Category Archives: Cycling

Le Tour: An Experience to Live

July 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.

Body, Cycling, Photo Essay

Secret Societies of the Sultanate

October 28, 2022 Andrew Zapf Leave a comment

At the moment the sun rises above the Hajar Mountains an alert observer can spot the tell-tale signs of clandestine activity in Muscat. In the pre-dawn hours a subculture of like-minded individuals meet in near-secrecy, under the protective cloak of darkness. They can be discerned from the activity common to any sleeping city by the flickering and blinking of red lights and the whirr of unseen gears and spokes. Even if you’re an early riser you might only spot a glimpse of rear tires in the distance asembers disperse from these secret meetings to resume the banality of normal lives. In the summer months cyclists in Oman become nocturnal.

Winter starts late and ends early in the Sultanate. The remainder of the time summer reigns with a molten-iron fist. Summer-time temperatures can soar to 120º Fahrenheit (49º Celsius). These extremes drop to the cooler temperatures of the mid-80s Fahrenheit (~30º C). Humidity levels exceeding 70% throughout the summer chase any hope of outdoor comfort to late-October and beyond. Add to the equation roads radiating absorbed heat back and it can truly be said that sportic activity takes true passion. Cyclists are driven to the nighttime to survive.

Replicating the epicl tales of the desert, the cyclists of Oman prepare for each ride as if the rescue plane will never find them. Water bottles are frozen overnight, spare innertubes and patch kits are checked (and rechecked), pockets are filled with carbs & electrolytes, and sun protection is slathered on uncovered skin in terrifying quantities. When alarms are set for 4 a.m. and moonlit rendezvouses are made, it is done with deliberate preparation.

Undiminished are the joys of cycling in such extreme conditions. Riding at night behind the narrow beam of headlight reveals mile after mile of open roads uncluttered by the day’s traffic. The dawn is also a photographer’s dream as the golden hour of gentle sunlight graces beautiful scenes along the routes. It’s also an undeniable pleasure to be amongst other cyclists that embrace the same difficulties week-in and week-out.

When the sun rises and reaches its full power the journey quickly come to an end. Water bottles that have been emptied, refilled, and emptied again beg for mercy. Sweat has long-since rinsed sunscreen and saturated every inch of clothing. Cyclists happily trade their place on the road with those behind a different kind of wheel. By the time the coffee is brewed, the calm and inviting streets of the early hours are transformed into a dusty, exhaust-choked 91-octane scrum. And so it remains until the wee hours of the next day.

The time from April through September reveals those truly dedicated to their bicycles. On a balmy July morning the Waveriders, Nite Riders, and Cyclogists might only summon a half dozen initiates to the darkened roads. Membership of these riding clubs swells to double-digits during the winter months as they flock about the city and surrounding hills in the daylight. However, those with the mettle can be inducted into these Secret Societies of the Sultanate . . . dues are paid in the summer.

The reward for a long early morning ride.

Smooth roads, wide shoulders, and routes galore.

A brief pause before the sun is fully cooking.

A sight seen at various meeting points across the city.

Andrew Zapf is a co-founder of Pushing Horizons.

Disclaimer: All views expressed are that of the author.

Body, Cycling, Soul, Travel Vignettes

Racing Towards the Sun

March 22, 2022 roland.minez 1 Comment

When the Good Lord begins to doubt the world, he remembers that he created Provence.”

Frederic Mistral

Provence and the South of France will forever be associated with the good life.

The great impressionist painters, like Cezanne and Van Gogh, have imprinted on our global conscience images of sun-kissed stone villages surrounded by olive and cypress trees. For our new lost generation such timeless images are paired with those of the glitterati, hip-hop stars and Russian oligarchs, whose super yachts bob along the Cote d’Azur.

But long before the majestic Provencal summer Sun announces the arrival of endless tourists, in the quiet days of winter, the locals have their world famous playground to themselves.

Our dear friends came to visit in those last days of winter. The clouds hung low. The famous sun was nowhere in sight. We opened a family cottage from its winter slumber; turning on the heat, making the beds, and stoking a roaring fire. We exchanged hugs, toasts, and laughs, and caught up after a long absence.

Paris-Nice: The Race Towards the Sun. Teaching people how to suffer since 1933.

Earlier that week, our generation’s cycling hard men had started an eight-day stage race far away in Paris. The iconic Paris-Nice bicycle race has been held annually since 1933. Dubbed The Race towards the Sun, it starts in the cold wet climate of Northern Europe and aspires to end in Mediterranean warmth.

