Tag Archives: Challenge

Le Tour: An Experience to Live

“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 TourYet, 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.

Secret Societies of the Sultanate

Early morning rendezvous.

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.

Andrew Zapf is a co-founder of Pushing Horizons.

Disclaimer: All views expressed are that of the author.

What We’re Reading – The Soul in Cycling

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.

Relearning to Cycle in Oman

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

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

(L-R) Andy Zapf, Bryce Mitchell, and Soren Hoffman before the start of the Southwold-Roubaix.

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

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

A blurry selfie in front of the Sultan Qaboos Grand Mosque.

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

Andrew Zapf is a co-founder of Pushing Horizons.


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

The Fan Dance

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

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

Rolling green mountains of the Brecon Beacons National Park, Wales. Photo by Andrew Zapf

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

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

Start of the path from Pont ar Daf car park to Corn Du and Pen y Fan summits. Photo by Andrew Zapf

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

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

View of Corn Du from the top of Pen y Fan. Photo by Andrew Zapf

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

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

Mother and son enjoying the view from Pen y Fan. Note the rock carried to the top lying in the grass. Photo by Andrew Zapf
A small mountain, but a big accomplishment for a five year old.

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.

Cutting Room Floor: Mount Snowdon

Bews-y-Coed, Wales. A beautiful town in the Snowdonia foothills. It's a charming place to base out of if Snowdonia isn't your only destination in northern Wales. Photo by Andrew Zapf
Our final stop for last-minute provisions before entering Snowdownia National Park. Photo by Andrew Zapf
Photo by Andrew Zapf
Helfa Fawr, a hikers lodge with simple, functional, and rustic accomodations for our trip. Photo by Andrew Zapf
About halfway along the Llanberis Path is a post filled with coins. Tokens of luck left by previous hikers - a simple superstition. Photo by Andrew Zapf
Coins left by passing hikers on the Llanberis Path. It's a small price to pay for good fortune. Photo by Andrew Zapf
Llanberis Path. Photo by Andrew Zapf
Hikers gazing into a valley obscured by heavy fog. From this point on the trail the route would be wrapped in freezing temperatures and low visability. Photo by Andrew Zapf
Hikers appeared like phantoms out of the ice and fog of Mount Snowdon. Photo by Andrew Zapf
The final ascent to the summit was made even trickier by the slickness of well-worn stones used to pave the route. Photo by Andrew Zapf
Only meters below the summit, Mount Snowdon's peak is nearly invisible. Photo by Andrew Zapf
As hikers slipped and struggled their way the final meters of their ascent of Llanberis Path, many chose to descend by the unconventional route - walking along the Snowdon Mountain Railway lines. Photo by Andrew Zapf
Descending along the Snowdon Mountain Railway. The train doesn't run in the winter, so we enjoyed a significantly less icy path. Photo by Andrew Zapf
Departing the Llanberis Path and heading toward Clogwyn Coch. The ground was only briefly clear before fallen boulders littered the route and the hill slopped downward again. Photo by Andrew Zapf
Andrew Zapf at the base of Clogwyn Coch. This little corner of the mountains was sheltered from the wind. We took a short break hear to nourish ourselves, warm up, and shed our packs. Photo by Yahya Abdul-Qaadir.
The cliffs of Clogwyn Coch. Edmund Hillary and his team practices their climbing ascents on these cliffs. The slippery conditions and powerful gusts must have been excellent preparation for their summit of Mount Everest. Photo by Andrew Zapf
Rain falling in Snowdonia National Park. It threatened to trap us in our lodge with impassable roads and swollen streams. Photo by Andrew Zapf

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.

Walking Mount Snowdon, Wales

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

  • Etifeddiaeth by Gerallt Lloyd Owen, Welsh poet

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

The mountains of Wales do not have the majestic appeal of the Alpine crown of Europe, nor the impressiveness of mountain spines that run across whole continents. Perched in the northwest, Snowdonia National Park possesses the rugged beauty of a land of slate and bog. Mount Snowdon rises as the sentry guarding England. 

Wales is perpetually rainy, and that type of climate feeds the imagination and gives birth to all sorts of myths. Among them, Britain’s Arthurian legend has many ties to Wales and Snowdonia National Park. There three lakes have claim to the final resting place of Excalibur – King Arthur’s sword, which he pulled from the stone. And underneath the boulders on its highest peak, Mount Snowdon, King Arthur is said to have killed and buried the giant Rhitta. King Arthur’s tales are not the only myths at home there. Wales has claim to the verifiable legends of British mountaineering history.  Dotted across Snowdonia are the names and memories of Britain’s 19th and 20th Century mountaineering pioneers. 

