers walking their dogs, families with children, and chattering walking clubs greeted us on the path. The conversation and cheerfulness of those we met reflected the best of Welsh hospitality and hardiness. I exchanged some quick banter with descending hikers, but their enthusiasm for conversation was blunted by the ordeal at the summit. We didn’t realize it, but we had reached the bottom edge of the clouds. They had stopped their retreat and were prepared to defend the heights from our assault.

As our path snaked into the clouds, each step took us further into the isolation of our own thoughts. Above 2,600 feet the gray shroud held firm and mist wrapped around the trail. It muffled the sound of crunching rocks, and heavy breathing swept away spoken words. Either the guide’s stopped talking or his voice disappeared with the rest of ours. Hikers dissolved into dark silhouettes after only a short distance. No one turned around in defeat. The summit stood tantalizingly close. It wasn’t raining, but the moisture condensed on jackets and gear. The temperature kept dropping as we ascended and soon we began to notice that frost grew on the seams and edges of our backpacks and hiking poles. We donned goggles. The wind punished the clouds, beating them against the mountain’s face. Every blade of grass and rock was glazed with ice. I stepped cautiously on the slick stones of the path.

Strong gusts of wind from the Irish Sea greeted us at the summit. We were on an island in the sky, surrounded by a sea of swirling icy mist. Glaslyn and Llyn Llydaw lakes, and all the paths leading up Mount Snowden, had vanished far below. My sense of jubilation at achieving the summit deflated as I stood in a queue for the summit. A platoon’s worth of hikers crowded around the marker, taking turns posing for their obligatory pictures at the summit marker. Visibility was only about twenty meters as I grinned for my own. Icy rocks made movement precarious, and some people slid around on their butts to avoid an awkward fall. Later I learned that mountain rescue was called out across the park four times that day to rescue hikers who couldn’t contend with the conditions. It was cold and anti-climactic, but it was icy and beautiful.

In summer, the Snowdonia Mountain Railway cheerily deposits visitors twenty meters below the summit. The station has a café where one can rest and enjoy a tea and scone with a sheltered view of the park. During winter, the building is shuttered for the off-season, and the best hikers can do is huddle against its leeward side, shivering while eating cold lunches. After clearing the summit, I prolonged our moment of success with a few nips of warming whisky from a red flask I had carried with me. An American drinking Scotch in Wales is all sorts of confusing, but it felt right in the moment. Within twenty minutes we had cleared the summit and distanced ourselves from the small crowd at the top. True celebration would wait until our safe return to our lodge that evening.

Our path of descent took us through the mists and past Clogwyn Coch, a section of imposing slate cliffs just northwest of the summit, once again in the realm of legend. Edmund Hillary and his team trained on these cliffs before their successful 1953 climb to the summit of Mount Everest. (It is still possible to rent a room at the Pen-y-Gwrd hotel, where Hillary’s team stayed.) We sheltered off the beaten path, by a small mountain lake under Clogwyn Coch’s cliffs, devouring sugary and salty snacks and skipping stones across the still water. From the lake’s edge we gazed up at the cliffs of Clogwyn Coch, their tops hidden from view. Huge boulders lay scattered underneath the cliffs and across the hillside, as if giants had cleft and hurled them. Lines from Tennyson’s “The Passing of Arthur” came to mind as we tread on the downward path:

“. . . So saying, from the ruin’d shrine he stept,

And in the moon athwart the place of tombs,

Where lay the mighty bones of ancient men,

Old knights, and over them the sea-wind sang

Shrill, chill, with flakes of foam. He, stepping down

By zigzag paths, and just of pointed rock,

Came on the shining levels of the lake . . .”

The route back to our lodge avoided the frigid exposure of the ridgeline trail. What we gained in protection from the wind we lost in slog through mud and boggy ground. I’d learn that all green ground isn’t solid. Constant rain and snow filled marshland and swelled the valley streams. While only a few miles from our lodge, at the foot of the mountain, I brazenly walked across the boggy ground. At one point in the journey I took two confident steps into a watery hole disguised as solid earth. Like the cartoon character Wile-E Coyote overrunning a cliff, I plunged up to my thighs into a stinking morass of mud, water, and sheep urine. My companions laughed as I leaned on my trekking poles to extract myself, thankful the hole wasn’t deeper and no longer fearing wet feet at any stream crossings.

After nearly 8 hours, and about 15 miles, our group had returned to the lodge’s door. Before long we had started a roaring fire in the hearth and made a giant pot of spaghetti and meat sauce. Comfort food for the weary of foot. I exchanged soaking gear and muddy boots for an ice-cold lager and a steaming bowl of pasta. With my pen in hand I reflected on my walk across the Snowdon Massif, on the lush green mountain side and misty clouds, great blocks of grey stone and white mists. I thought of Arthur and his sleeping knights hidden in caves and British mountaineering pioneers dangling from ropes on the black cliffs.

That night a heavy rain swept through our valley. Secure in our lodge I slept the deep sleep of the enchanted as the rain lashed against its stone walls. The harsh weather did nothing to dull my enthusiasm for Snowdon’s charms. In the morning the valley still held tight to its cloudy blanket. Although I had walked to the summit, I still had not seen it nor gazed out to sea. The green slopes of Mount Snowdon remained sheathed in a thick cloud of ice and wind as I left Wales that morning. It was a perfect manifestation of the Welsh flag – a green and white field behind a mythical red dragon. I have since converted this alluring imagery into dragon-filled adventure stories for my son. I’ll keep telling those stories until I can revisit this island in the sky, the sentry’s lonely outpost on the British Isles, and finally gaze across the Irish Sea.

Note: this is a re-write of the travel vignette Walking Mount Snowdon, Wales, originally published in February 2020. Take a look at the accompanying Photo Essay of Mount Snowdon for more atmosphere. Thanks for reading, again.

~ AZ