The arrival of the race heralds the true beginning of the summer cycling race season in Europe. To win at Paris-Nice is to announce your ambitions for glory at that year’s Tour de France. The greatest heroes of the sport have won here, among them Jacques Anquetil, Eddy Merckx, and Miguel Indurain. In 1966, the legendary French rivalry between the icy blond champion Anquetil and his everyman craggy faced competitor Raymound Poulidor played out in the race. Anquetil won his fifth and final Paris-Nice, when he passed Poulidor on the last day in Nice, cementing Poulidor’s status as the “eternal second.” The tough Irishman, Sean Kelly, won the race a record seven times from 1982 to 1988.

A new generation always has its new contenders. Today, a crop of rash young aggressive riders like Julien Alain Philippe, Wout Van Aert, and Mathieu Van der Poel (the grandson of Poulidor) has swept across the sport and delighted fans. Perhaps none more spectacularly than the trio of riders, Primos Roglic, Tadej Podgacar, and Mateo Moharic, from the small mountainous country of Slovenia.

Roglic, a former ski jumper who arrived late to the sport of cycling, seemed destined to dominate the great Grand tours such as the Giro d’Italia, the Vuelta a Espana, and the incomparable Tour de France. His impressive climbing skills, iron will, and powerful supporting team suggested a new uncontested era. Then, in 2020, on the second to last day of the Tour de France; Roglic exploded spectacularly on a time trial up the Planche de Belle Fille, and his young upstart countryman, Pogacar, stole the victory; the first for Slovenia.

In the 2021 Paris-Nice, after an impressive start Roglic crashed on the last day, and lost his yellow leader’s jersey. Another crash early in the 2021 Tour de France also put him out of contention. In the meantime, unruly blond haired Pogacar, not yet 23 years old, stamped his authority on bicycle racing with two back-to-back wins in the Tour de France, and victory in a host of other races.

The questions inevitably followed. Was Roglic truly destined to be a historic champion? Or would he remain cursed with bad luck, bad timing, or bad nerves in French stage races? Would he be, instead, his generation’s “eternal second”; playing “Poulidor” to Pogacar’s “Anquetil?”

Such sports drama felt far away from all of us in Provence. We shared bottles of wine and stories. We reminisced about our time together in Italy. We dissected the tremendous tragic geopolitical events occurring to our east. The closest we probably got to bicycle racing itself, was the board game we played called Flame Rouge which craftily simulates the strategy and luck needed to win a bicycle race. Huddled around the fire, we watched our friends’ eldest daughter beat all of us on her first try.

My friend and I being who we are, however, meant we actually did have to ride our bikes that weekend. We fortified ourselves with croissants, set up a spare bike, and set off into a blustery day. After pushing through suburban sprawl that surrounded the town, we soon found ourselves in the terrain for which Provence is famous. We passed gnarled olive trees, crumbling stone farmhouses, and rosé vineyards. After a lengthy climb through the hills above the bay of Saint Tropez; we were caught by a ferocious Mistral wind that almost knocked us off our bikes.

For although less well known for those with only a passing knowledge of Provence its strong winds are just as defining. Named after the bard of the region, Frederic Mistral; they howl with terrific strength into the Mediterranean, reaching speeds of up to 185 kilometers an hour. The winds are strongest between the transitions of winter to spring. In other words, they were the strongest when we had chosen to ride.

We fought our way to the approaches of Grimauld Castle, before turning back towards the bay; alternatively being pushed along or pedaling to a seeming standstill, depending on the whims of the Mistral. We entered the once quiet fishing village of Saint Tropez that is now synonymous with luxury.

The old streets of Saint Tropez sometimes run right into the Sea.

We found our families enjoying an apero or pre-meal drink at a cafe next to the weekly market. Then together, we walked through the cobbled streets of the town, and climbed creaky stairs to a restaurant where we washed down fish soup, mussels, and fries with an excellent dry white burgundy.

Families gather under the patron saint Saint Tropez.

Somewhere, not far, those racers who had survived the preceding stages from Paris were battling high in the mountains in the penultimate stage. Not far in distance from us, maybe, but infinitely in lived experiences.

Earlier in the stage rage, Roglic and his Jumbo teammates had demonstrated their trademark dominance. On stage 1, the team took all three podium positions. Then they did it again on the stage 4 time trial. On both occasions Roglic and Wout Van Aert were among the three Jumbo riders. By stage 7 in the mountains, while we sheltered from the wind with our bottle of white in St. Tropez, Roglic’s victory seemed assured.

