Category Archives: Mind

Enriching the Mind

Body, Cycling, History, Soul

Le Tour: An Experience to Live

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“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.

The Tour Comes to Town.

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.

Heroes from the Past, on a mural.

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.   

The Col de Galibier

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.

The serpentine road up to Alpe d’Huez

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.

Victors of the past.

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.  

The Peloton

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.   

Artists immortalize past champions.

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.  

Climbing Up the Col d’Izoard

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. 

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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.

Fans catch the excitement.

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.

History, Mind

Understanding Turkey One Bite at a Time

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“Gönül, ne kahve ister ne kahvehane, gönül sohbet ister, kahve bahane.” – Turkish idiom

Translation – “The heart does not want coffee or coffee house, the heart wants a chat, coffee is an excuse.”

Turkish Coffee

First time visitors to Turkey can easily be overwhelmed. It’s my own concerted opinion that three weeks is the minimum time needed to introduce oneself to Turkey, but even one hour is preferable to never visiting. The places of cultural and historical significance are so vast and numerous that it’s nearly impossible to visit them all. In Istanbul alone the remnants of Byzantine and Ottoman empires intertwine with the modern Turkish Republic in a rich tapestry. The beauty of Turkey’s Taurus Mountains, Marama coast, and Lycian Trail have inspired many to abandon their home countries and retire to its tranquil beauty.

However, it is only through food can anyone appreciate Turkey and Turkish culture. Unlike the abrupt social interactions typical in America, relationships in Turkey are dependent on conversation. Enter tea and coffee. The coffee houses of the Ottoman Empire were famous as gathering places where politics, poetry, and business were discussed. In a narrower circle, a hot cup of tea or coffee allowed two friends to converse as the boiling liquid cooled.

Turkish cuisine is far more than the assemblage of ingredients and flavors on the plate. No Turkish kitchen is complete without a healthy supply of garlic, onion, and parsley, but it’s the time spent cutting those onions, shredding tomatoes, or wrapping grape leaves are where mothers, sisters, and daughters connect. Families and friends gathered together for grilled fish (balık) accompanied by glasses of Turkey’s anise drink, Rakı – famously called a “rakı balık” dinner – will enjoy hours of fellowship while eating mezes under the evening sky. I could list more, but dining in Turkey is an experience for the soul as well as a delight for the stomach.

rakı balık dinners in the Beşiktaş neighborhood of Istanbul
Peynirli poğaça (cheese-filled pastry)
Late-night kebab near Macka Park, Istanbul

Food is so central to Turkish identity and culture that it permeates the language. Parsley is so prevalent in Turkish dishes that to admonish someone for being a gossip you would say: “Don’t be a parsley!” (“maydanoz olma!”) (i.e. don’t be in everything or everyone’s business). Or if someone did something stupid you might say: “Look at the mint he ate.” (“yediği naneye bak”). A final example is “ağzında bakla ıslanmamak”) which translates to “To eat beans without getting them wet.” You have to soak beans to soften them before cooking, so this phrase would be used to describe someone that passes news without thinking over the consequences first.

There’s even the song “Domates Biber Patlıcan” by artist Barış Manço, (translation: Tomatoes, Pepper, an eggplant dish). Listen to a modern cover by Turkish pop singer Karsu.

Which brings me to my two favorite words in the Turkish language:

“Dolmuş” from the root word dolma, “to stuff”.

My wife jokes that there isn’t a food that a Turkish cook doesn’t want to stuff. Turkish cuisine includes stuffed bell peppers, various forms of stuffed eggplants (patlican), stuffed pastas (mantı), fried pastries stuffed with cheese (sigara böreği), and stuffed grape leaves (dolma). Whatever it is, a Turk can find a way to stuff it and serve it for lunch.

In Turkish cities there are multiple methods of transportation. Istanbul boasts bus service, metro lines, trams, a funicular, and taxi service. Ubiquitous in the city is the presence of the shared taxis that service the areas not reached by regular metro or bus service. They were also fairly inexpensive and even the poorest of travelers could afford to use them. The original shared taxis were large, yellow four-door cars. Were it to be privately owned a reasonable person would identify a driver plus four seats, however as a shared taxi commuters would cram into the every cubic foot of the shared space. They became known as “Dolmuş” (pronounced “dole-mush”) – which literally translates to “I heard it is stuffed” – stuffed with people. A dolmuş today is the size of a mini bus, but the name stuck and I’m all the happier for it.

