Category Archives: Soul

Satisfying the Spirit of Life

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.

Soul, Travel Vignettes

The Story of a Pen

July 1, 2022 Andrew Zapf 1 Comment

On quiet Saturday mornings, when the angle of the sun is sharp, is usually the time I attack my weekend to-do list. Recently I finally came to terms with the unbearably large pile of books, papers, and household bric-a-brac choking off the usable workspace of my desk. Amongst the mélange were several ink pens of which I methodically assessed their usefulness before disposing of the deficient. One pen scratched the test paper with the unapologetic harshness of a desert stone. Upon closer inspection the words Hotel Astor Madeleine confirmed its esteemed provenance.

In the closeness of the present it is possible to lose sight of the monumental as each day mimics the day prior. Just as the gradual tilt of the earth surreptitiously changes the seasons from year to year, so too does the scrum of daily living disguise the existence of momentous life events. At forty years old I can identify four key moments that changed the course of my life. First, when I joined the military. Second, moving overseas for the first time which put me on the path to meeting my wife. Third, the birth of my son. However, there is one event that precedes these other three. Without it the life I know and enjoy would not exist.

Growing up in my parents house I was surrounded by information. The family library was filled with books on science and natural history, atlases containing maps of countries long since disappeared, and histories of peoples and countries of yore. My mother had an incessant need to provide her children the complicated answer to any scientific question, not satisfied with oversimplifications and partial explanations. At one point in his life my father had wanted to become a history professor. Bedtime stories were a mix of the contemporary and the gruesome un-Disney-fied versions of the Grimm’s Fairy Tales. (You know, the ones where Hansel and Gretel push the witch into the oven to escape) Even the artwork on the wall beamed down the complicated history of Old Europe. It was inescapable and ever present.

For a young boy, not yet a teenager, the history seemed too remote. Kings and queens living in palaces, tens of thousands of muscat-wielding grenadiers waging war, the empires won on strength of wooden sailing ships were too long ago and too far away to be real to a kid from Michigan. That is until July 1994 when I accompanied my father on a business trip to Europe. It was my first trip outside of North America and the only time that I’d get to travel with him. Seeds were planted then that would have a profound influence on the rest of my life.

The trip was only two weeks long, but it took me through Sweden, Germany, and France as my father conducted business in various offices. From the perspective of a twelve year old boy it was like being born again. The buildings looked different, the food was unrecognizable, the languages incomprehensible. It was the first time I ever drank Orangina and ate snails, became aware of European acceptance of nudity in the media, and walked through narrow medieval city streets on stones placed by men that died seven generations ago.

It was also where I came face-to-face with the Swedish warship Vasa pulled from the mud and placed in a museum, artifacts of East Germany in a Bonn flea market, the Place de la Concorde in Paris, and where King Louis XVI lost his head to the guillotine. It would be too strong a statement to say that I lost my naivety on this trip; it would be more correct to say that the heroes and villains, triumphs and tragedies of the human experience came to life. The distant history instantly became close, tangible, and real.

After this trip I developed an insatiable thirst to learn the stories of past men and women and visit the far-off places where another’s life turned. It would take another decade before I was able to visit Europe again, but by then the seed had firmly taken root.

The Hotel Astor Madeleine was the hotel where I stayed with my father in Paris in July 1994. The room was so small my dad joked “don’t push the key in the lock too hard or you’ll break a window”. From that hotel room I watched the Eiffel Tower’s lights twinkle in the night and listened to the sounds of Parisian traffic far below me. It was the room in which my life, quite literally, turned on the point of a pen.

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.

Photo Essay

The Beautiful Sultanate of Oman

February 10, 2022 Andrew Zapf Leave a comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

Andrew Zapf is a co-founder of Pushing Horizons.

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

Soul

Coming Soon: The Beautiful Sultanate of Oman

February 5, 2022 Andrew Zapf Leave a comment

South of Bidiyah, Oman. Photo by Andrew Zapf

Body, Mountains, Soul, Travel Vignettes

Snowdon: Island in the Sky

June 2, 2021 Andrew Zapf 1 Comment

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

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

Etifeddiaeth by Gerallt Lloyd Owen, Welsh poet

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And in the moon athwart the place of tombs,

Where lay the mighty bones of ancient men,

Old knights, and over them the sea-wind sang

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

By zigzag paths, and just of pointed rock,

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

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

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

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

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

~ AZ