The next day, we woke up to rain. Another croissant run sustained us; as we packed up and locked the cottage. Our friends were going skiing; we were returning to work and school. Somehow, but admittedly not a coincidence, our path would take us first to Nice where the race was scheduled to end that evening.

When we arrived in Nice, layered in rain jackets, the excitement of the race was palpable. Team buses, mechanics, and chase cars were everywhere in the city. We walked through the city, before holing up in a Corsican restaurant. Many courses later, we emerged to find the race had yet to arrive. A long drive, and work week awaited us. The return voyage couldn’t be delayed for much longer, but surely we couldn’t leave before the finish, after getting so close?

In the hills around Nice, beneath the rain; the riders pushed each other on the final eighth stage. Suddenly, the British rider Simon Yates attacked and Roglic couldn’t follow. The time gap grew bigger, and improbably (or inevitably); Roglic’s overall victory was once again threatened.

We walked the famed promenade des Anglais along the coast willing the racers to arrive before we had to depart. We concocted a mad scheme to walk to the outskirts of the city in order to see the riders and then depart before the finish.

The *Monuments aux Morts,* a war memorial on the Promenade des Anglais.

Roglic tucked behind his teammate Wout Van Aert, and they chased after Yates. Together,they struggled to regain the precious seconds needed to ensure Roglic’s victory.

Wout Van Aert drags Primos Roglic in pursuit of Simon Yates on the Promenades des Anglais, Nice.

In a steep old alley, a Frenchman ran out of his house shouting that the cyclists would arrive in any minute. We abruptly turned around, and our children led us in a wild dash through the city streets, as we blindly followed the Frenchman. We arrived on the boulevard just in time to see Simon Yates go screaming by us. The children laughed in giddy excitement. The seconds slowly ticked by…until suddenly Van Aert and Roglic flew by in hot pursuit.

Yates took the stage but for Roglic, the curse had been broken. In no small part thanks to Wout, he had minimized the gap and finally had his overall win at a stage race on French soil. The race had been brutal; only 59 finished out of the 154 cyclists who started.

Of course, Roglic’s greatest competitor- Pogacar -was far from Nice racing elsewhere in Italy. Only time will tell if the Poulidor/Anquetil analogy applies to the two Slovenians.

A young fan caught up in the excitement.

On that day, the good life in Provence for Roglic was a hard earned victory. For us, it was great company, food, and excitement. Sun optional in both cases.

Roland Minez is a co-founder of Pushing Horizons.

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.

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.

Book Reviews, Cycling, Mind

What We’re Reading – Cycling History

August 2, 2021 Andrew Zapf 3 Comments

At the beginning of the year I dug out my old bicycle to add some variety to my fitness routine. I hadn’t ridden in over a decade and it needed significant maintenance to become roadworthy again. In the ensuing years since making that purchase I’ve developed a dependency on reading and research when I take up an activity. I can’t simply do a thing. I have to mentally walk the corners of a room before I can sit down in it. Whether it’s a historical topic, cooking technique, or a new sport – I have to contextualize it before I can appreciate it.

In this familiar pattern I approached the world of cycling as I began pedaling through the late-English winter cold and rainy spring. I don’t have the background knowledge (yet) for understanding the sport’s statistics, rattling off names of famous cyclists, or identifying key moments in cycling history. At this stage the best I can do is appreciate a good story. And there are some good stories from cycling’s history which I have found in the following books:

The Monuments: The Grit and Glory of Cycling’s Greatest One-day Races

by Peter Cossins

“Paris-Roubaix is the last test of folly that cycle sports puts before its participants. . . It’s a savage race, but not one for brutes.” – Jacques Goddet, race director, 1968

“The Monuments”. What great branding! It’s powerful wording. It creates exclusivity. And it keeps the same five one-day races perpetually on cycling’s global stage. Peter Cossins writes a straight-up history of these five races (Milan-San Remo, Tour of Flanders, Paris-Roubaix, Leige-Bastogne-Leige, and the Tour of Lombardy) in five distinct sections. It’s not a page turner, but it’s great material for anyone wanting to learn about each race in detail. Best read throughout the racing year. Cossins does discuss some of the great rivalries between cyclists in different eras in the context of these races (Coppi-Bartali, Merckx-Gimondi, etc.) which can add greater context to a wider knowledge of cycling history.