Stuffed bell peppers.

“Sarımsaklı” adj. garlicky, from the noun, garlic – “sarımsak”

My wife had led a typical Turkish life in the thirty years before we met. She worked in her home city of Istanbul and each summer she would take a beach vacation to enjoy the turquatic waters, sun, and peaceful atmosphere somewhere on Turkey’s southwestern coast. She had often told me about the most famous, posh or popular beaches for Turks along the coast. Some attract foreign tourists, and some remain known only to Turks. One such location is Sarımsaklı Plajı near the town of Ayvalık. It took me a few years to connect the restaurant-Turkish I had learned to the image of beachgoers in an exclusive destination, but once I made the connection I can never forget it. Sarımsaklı Plajı = Garlicky Beach.

There is no better proof of the integral nature of food and cuisine in Turkish culture than discovering it mixed into the Turkish place names, idioms, and expressions that decorate the Turkish language. Take a visit, a bite, or just lend Turkey your ear.

Andrew Zapf is a co-founder of Pushing Horizons.

Disclaimer: All views expressed are that of the author.

Book Reviews

What We’re Reading – The Soul in Cycling

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Lanterne Rouge: The Last Man in the Tour de France by Max Leonard

“Normal people feel an attachement to a guy that is struggling through the Tour just to survive in the race, because that’s what normal people on bikes would do. They’re not superstars like the guys at the front end of the peloton. It’s equally as hard for the guys at the front, but they get results. The guys at the back are suffering like hell just to get to the finish.” – Phil Liggett

It took the COVID pandemic for me to return to the bicycle after over a decade away. For the most part I’ve ridden alone. On the occasions I’ve ridden with other, more experienced riders I’ve regularly been outpaced and out-climbed. Really as a late convert to cycling I’ve aged past the era of optimism for achieving greatness in the sport. I don’t identify with the champions and the feats of prowess on two wheels. No, I’m just happy to be in the peloton. 

Foolishly I signed up for a race less than a month after purchasing my first road bike last year. Unsurprisingly, my 15-20 mile Sunday morning rides were inadequate preparation for the Southwold-Roubaix. After 44 miles I absolutely ran out of gas. “Bonked,” I later learned, is the correct term. Too bad that the course was 57 miles and only my pride carried me to the finish.

Which brings me to another term I’ve whole-heartedly wrapped my arms around: Lanterne Rouge. On the railroad a red lantern is hung on a train’s caboose to signal the station master the last car of the train. It’s also a signal that no cars had broken free and remained stranded on the track. Lanterne Rouge has also been adopted by the press of the Tour de France to describe the last rider to complete the Tour without abandoning the race or being eliminated for missing the time cutoff. In this term I identify with the mentality of a rider certain of missing victory, but still persisting to the finish line. 

Max Leonard, a British author and cycliste, explores the history and meaning of the lanterne rouge. As Leonard reveals, lanterne rouge does indeed capture the heroic hopelessness of the last rider, but it also the complicated relationship between sportsmanship, capitalism, honor and ignominy. In his book he tells stories of twelve lanternes rouges and the different facets their tale reveals about the term. 

 Each chapter offers something unique, so I’d be doing a disservice if I tried to summarize them. However, I can’t emphasize enough how much I appreciate Leonard’s approach to the complexity of the lanterne rouge and overlaying it with the complexity of life and one’s legacy.

Higher Calling: Cycling’s Obsession With Mountains by Max Leonard

“Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses . . . then, I account it high time to get to altitude as soon as I can. This is my substitute for pistol and ball. With a philosophical flouish Cato throws himself upon his sword; I quietly take to the bicycle.” – Max Leonard

This is the second book from Max Leonard that I’ve read and the second book that combines historical context with the philosophy of cycling. Needless to say, I’m a fan. In these pages he takes the reader into higher altitudes and teaches, philosophizes, and researches the draw of cycling up (and down) mountains. Historically, he decides to narrow his narrative to the peculiarities of the French Alps, specifically the Cime de la Bonette. 