I had hoped that by going to Wales in winter I would experience the hardiness of the ocean-facing mountainous edge of the British Isle at its most pure and magical. In the dark days of January and February, much of the Welsh tourism industry shuts down to wait out the coldest and rainiest season. While the hiking paths are accessible most of the year, the lodges and facilities for hikers are not. Known to the local Welsh as Helfa Fawr, or the Hunting Lodge, I and a small group of hikers established a base for a walk to the summit under a cold and completely overcast sky.

Helfa-Fawr or the Hunting Lodge in the dawns early light. Photo by Andrew Zapf

We used the Llanberis Path, considered the easiest and most direct route to the top. The path roughly parallels the Snowdonia Mountain Railway lines, a narrow-gauge train that operates in warmer weather. For awhile, the clouds seemed to retreat with each step uphill, granting every grander views of the park. At the boggy bottom of the mountain, the temperature was tolerable. I began with only base layers, a fleece, and my hard shell jacket. For awhile visibility was good and the day promising. Without large trees around we could see across boulder-strewn hillsides into the marshy valley.

Hikers in the distance, just below Llanberis Path. Photo by Andrew Zapf

At the higher elevations the gray shroud of the clouds held firm and mist wrapped around the trail. The sound of crunching rocks and heavy breathing vanished into the wind. Hikers in front of us disappeared into dark silhouettes after only a short distance. The temperature kept dropping as we ascended and soon we began to notice frost growing on the edges of our backpacks and hiking poles. Donning goggles and an additional down layer my companions and I entered the most frigid zone.

Ice forming along the Llanberis Path. Even the blades of grass were held captive by the powerful wind and freezing temperature. Photo by Andrew Zapf

It wasn’t raining on the mountain, but my jacket was getting wet. Ice formations grew on the southern face of every rock and blade of grass. I realized the winds around Snowdon were punishing the clouds, beating them to within an inch of their life. The ice crystals and slick rocks were their final surrender to their harsh treatment.

Clouds turned to ice on the windward side of every protrusion, including the smallest pebbles on the hillside. Photo by Andrew Zapf

At the top of Mount Snowdon there was a crowd of hikers waiting to take their obligatory pictures at the summit marker. Icy rocks made movement precarious and some slid around on their butts to avoid an awkward fall. (I would learn later that mountain rescue was called out four times that day to rescue hikers across the park that couldn’t contend with the weather.) Visibility was only about twenty meters. We couldn’t see down into Glaslyn or Llyn Llydaw lakes nor the different paths emanating from the summit trail. It was an island in the sky surrounded by swirling icy wind. Around the base hikers shivered while eating cold lunches underneath the summit, elongating their moment of success before descending again.

Author at the summit of Mount Snowdon. Note the ice patterns on the windward and leeward sides of the marker. Photo by Shauna Williams
A postcard depicting the view from Mount Snowdon on a clearer day.

Our path of descent took as past the Clogwyn Coch, a section of imposing slate cliffs just northwest of the summit. It was on these cliffs that Edmund Hillary and his team trained before their successful 1953 attempt to summit Mount Everest. (It is still possible to rent a room at the Pen y Gwrd hotel, where Hillary’s team stayed) The cliffs shelter a small mountain lake. We skipped rocks across its still waters, replenishing with sugary and salty snacks, and warming with a nip of whisky. From the lake’s edge we could gaze up at the cliffs of Clogwyn Coch, their tops hidden from view.  Suitably impressed and intimidated by them we contemplated the conditions Hillary must have faced on his more famous climbs.

Gazing up at the heights of Clogwyn Coch lost in the clouds. Photo by Andrew Zapf

We chose a route back to our lodge that avoided the exposure of the ridgeline trails. What we gained in protection from the wind, we lost in exposure to mud and boggy ground. I’d learn that all green ground isn’t solid. The water from constant rain and snow fills the valleys and swells the streams. While aiming to cross one such stream, I brazenly entered into marshy ground looking for a reasonable fording site. I stepped confidently from a track of muddy ground directly onto a peat-covered hole. My second foot quickly followed the first and I found myself up to my thighs in the bog. The water was roughly 85% rainwater, 10% mud, and 5% sheep urine – an amazing recipe capable of instantly saturating my gear and offending my nostrils. While my companions gave a laugh, I leaned on my trekking poles to extract myself, thankful the hole wasn’t deeper and no longer fearing wet feet at the crossing of the stream. 

After nearly 8 hours of hiking our group returned to our cabin. A fire was roaring in the hearth and a giant pot of spaghetti and meat sauce had been prepared. With an ice-cold lager and a bowl of pasta, I reflected on my footsteps across the Snowdon Massif. On a clear day, a hiker on the top of Snowdon can see across the sea to Ireland. This was not that sort of day. That night a heavy rain swept through our valley. Puddles of mud became quagmires and streams spilled over their banks. Although I walked to the summit, I still haven’t seen it. When I departed Wales, Snowdon remained sheathed in a thick cloud of ice and wind, carefully protecting its myths and legends. 