The appeal of The Monuments, especially for me as a novice cyclist, is the unpredictability of each of these races. There is still the feeling that any entrant has a legitimate chance to win. In stage races cyclists and teams can adjust tactics based on daily changes in terrain, weather, or mechanical issues. Monument races are less forgiving. A crash, mechanical failure, or incredible luck can eliminate a favorite from contention and/or place an unknown at the front of the peloton in the blink of an eye. Not to mention, these races generally are designed to be extremely difficult to compensate for their single-day duration. (Riding on bone-jarring cobblestones is a feature sought after in several of these races) These are races of endurance, luck, and grit unlike any other on the racing calendar.

If I had to pinpoint my favorite part of each section were the histories of each of the races in their earliest years. From the 1890s until the 1920s the world of cycling was a wild and crazy place. The roads of the time had incredibly variable quality to them, the races weren’t on closed courses and mixed with train service and commuters, and riders dealt with all sorts of unpredictable factors that don’t bother modern-day races. Especially the spectators in those days. Fans were very active participants. They pushed riders up hills, conspired to block rivals, threw tacks and causing punctures, and helped with repairs. This is bananas stuff and super interesting! None of these races were destined to be the great events they are today and I find it fascinating how the races’ organisers clawed their way onto the racing calendar, into respectability, and into history.

Gironimo! Riding the Very Terrible 1914 Tour of Italy

by Tim Moore

Dies slowly he who transforms himself into the slave of habit, repeating every day the same itineraries.

Fabio’s head nodding significantly besides mine.

Dies slowly he who does not risk the certain for the uncertain. To go toward a dream that has been keeping him awake.

How very moved I was to think that a free spirited young offroader like Fabio should look up to me, suburban, middle-aged me, as the standard bearer of flinty-eyed solo adventure. Moved and ashamed. – Tim Moore, while reading Dies Slowly by Martha Medeiros

Tim Moore is not a historian. He’s a traveler, writer, and a Brit. When I look through the catalog of books he’s authored I have two complimentary thoughts. One, I’d like to have a beer with this guy. Two, how do I save enough money to embark on an adventure scheme of Moore-ian style? He’s the type of guy that has driven across the United States in a Ford Model T and walked the 500 miles of the Camino de Santiago with a donkey, written books about the experience, and financed his life with these adventures. For this book he restored/rebuilt a century-old bicycle and donned period-accurate clothing to ride the route of the 1914 Giro d’Italia – a race famously so difficult and misfortuned that only eight of 81 riders finished all eight stages – considered by many to be the most difficult stage race of all time.

This book is less about cycling history and more travel writing. Moore spends a good five chapters bringing the reader through the process of getting a pre-World War I bike functionally rideable and the rationale behind his scheme. He meets, and conveys to the reader, anekdotes from all across his journey of those that helped him build and repair his bike, and those that shook their head at him along the way. It’s filled with British cheekiness and observations about continental Europe finally tuned from a career of writing. It’s worth the read even if you don’t care much for the actual cycling in it.

Moore does have a fair number of stories and information about the 1914 Giro d’Italia interspersed with his modern-day tale. It’s impossible for him to avoid it when retracing the steps of such an infamous race. The cyclists of the day struggled along the entire length of the Italian peninsula, attacked several 400 kilometer stages, and battled the limitations of their equipment. It was a harrowing ordeal for them and I’m glad Tim Moore came along to remind us.

Riding in the Zone Rouge: The Tour of the Battlefields 1919 – Cycling’s Toughest-Ever Stage Race

by Tom Isitt

But with a 2,000 km route in seven stages across the war-torn roads and battlefields of the Western Front in horrific weather a mere couple of months after hostilities ceased, the Circuit des Champs de Bataille took suffering on a bike to a whole new level.

This book is the perfect combination of the first two books and I can’t endorse it enough. I had the privilege of listening to Tom Isitt give a talk to the Western Front Association about this book before I read it. Like Tim Moore, Tom Isitt set out to ride the route of a horrendously difficult race from cycling’s earliest days. He chose the Circuit des Champs de Bataille, a seven-stage race that occured mere months after the conclusion of the First World War. The French organizers, after a hasty reconnaissance, planned the route to pass through Luxemburg, Belgium, and France – especially the recently reacquired provinces of Alsace and Lorraine. The race would befall misfortune after misfortune as extreme unseasonable weather tormented the riders and roads pulverized by four years of warfare hobbled race times.