Competition is a central component of cycling. The human desire to pass another at the finish line or to challenge oneself to improve one’s performance are strong motivators each time someone gets into the saddle. However, when the incline increases the mountain takes over. A man and bike are all set against the unforgiving pull of gravity and the force to overcome it. Despite all his training and experience cycling up mountains Leonard admits that it never gets any easier – he only gets faster. 

In professional racing, adding mountainous elements came about as an evolution. Early 20th Century roads through the mountain passes were primitive and undeveloped. Often unpaved, mired in mud, exposing riders to frigid temperatures and brutal windchill on descents. Adding Alpine stages to the Tour de France and Giro d’Italia took daring, salesmanship, and suffering. It’s no wonder heroic exploits in the mountains are fondly remembered and the routes themselves revered within the cycling community.

In addition to the history of categorized climbs in professional cycling races, Leonard introduced me to the concept of Everesting – the endeavor to gain elevation equivalent to the summit of Mount Everest – even at the pain of cycling the same hill 68 times in a day. He discusses the science of training at higher altitudes, the natural and artificial ways to elevate oxygen in red blood cells. He also reflects on the military history behind the construction of concrete bunkers high above the French-Italian border and the brutal fighting in the frozen terrain of the Dolomites between the Italian and Austro-Hungarian soldiers during World War I. 

Leonard brings the seasonal life of the highest cycling routes to full life. He interviews shepherds witnessing the decline of their traditional ways. He joins the work crews as they cut through a winter’s worth of snow and ice to re-open the mountain passes in time for spring. And he speaks of the Bonette as if it were an old friend. Reliable, strong, and always ready to entertain a challenger or two.

Le Secret de Gino Bartali by Kike Ibáñez

“Gino était un cycliste de ceux d’avant, qui fumaient et buvaient du vin, de ceux qui avaient appartenu au cyclisme épique, au cyclisme réservé aux héros.”

“Gino was a cyclist of those before, who smoked and drank wine, of those who had belonged to epic cycling, to cycling reserved for heroes.”

I stepped into a bookstore in Marseille to find some relief from the rain on a cool autumn day. Among the shelves and stacks of colofrul books the soft pink cover of Kike Ibáñez’s Le Secret de Gino Bartali stood out. I can’t remember the last time I read a comic book or graphic novel, but the alluring title pulled me right in. 

Gino Bartali was one of Italy’s greatest cyclists and his rivalry with Fausto Coppi is legendary. However, this book dwells briefly on Barali’s cycling credentials on its way to telling a story of his resistance activity during the Second World War. Gino Bartali used his cycling fame to ride between Florence (Firenza) and Assise where he transported falsified documents to help Italian Jews escape the fascist regime of Mussolini. 

The drawings are beautifully done and the language simple enough for the novice French linguist. Not all of cycling’s history is often written in the great races, and this short book is an excellent addition to any library.

Andrew Zapf is a co-founder of Pushing Horizons.

Book Reviews, Cycling, Mind

What We’re Reading – Cycling History

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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

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

Gironimo! Riding the Very Terrible 1914 Tour of Italy by Tom 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

Riding in the Zone Rouge. The Tour of the Battlefields 1919: Cyclings 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.

Book Reviews, Mind

What We’re Reading – Historical Fiction

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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.

Ivar the Boneless, a real historical figure, makes appearances in The Last Kingdom. Most of what was known about him was lost to history, which makes him a perfect character to plug into a fictional story with creative license. Photo by Andrew Zapf, taken at Whitby Abbey in northeastern England - where the vikings came ashore.

***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.

History, Mind

Hadrian’s Wall: The Bottom of the Rabbit Hole

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“Sis felicior Augusto, melior Traiano” 

“be more fortunate than Augustus, better than Trajan” – spoken at the inauguration of later-era Roman Emperors


“To a considerable extent, Hadrian’s Wall is a monument to human sweat.” – Alistair Moffat, The Wall

There aren’t many ways to get me to go down the rabbit hole. Up until now I could count on one hand the topics that could set me up for hours of conversation or months of reading: the 1996-97 Detroit Red Wings, the combat history of the 507th Parachute Infantry Regiment, the 1453 Siege of Constantinople by Mehmet the Conqueror, and the Palio di Siena. After six months I can deny it no more. Add the Ancient Roman Empire to the list. 