Isitt rode along a route that best approximated the original race route, accounting for modern highways and pleasanter alternatives. He also made several diversions to tour different battlefields and sites of significance. He didn’t attempt to recreate the conditions or the hardships of the original race, but he designed an itinerary that gave him a sense of history and place. In this way, along with extensive research on the cycling and cyclists of the era, he was able to construct a narrative that successfully weaves his personal story, relevant cycling history, and World War I historical context into the story of the Circuit des Champs de Bataille, region by region.

This comes together perfectly in the chapters on stages four (Amiens to Paris) and five (Paris to Bar Le Duc) of the race which crossed the most devastated battlefields of the war. As Isitt points out, many of the riders had seen service in the military, some on the front lines, and the passage of the race through some of these areas must have been emotionally taxing in addition to the severe physical hardships of the race itself. These are heartbreaking and beautiful sections on the devastation of the war and the national trauma it caused, and the individual sufferings of the riders.

Le Petit Journal, the race’s organizing newspaper, hailed the race as a triumph at its conclusion. Such high acclaim was underserved, though. Incessant rain forced stops every few miles to clear mud and dirt from chains and sprockets. The roads chosen were so bad that time cutoffs for each stage were abandoned as riders routinely sheltered overnight (sometimes in unfilled trenches). Artillery shell craters caused multiple crashes and riders to withdraw. Unseasonable weather in the Vosges Mountains forced riders to carry their bikes over their heads in waist-deep snow for several kilometers. It took superhuman determination to endure. As Tom Isitt pointed out in his talk, the motivation of prize money, equal to four year’s wages in the post-war economy, and riders “off their head” on cocaine and amphetamines had a lot to do with anyone finishing the race at all.

Amazingly 21 of 87 entrants finished the race – including my new personal hero, Louis Ellner. (Louis Ellner, an isole rider with a routière bicycle, finished each stage 8 to 74 hours after the stage winner, but never abandoned the race!) There’s a lot packed into this 280 page book that can appeal to everyone. It is prolific in nerdy history for someone like myself, athletic tales of achievement for my cyclist friends, and quality storytelling for anyone that likes being emotionally connected to the narrative. Again, it’s a phenomenal read and it already has me plotting my own cycle route in Western France.

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, Cycling, History, Mountains, Soul, Travel Vignettes

Chamonix: Mountain Temple

April 10, 2020 roland.minez 1 Comment

A small town in the French Alps on the border with Italy and Switzerland is a living shrine to all things Mountain.

“Crested Butte is for spectators; Chamonix is for participants”

Marc Twight.

A climber scrambles up the sheer face of Le Brevent.

The Mont Blanc Massif, or mountain range, towers over the town of Chamonix in France. Unlike other supposed mountain towns, one has only to crane one’s neck to see the perpetual white snow of the high mountains above them, gigantic blocks of ice jumbled on the glacier flowing down towards the town.

However close to the mountains one is in Chamonix, this is no wild country. Unlike climbing trips I have taken in the United States or the Himalaya you do not need to carry your food and water, or camp, on a long approach before seeing any mountains at all. Here, cable cars reach out in all directions in what appears to be impossible engineering feats to spirit adventurers into the high country.

In fact, despite- or perhaps because- of its proximity to the highest peak in Western Europe, Mont Blanc, the town has all the comforts of French culture and civilization. One can walk its cobblestone streets past well stocked wine bars, patisseries full of warm croissants, and grocery stores selling runny cheese. Tourists from all around the world jostle each other to capture the ambiance of the Alps.

The mountains have made Chamonix. As a small poor village of alpine herders and hunters, it was discovered by early wealthy English adventurers who were interested in exploring Mont Blanc. A Swiss naturalist Horace Bénédict de Saussure began visiting Chamonix in 1760 to observe the great mountain. He offered a reward to the first who could reach its summit. Twenty years later in August of 1786, a local guide-Jacques Balmat and doctor Michel-Gabriel Paccard completed the first ascent of Mont Blanc. The great British mountaineer Eric Shipton wrote many years later that it was “an astounding achievement of courage and determination, one of the greatest in the annals of mountaineering.” It is considered the start of Mountaineering as we know it.

Statues of Jacques Balmat and Michel-Gabriel Paccard stand eternal vigil towards the summit of Mont Blanc.

From that point, Chamonix’s destiny as the starting point for mountain adventures was made. Although the summit of the great mountain is shared by France and Italy, it is known the world over by its French name, Mont Blanc (the White Mountain.) In 1916, the town even lobbied to successfully change its official name to Chamonix-Mont Blanc to solidify the connection. In 1924, the very first winter Olympic games were held in Chamonix,

It is that storied history which imbues the town with its ethos. Make no mistake, although tourists throng the streets of Chamonix, they are not its reason for existence. Chamonix is “for participants” according to the punk climber and American iconoclast Marc Twight. Like no other place on earth, climbers, alpinists, trail runners, and skiers are the heroes. Murals dot the walls of the town with images of great climbers from the past who dared all. Streets and schools are named after great climbing exploits, especially the first ascent of Annapurna.

“Always look for difficulty, not danger. Go forward, try, dare. In audacity there is enchantment” proclaims a mural celebrating famed mountain guide Gaston Rebuffat.

Annapurna, in the Himalayas, was the first 8000 meter peak to be successfully summited. The pioneering French team was led by the now controversial Maurice Herzog and made up of Chamonix mountain guides. Their feat did not come without a cost. Herzog lost all of his fingers and most of his toes to frostbite. He later became the mayor of Chamonix.

We arrived in Chamonix after driving through the epic tunnel that bores through Mont Blanc and connects Italy to France. We stood in awe of the mountains above from the balcony of our small apartment near the center of the town. This was not the first time I had visited Chamonix. While a high school student in Paris, I had visited the town with my family in both winter and summer and those visits, as much as anything else, solidified my life long love affair with the mountains.

The sun begins to set on the Mont Blanc Massif above Chamonix.

It had taken twenty years to return, but I was back with a family of my own and we were determined to be “participants” in the great mountain arena. We took our young girls on repeated hikes in the mountains that invariably ended with them being carried by us in backpacks and eating delicious crepes at secluded mountain lodges.

The descent to the Mer de Glace glacier.

Sometimes we would be passed by noted trail runners, like Timothy Olson, preparing for the Ultra Trail du Mont Blanc (UTMB). We yelled our encouragement and patted him on the back as he ran by. The 106 mile UTMB race gains over 32 thousand feet in elevation and crosses the borders of France, Switzerland, and Italy before ending in Chamonix. The winner will take approximately twenty hours to finish it. In preparation for a much more modest upcoming triathlon, I would go for long bike rides and runs in the shadow of the peaks around us.

Not one of those peaks were without their own epics of triumph and tragedy. While riding my bike just outside of the town, I looked up at the towering Aiguille du Dru above the “mer de glace” glacier. Aiguille means needle in French, and it accurately captures the sharp jagged profile of the mountain. In 1962 two Americans, Royal Robbins and Gary Hemmings, pioneered the “American Direct” route straight up the pinnacle of the Dru.

Gary Hemings had been kicked out of the Air Force Academy and ended up in Europe climbing mountains and sometimes living under bridges in Paris. In 1966, two German climbers were stuck on a ledge on the mountain. French military rescue teams were unable to reach them and one French soldier died in the attempt. Hemings had offered his service and been refused, but he returned with a team and rescued the Germans. The French press crowned him a hero and dubbed him “Le Beatnik.” Tragically, before the end of the decade he would die of a self-inflicted gunshot among the Teton mountains in Wyoming. The author James Salter tried to capture his haunted free spirit in the novel, Solo Faces.

The Aiguille du Dru from the Mer de Glace glacier.

No institution better represents Chamonix than the Compagnie des Guides. Founded in 1821, it is the world’s oldest mountain guiding association. The poor herders and hunters who lived in Chamonix came together to lead those who wanted to go into the high country. The cemetery and memorial in town are filled with members of the Compagnie des Guides who hold the same family names, like Simond and Charlet, and who had perished as guides in the mountains over multiple generations.

The Compagnie des Guides was truly a family affair and for many years limited to those born in Chamonix. Then in 1930 an extraordinary man named Roger Frisson-Roche,who had been born in Paris, passed the grueling selection process to become the first “foreigner” accepted into its select company. His was a storybook life; climber, entrepreneur, explorer, journalist, and writer. His novel Premier de cordee (First on the Rope) would define climbing in France for at least a generation. During World War Two while a journalist with American Forces in North Africa he was captured by the Germans and later fought with the French resistance as a Mountain soldier.