It snuck up on me slowly. Reading The Eagle of the Ninth by Rosemary Sutcliff as a boy or a fragment of a Roman ruin in Vienna on a college trip. Then as I roamed further I consumed bigger and bigger portions of Roman history. The Celsus Library at Ephesus in Turkey, the temple of Volubilis in Morocco, and visiting the ruins of Jerash in Jordan were whole-day affairs.

Recently and unexpectedly I found myself living in Italy. I was practically stumbling over the Ancient Romans in between sips of espresso and magnificent pasta. And believe you me, I relished the proximity of it all. The Appian Way was a short walk from my rental, central Rome a simple train ride away. Capua, the starting point of the Spartacus-led Third Servile War appeared on the road signs I drove past daily.  

In for a penny, I was in for a pound. Even after I left Italy the Roman history books started piling up on my shelf. Mike Duncan’s History of Rome podcast started accompanying me on my morning commutes. And I put all six volumes of Edward Gibbon’s The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire at the top of my letter to Santa Claus. I wanted, and still want, to know more. To understand the connections between this ancient empire and our modern world. 

This interest is what drove me to the north of England. Far distant from the Forum and Palatine Hill in Rome were the edges of the empire. There, on the south side of the Scottish border, lies what remains of Emperor Hadrian’s wall demarking the frontier. It was there, on a brisk October morning, that I came to Housesteads Roman Fort, an auxiliary fort once home to Roman legionnaires at the very edge of the civilized world. 

Conquering new lands defined the Ancient Roman Republic and early Roman Empire. Emperor Trajan pushed Rome’s boundaries to the empire’s high water mark. Emperor Hadrian, Trajan’s successor foresaw financial and logistical reasons to put some clean edges on the empire. One, to keep the barbarians out. Two, to keep adventurous Roman generals penned in. As the new emperor toured his domains he set Roman garrisons to building projects along the Danube and in Germania. In AD 122 he ordered the construction of the wall in northern Britannia after another revolt in the province. Britannia simply wouldn’t be a profitable Roman province if they had to keep fighting there. And so the wall was built over six years and stretched nearly the full 91 miles at the narrowest coast-to-coast line in Northern England. The hard edge of the empire became crystal clear. 

When Hadrian gave the word to build Romans from Britain’s legions turned out from their forts to quarry stone, haul material, and erect the long structure. Examples of other Roman walls still standing elsewhere are about 15 feet tall and 10 feet wide. Known for their uniformity and rigidity in military matters, this wall was likely the same. It’s imposing height, augmented by cliffs and ditches, was whitewashed and must have gleamed against the grey British skies. The mile-castles, roving cavalry patrols, and permanent garrisons intimated the reach and power of the Emperor stretching over a thousand miles back to Italy. 

For nearly 1,900 years Hadrian’s Wall has stood. Maintained by the National Trust preservation society in England, it’s line is still impressive. In Housesteads Fort the walls and gates have shed much of their glorious height. Beyond it’s northern gate lies what was once Rome’s frontier. The wall divided lands of the Brigantes tribes and kept the ancient Caledonians – the barbarians of the North – at bay. Here was the last line where the legionnaires stood guard against them all. 

Today the enemy was time. Bryce, Soren, Randy, Sean, and I, fresh off our day on Helvellyn, were there to dash across a section of well before heading back to our day jobs in the south. Dash being the appropriate term as we had one chance to get from Housesteads Fort to the village of Greenhead to catch the last bus back to our parked car. The only backup plan was a ten mile walk back. 

We walked, we jogged and we ran. Occasionally we stopped for a picture or just to gawk at the landscapes. To the south the ground sloped gently down. To the north the terrain drops steeply. The Romans incorporated the cliffs of the Great Whin Sill into their construction to form an imposing and formidable barrier. Overhead a ceaseless wind barreled from the north shoving the clouds across a threatening sky. It would be months before I turned back the cover of Alistair Moffat’s The Wall and really dove into the history of Roman Britain, but even in those moments my imagination could hear the cloth snapping on the Roman standards, and the low grumbling of lonely Centurians on duty from over a thousand years past. 