We so happened to be visiting Chamonix during their annual Festival des Guides. This tradition, first started by Frisson-Roche, was a time for the Guides to celebrate the camaraderie of their profession. We joined them in a small village outside Chamonix called Argentieres, where we were treated to a helicopter demonstration by the elite Gendarmerie Mountain Rescue unit, as well as live music and prodigious amounts of melted cheese and red wine.

The guides assemble for their annual ritual.

Early the next morning the guides assembled in the uniform of their fore-bearers, woolen jackets, knicker-bocker pants, long socks with ropes and ice axes slung across their backs. They gathered at the cemetery in town to pay homage to their dead. Then both old and young guides marched together from the cemetery to the chapel. In a semicircle around the chapel, they remembered those guides who had died in the preceding year and welcomed the few who had made it through the selection process to become guides themselves. A young woman poignantly told the crowd how proud she was to join this esteemed association and believed her father, who had perished in an avalanche years before, was looking down at her.

Young and old guides alike share in the camaraderie of the moment.

On the margins of the events, other guides helped children practice on a climbing wall and, this being a French event, served wine and beer to the audience. In the brilliant sunshine, guides and guests alike slapped each other’s backs and told stories of climbs past and future sharing the aura of those who have witnessed that which is majestic.

Lisa ascends a rock face in the Aiguille Rouges.

We too felt the pull to test ourselves on the great faces that surrounded us. After finding a babysitter, Lisa and I early one morning took a cable car up into the high country to climb among the rock faces of the Aiguille Rouges. Belaying each other up the multi-pitch routes, feeling the rock in our hands, we looked across the valley to the stunning views of the Mont Blanc. At some other time, should fate allow it, we would return to climb the storied peak. But right then, we were happy to be participants in this living shrine to man’s connection to mountains.

Roland Minez 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, Cycling, Mountains, Soul, Travel Vignettes

Riding in the Shadow of Legends

November 22, 2019 roland.minez 2 Comments

“I take my gear out of the car and put my bike together. Tourists and locals are watching from sidewalk cafes. Non-racers. The emptiness of their lives shocks me.”
Tim Krabbe, The Rider.

Bicycle Racing revels in suffering. It takes a certain kind of masochist to enjoy the endless miles across undulating terrain against merciless opponents; sometimes in repetitive stages over many weeks. No one captures the ethos of those who choose to race better than author Tim Krabbe in his novel, The Rider, about a single day of cycling in an anonymous 70’s amateur race in the South of France. The protagonist and his opponents push to the limits of their endurance in a fight to the finish line.

The history of cycling is replete with legends of such stoic heroes. The rider flying off a cliff during a speedy descent, only to climb out of the canyon, bruised and bloody, to ride to victory. The nicknames of the greatest suggest a ruthless will to win; the Cannibal, Badger, and Pirate. None are more famous than Il Campionissimo or the “Champion of Champions” Fausto Coppi. The great post World War Two Italian cyclist was a World Champion, two time winner of the Tour de France, and five time winner of the Giro d’Italia. The latter two races are multi-stage epics whose distances covered and altitude gained are difficult for laymen to truly comprehend. To this day, the annual Giro d’Italia names the highest peak in the race Cima Coppi in his honor.

Fausto Coppi lives on in a bar in Asolo, Italy.

The most iconic climb of the Giro is arguably the Passo del Stelvio on the forbidding alpine border between Lombardy and South Tyrol. The Austro-Hungarian Emperor built the road in the nineteenth century in order to secure his restive Italian provinces. The vestiges of WWI combat between Italians and Austrians still litter the terrain.

At 2,760 meters, it is the highest motorable pass in Italy, and the second highest in Europe. That is, of course, when it is open at all. Four times in its history, the Giro has used the summit of the Stelvio Pass as a stage finish. Yet, on four other occasions, it had to cancel the Stelvio stage due to inclement weather. It is an endless stream of hairpin switchbacks at a relentless grade to a snow capped summit. When the opportunity presented itself, I had to try and climb it.

As a family we traveled to the South Tyrol region last Labor day. The beautiful mountains, picturesque villages filled with onion domed churches, and a blend of germanic and Italian culture make it an intoxicating getaway. Beer and Espresso. Pasta and Strudel. It is a wonderful place. We tucked our children in bed in a farmhouse above a herd of cows. My wife and I lazily explored what we could do in the region. It is then that we found out the next day, August 31, the Stelvio pass would be hosting a cycling event open to all; Stelvio Bike Day. For only a handful of days a year, the road is closed to cars so cyclists can test their will against its flank. In hurried negotiations, we decided I would attempt it the next day.