We arrived in Greenhead with time to spare. At the bus stop we leaned against a less ancient stone wall waiting for Bus 122 (appropriately numbered) to take us away. In the preceding six hours we had climbed the ancient walls, crossed bovine and sheep pastures, and transported ourselves back to the time when the area was bustling with Legionnaires, Auxiliaries, and the human activity that followed the Romans to each corner of the known world. 

In the end, the only tension of the day involved a couple of beers. While waiting for the bus Bryce, Soren, and Sean disappeared into the Greenhead Hotel. Just before the appointed hour they emerged with giant smiles and five bottles of cold ale in their hands – held high in the victory stance. Time slowed as we sipped the amber ale. We weren’t just drinking a toast to our successful day. The five of us were welcoming a new appreciation for the ambition and achievement of the Romans, their mark on history, and their invasion of our imaginations.

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 This Month – August 2020

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This past month has been a busy one. As society emerges from months of isolation the demands of stir-crazy families, a modern economy, and extended work hours in our day jobs has drastically cut down on the available reading time. I’ve turned to a few audiobooks during my commute to feed my appetite, but have still managed to read a few pages each night from a trusty hardbound, real-life book. This month’s reading selection features a mix of what was on-hand and what was easy to consume in these days.


The centerpiece for my reading this month has been The Splendid and the Vile by Erik Larson. Since last autumn I have been eagerly awaiting its release. There are few authors I’ve bothered to set up a Google Alert for, and he is one of them. For Father’s Day this year my wife purchased it for me and which fit neatly into the mental space I’ve made for the 80th Anniversary of the Battle of Britain.

The Splendid and the Vile by Erik Larson

“And so, with family turmoil, civic trauma, and Hitler’s deputy falling from the sky, the first year of Churchill’s leadership came to an end. Against all odds, Britain stood firm, its citizens more emboldened than cowed. Somehow, through it all, Churchill had managed to teach them the art of being fearless.”

In true Larson style, he weaves the historical narrative of the Battle of Britain, which began this month in 1940, with that of the human experiences of Winston Churchill, his family and closest associates in his first year as prime minister. Historical figures, especially the giants like Churchill, can be so famous that we view them as a two-dimensional version of themselves. Larson’s true skill is drawing out primary sources – letters, diaries, speeches, etc. – from the unlikely corners of history to inflate these 2D oversimplifications into three-dimensional, flesh and blood people with human foibles, emotions, and insecurities when the outcome of monumental events were uncertain. 

Furthermore, Larson reveals a wartime England that still clung to the normalities of life. Air raid sirens, shelter wardens, and rubble have been well-captured by history, but it was also a time when night clubs stayed open, debutantes were still presented to society, and the love-struck sought flowers and chocolate to express their affections. Probably the most memorable chapter for me describes the night of Queen Charlotte’s dance of 8 March 1941 and the death of jazz band leader Kenrick “Snackhips” Johnson as bombs rained down on central London and exploded into packed hotels, night clubs, and shopping districts. 

The Splendid and the Vile showed that Londoners didn’t simply turtle into a year-long shell only to emerge when the Nazi’s turned their military attention to invading the Soviet Union in May of 1941 True, many nights were spent sleeplessly awaiting the Luftwaffe, fighting fires, and digging the wounded and the dead from the rubble. But other nights were spent with lovers, dancing in clubs, courtship, and adultery. Churchill’s family enjoyed the privileges of the privileged society and spent weekends in the country in comfortable homes and exceeding their ration coupons. It was an exciting time to be alive for the English and the prospect of nightly death sharpened their appreciation for life. Larson magnificently portrays how life went on in England through the stories of Churchill’s daughter, Mary Churchull, and private secretary, John Colville who had their own stories of love and disappointment.

WIth this book I have renewed appreciation for Larson’s writing and added respect for the English spirit as they persevered with living and fighting when the second world war seemed the most hopeless and bleak.