Bright and early, we drove to the starting point in a small village in the plain below the high Alpine peaks. Thousands of other cyclists surrounded us, ready to try and tick off a bucket list climb. I set up my bike, kissed my family, and pedaled off in a sea of other enthusiasts.

In high spirits at the beginning of the climb.

There should be no mistake and no illusions. Although this is the hardest climb I have ever attempted, none of us riding that day can rightfully compare ourselves to those legends who had ridden the path to achieve victory in a professional bike race.

The first year the Stelvio was showcased in the Giro d’Italia was 1953. That year Fausto Coppi hoped to win his fifth Giro. At that time, only one other man had ever won five Giros. However, by the time the Giro had reached the penultimate Stelvio stage, Coppi was far behind his competitor and friend, non-Italian Hugo Klobet. It is said that the day before the stage, Coppi told Klobet, “The Giro is yours, You are the strongest.” A deal was allegedly hatched, neither would attack the other, Koblet would take the race and Coppi would take the stage.

The pack thinned as I rode up and away from the villages, soon surrounded by pine trees. The ascent was relentless. Although the gradient was a reasonable 5%, there was no flat or dipping terrain in order to rest the legs. Raging whitewater fed by the melting glaciers above, flowed down beside us.

Coppi’s Italian teammates and most importantly the boss of his sponsoring company didn’t like the deal Coppi had made. They insisted the race could still be won. About four kilometers into the stelvio stage, Coppi’s teammates began to attack in a bid to break Koblet.

Surrounded by beautiful mountains, I had stopped to refuel on a strudel and espresso, before continuing the climb. Soon the famous 48 hairpin turns began, where I imagined the assault on Koblet began. It was hard to stay in the saddle and continue to pedal up the increasingly steep gradient of 8%-9%. I climbed almost the rest of the way out of the saddle.

An endless stream of cyclists test themselves on the Stelvio.

After Koblet chased down another of Coppi’s teammates, Coppi counterattacked. According to a member of Coppi’s team, “He came past us like a motorbike. I’d never seen anything like it. He disappeared into the distance.”

The names of great cyclist were spray painted on the road beneath me, as I continued to pedal up. We left the tree line and entered into true alpine country, exposed to the elements. The road was a mesmerising line that seemed to stitch its way up the impossibly steep slope above us, and my own personal suffering began in earnest.

Coppi’s mistress, Giulia Locatelli waited on the side of the road. Known as the “White Lady” their adulterous love affair would scandalize Italy and led the Pope to refuse to bless the Giro when Coppi rode it. As Coppi passed Giulia on the Stelvio, he asked her if she would be at the finish. She shouted yes, and a further inflamed Coppi sprinted over the summit.

My breathing ragged from the effort and altitude, my legs heavy, I pushed on to what appeared to be the summit. Glacial snow and gray skies crowned the Stelvio pass. An army of fellow cyclists crowded around the pass celebrating their achievement with long steins of beer and bratwursts. I called my family to tell them I made it. Among the chaos, a simple sign proclaimed the pass to be the Cima Coppi.

Coppi himself flew down the other side of the pass and took the Maglia Rosa, or Pink Jersey, awarded to the winner of the Giro.

I rode down to my family who were playing in an idyllic Alpine hotel in the shadow of the mountain.

Coppi won his fifth Giro. The Stelvio, afterwards, would be an integral part of future races. Koblet and Coppi would never speak to each other again.

I had no opponent save my own doubt. Nor was I the victor of a classic race. Over 5,800 feet had been gained in approximately 25 miles. The suffering had ended. I stretched my sore legs and celebrated the end of a hard climb with a cold beer, surrounded by my daughters, happy to have rode in the shadow of legends.

Daddy and Daughter enjoy a well earned nap.

Roland Minez is a co-founder of Pushing Horizons.
Disclaimer: All views expressed are that of the author.

The Monuments: The Grit and Glory of Cycling’s Greatest One-day Races

by Peter Cossins

Gironimo! Riding the Very Terrible 1914 Tour of Italy

by Tim Moore

Riding in the Zone Rouge: The Tour of the Battlefields 1919 – Cycling’s Toughest-Ever Stage Race

by Tom Isitt

A small town in the French Alps on the border with Italy and Switzerland is a living shrine to all things Mountain.

For those who love adventure, friends, travel, and all that is rich in history