Fighter: The True Story of the Battle of Britain by Len Deighton

“The Luftwaffe, hitherto a tactical supplement to the blitzkrieg, a force that had taken orders from the army, was about to take upon itself a strategic role. Moreover, it was asked to create a strategy, and then to translate that strategy into day-to-day tactical objectives for its bombers and fighters. The experience of its staff officers was not equal to this task.”

It’s been in my head for months to learn about the Battle of Britain while living in England. 2020 marks the 80th anniversary of the start of the battle and there are several events across the country to mark England’s success in defeating the Luftwaffe’s attempts to crush the Royal Air Force and England’s fighting spirit. I’ve sung the praises of Len Deighton for years. He’s one of my father’s favorite authors and his Cold War spy thrillers are some of the most enjoyable reads I have in the past five years. He’s also had success writing alternative histories – which have been converted into a television series. Deighton has also written some histories, and with his storyteller’s pen, has done an excellent job of making them readable and digestible

While he tells a remarkable narrative, Deighton does analyze the Battle of Britain beyond the mythical heroic Royal Air Force pilots and their advanced Spitfire and rugged Hurricane fighter aircraft. He delves into British aircraft production, the Luftwaffe staff shortcomings, German short sightedness. Probably the greatest feat Deighton reveals is the immense difficulty and achievement in the logistical balancing needed to build, employ, and maintain the Royal Air Force Fighter Command at a time when wooden-framed, cloth-covered aircraft were still in the British inventory. It’s a quick read and the way he organized his sections I was able to read a little at a time without having to commit to a full study of the battle.

The Lemon Tree: An Arab, a Jew, and the Heart of the Middle East by Sandy Tolan

“I struggle for your rights despite my fears. But your rights have to be balanced against our needs for survival. That is why you cannot be satisfied. For you, every viable solution will always be lacking in justice. In a peace plan, everybody will have to do with less than they deserve.”

In a departure from the Battle of Britain theme, I downloaded the audiobook of The Lemon Tree for my commute into work. In a vary Erik Larons-esque style, Tolan weaves the long history of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict with the story of a single home built by an Arab family and later occupied by an Jewish family. The home, and the lemon tree that was planted in the garden, become the focal point for all of the contradictions, injustices, and mutual hope that characterizes the evolving conflict. It’s a story looking backwards, not a solution looking forward, but it’s greatest feature is the empathy a reader can gain for both sides. 

I listened to this as an audiobook and hearing the stories orally added an additional layer of hurt to the injustice.

The 33 Strategies of War by Robert Greene

“The prudent man might seem cold, his rationality sucking pleasure out of life. Not so. Like the pleasure-loving gods on Mount Olympus, he has the perspective, the calm detachment, the ability to laugh, that comes with true vision, which gives everything he does a quality of lightness – these traits comprising what Nietzsche calls the ‘Apollonian ideal.” . . . Odysseus loved adventure; no one was better at the experience of pleasure. He was simply more reasonable, more balanced, less vulnerable to his own emotions and moods, and he left less tragedy and turmoil in his wake. . .  . In a world where people are increasingly incapable of thinking consequentially, more animal than ever, the practice of grand strategy will instantly elevate you above others.”

Finally, the end of my COVID-induced physical separation and work absence has given way to a rushing return to the office. A backlog of emails, papers, and activities to coordinate has eaten into the reading time I previously enjoyed. I turned to Robert Greene for a daily dose of professionally thought-provoking material. Having finished The 48 Laws of Power a few months prior I decided to pick up another of his works, this time The 33 Strategies of War. Each “law” is packaged into a chapter of historical case studies, analysis, related parables, and cautionary counter-examples. In short, Greene gives a readers’ digest of political-military content for the busy and the rushed. I tend to read a few pages each morning over coffee, allowing my brain to engage with the material as the caffeine stimulates my central nervous system.

Geared toward the non-military professional, The 33 Strategies of War employs lessons of past conflict for common usage. There may be some disappointment for those that view their industry as cutt-throat and hope to find practical advice on wielding the knife. It’s not prescriptive for action, but encourages the reader to think with a clear vision. 

Don’t expect to become a new Napoleon after reading this work, but don’t be surprised if you find yourself with a more ruthless inner monologue in your daily interactions.

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, History, Mind, Mountains, Photo Essay, Soul, Travel Vignettes

Adventures Among the Relics of War

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The Italian Dolomites are filled with both the most stunning mountain scenery in the world and the remnants of man’s unending willingness to struggle violently against other men.

The wheel of fate had brought us to Italy and we always intended to experience it in all of its full-throttled glory.  Roman ruins, Renaissance cities, fast cars, faster mopeds, and succulent pasta dishes washed down with endless bottles of red wine are the hallmark of this overwhelmingly immersive country. 

Of course, for those drawn to the vertical world of mountains, there are also other attractions.  The pink hued Dolomite mountains are some of the most stunning in the world.  This chain branches off from the greater Alps; but due to the mysteries of geology, it is only in eastern Italy that this mountain range becomes a series of iconic imposing colorful rock faces.  The French Climbing Guide Gaston Rebuffat said of the Dolomites, “one ray of sunshine is enough to give them life, the effect…make them shimmer, take on color and charm for all their verticality.” Their beauty defies description.

The Pink tinged rock faces of Tre Cime.

But man covets that which is beautiful and tribes fight other tribes for reasons of fear, greed, and honor, as Thucydides so memorably put it thousands of years ago.  The Dolomites has been an arena of violent competition as long as there have been humans.  The prehistoric mummy “Iceman Otzi” discovered in the glaciers of northern Italy bears wounds inflicted by other humans.  Scientists believe he died, not by wild animals or natural causes, but by an arrow shot at him.  Otzi was only the first recorded casualty of conflict. For millennia warriors and armies of increasing fame and infamy passed through these mountains.  It seems like every valley of this mountainous region is watched over by an imposing castle meant to block the advance of rival forces.

A representation of Otzi, the prehistoric Iceman, at the South Tyrol Museum of Archaeology.

More by happenstance  than by a plan, we have sought to experience the great mountains around us.  Although the Veneto region has been made immortal by the great trading city of Venice, it is also the gateway to the high country.  In a series of day trips, we have taken our small girls up to walk among this wonderland.  Sometimes, Lisa and I have escaped to try our hand at harder physical endeavors.  Time and again, in our travels, we have discovered the remnants of war.

Amidst the larger First World War, a hundred and five years ago, on 23 May 1915, Italy declared war on the Austro-Hungarian Empire.  The Italian or Alpine front was a series of battles between Italy and the Austro-Hungarian Empire, that quickly devolved into a struggle of attrition among the peaks of the region.  The tyranny of altitude, cold, and logistics imposed its own logic on the geopolitical desires of the Italian leadership who hoped to recover territory they believed rightfully theirs.  

Tre Cime

With another family, we hiked to the incredible Tre Cime or three Peaks.  British travelers in the nineteenth century described the peaks as “Egyptian Colossi.”  The otherworldly allure of these mountains has drawn Hollywood to use it as the location of an Ice planet in the Star Wars’ films.  After hustling small children into backpacks, we began following our friends’ fearless dog in the imposing shadows of the great peaks. 

Fearless scout.

We slipped and struggled through spring snow before coming to a pass that opened up to a panorama of rock and ice.  The children played in the snow, seemingly unaffected by the altitude or the climb that had brought us to that location.  Above us, incongruities in the rock on Mount Paterno attracted our eyes.  We climbed up to find hewn into the rock fighting positions where soldiers could observe the valley below us. 

Gingerly navigating the slippery snow.

Immediately after the declaration of war, Italian forces were meant to seize the high ground from their unprepared and surprised opponents.  However, the inevitable friction of war delayed the offensive giving the Austrians time to prepare their defenses.  Repeated assaults in the area and on the nearby Monte Piana led to an estimated 14,000 casualties.

An Austrian captain wrote at the time, “the Italians have justly baptised this mountain ‘Mount Pianto’ [Mountain of Tears].  It has already cost our side and the Italians so much blood and will cost even more, that I do not know if its possession can justify such a great sacrifice……In any case that’s not my concern; my task is to obey.”

Peering through the Italian machine gun firing positions, which they had seized on Mount Paterno, we could see an uninterrupted view on the low ground below.  It was their forward most outpost and from it they made it a killing field for the Austrians. 

The view from the Italian Positions.

We hiked back down from the high ground.  While our children played; the adults shared a celebratory bottle of prosecco.  We felt like the encircling rock cathedrals were for us alone.

A well deserved glass of Prosecco

Amidst our adventures, it slowly dawned on us that ironically, war had created architectural wonders which allowed adventurers, many years later, to reach deep into the wild and appreciate nature’s greatness.

The route of 52 tunnels.

Lisa and I had procured a babysitter, and early one morning we drove out to hike one such man made wonder in the wilderness; the 52 tunnels of Mount Pasubio.  On a clear day, Pasubio’s limestone ridge line dominates the lowlands around Vicenza, where we live.  It’s high ground used to mark the border between Austria Hungary and Italy; thus its strategic importance in the First World War.

The view of the Veneto plains from the side of Mount Pasubio.

All through 1915, the Italians slowly and painfully occupied the mountain range.  However, on 15 May 1916 a surprise Austrian offensive almost swept the Italians completely off Pasubio; the last defensible terrain before the Veneto plains.  Almost.  The Italians remained on the rocky summit and the ensuing battle became what one Austrian veteran described as the “witches’ cauldron.”

Lisa studies the military engineering.

In order to sustain their forward positions, the Italians built a series of tunnels through the mountain which allowed them to travel unmolested by Austrian Artillery.  The resulting incredible 52 tunnels cut through rock can still be explored today.

The tunnels open up to incredible vistas.

Lisa and I brought our headlamps and hiked 9 miles along the path so laboriously built over a hundred years before.  Sometimes we would scramble through wet tunnels with no natural light that cork screwed in the heart of the mountain only to pop out into the gorgeous sunny day with endless views of the terrain below us.  The path was littered with the mementos that soldiers always place to mark an achievement and ensure their sacrifices are not forgotten.

A unit carved its insignia into the rock, not to be forgotten.

In a similar but more manageable walk with our children, we hiked Mount Cegnio on Father’s Day.  It was here that the Sardinia Grenadier Brigade entered history with their heroic defense of the Asiago plateau. Our eldest daughter Marie found a rusty piece of metal in one of the tunnels, which she was convinced came from the era of those battles. 

Marie inspects her historical artifact.

Throughout the Dolomites, both sides had to wrestle with how to maneuver through the imposing mountains.  In order to aid the movement of troops amidst the vertical rock faces, a series of ladders, bridges, and cables were installed and are known as Via Ferrata or the “Iron Road.”  Their existence from World War One, has created an entire sub genre in climbing.  Naturally, Lisa and I had to try our hands at the sport.

Lisa analyzes the route up.

Via Ferrata is addictive.  Hanging off cables hundreds, if not thousands, of feet above the ground below, one feels a tremendous thrill.  It was taxing enough for us in our ultralight clothing and modern climbing equipment. It was hard to imagine soldiers trudging up the same impossibly steep terrain with hobnailed boots, wearing woolen uniforms, and carrying their weapons, ammunition, and food.  They must have always been fearful of being observed by their enemies in the exposed terrain.

With a group of friends, we tried our hands at what is considered one of the finest Via Ferrata routes in the Dolomites.  This route, known as the Bolver Luigi, rises straight up the iconic Pale Dolomite Rock around the old world mountain town of San Martino di Castrozza.

Navigating the Via Ferrata route above San Martino.

We would catch glimpses of the beauty amidst the swirling clouds before being swallowed by them.  The day became an epic with pounding hailstones, a thrilling glissade down the snowy backside, and a lightning storm.  10 miles and 7 hours later, after reaching an altitude of 10,000 feet, we hobbled back into town with a greater appreciation of those who had built the route in the first place, long before.

The clouds close in the sheer rock face.

The mountains are neutral and impassive to human ambitions; whether they be the objectives of climbers or states.  Time has washed away the reasons of fear, greed, and honor which had led men to fight among the beautiful Dolomite mountains.  Only the relics of war remained. 

A memorial to the Fallen in Asiago.