Spaghetti with meat sauce and a cold lager sated a hunger born of exertion and gratitude. Photo by Andrew Zapf

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.

Mount Kaçkar – My First Mountain

I’m not a mountaineer. However, in mid-2012 I had hoped to take the first steps, literally, toward making that claim. In August of that year, I flew to the city of Trabzon, in eastern Turkey, to join a guide-led group to the summit of Mount Kaçkar in northeastern Turkey. With a natural harbor, Trabzon grew in prosperity during the Byzantine Empire, under the name Trebizond, until succumbing to Ottoman conquerors in 1461. The city lies along the Black Sea coast and underneath the foothills of the Pontic Mountains. Although it is home to one of Turkey’s biggest football clubs (Tabzonspor) it gave me the feeling of a frontier outpost. For centuries Trabzon served as a gateway for Ukrainian, Russian, and Georgian trade and my wife’s family roots can be traced to the snowy mountainous areas east of the city. For me, it was my entry point into a beautiful land of misty mornings, black tea cultivation, and my first mountain summit. 

I did not know what I was really getting myself into. In a medium-sized backpack, I had assembled a gallimaufry of old active-wear and hiking gear, most of which I panic-bought in the months leading up to my trekking trip. It was a classic of naive optimism and budgetary constraints. Nothing I owned was designed specifically for the activity I was about to embark on, and this would bite me in the ass over the coming week of elevation changes, boulder fields, and hail storms. It would be a lesson I would learn for the future, but on this trip my stubborn pride would carry me over these obstacles. I had set my mind to climbing a mountain.

Abuting the Turkish Republic’s eastern borders are Georgia, Armenia, Iran, Iraq, and Syria. Some of these border areas are military zones with very restricted access. Thankfully, the Black Sea region is peaceful and no such considerations affected our trek, however northeastern Turkey remains an underdeveloped tourist destination. We barely encountered signs of human life while on the trail and the villages we passed seemed untouched by time. It wasn’t until we reached the Kaçkar Summit basecamp that we met another group of hikers. Within my own group were a trio of middle-aged men on a youth-seeking adventure, a retiree fulfilling a promise to his younger self, a yoga instructor, photographer, office workers, and a pair of college students. I, alone, was the only non-Turk. Fortunately, the college students were studying in Los Angeles and would serve as my translators for the week. 

After our airport rendezvous we piled our gear into a van and departed Trabzon without a backward glance. The mountains were calling. I looked out at the Black Sea as we traveled east. Out in the water stood a line of freighters waiting their turn at the port. I imagined the invisible radiation cloud that crept down from Europe after the 1986 Chernobyl disaster, contaminating Turkey’s Black Sea tea industry, and affecting the health of many Turkish men and women for over a decade. That thought didn’t last too long. Before I could consider the implications of nuclear half-life, our van turned south at Rize, a town of concrete squares and concrete charm, and immediately began our ascent of the mountain range.

Village of Ayder Yaylası within Turkey's Pontic Mountains. Photo by Andrew Zapf

We would spend two nights at the hikers’s haven of Ayder Yaylası preparing ourselves. Each day we were led on little strolls in the surrounding hills to get our legs used to constant uphill walking – and so our guides could disecretly evaluate our balance and stamina. The hills around the village were thick with trees and their steep height trapped an unmoving, perpetual fog. Mountain streams visible in the distance flowed down like silver stripes on the dark green landscape. It was peaceful and quiet – the perfect launching pad for an adventure.

Beneath my calm exterior were mounting doubts. I worried that I had the wrong shoes (I did), if my rain gear was sufficient (it wasn’t), and if I was missing anything important (I was). The only shops in the village sold fresh bread, local honey, and handmade souvenirs. There were no outfitters to correct any glaring mistakes in my inventory. Except for a pair of hand-knit yarn gloves I purchased (amazingly I didn’t bring any gloves!), what I had in my bag was all I was going to have for the week. We wouldn’t return to this village until after we saw the summit of Mount Kaçkar, and by then I had a whole new wishlist of gear I wanted to buy.

The yarn gloves I purchased in Ayder Yaylası. Photo by Andrew Zapf

After the acclimation period I expected the serious hiking to begin with huzzah, but it only began with a sleepy ride to an unremarkable bend in a fog covered road. There were no other hikers around and barely a discernible trail to start on. It wasn’t too early in the day, but the mist was still heavy from the overnight coolness. Without fanfare we turned uphill into the unknown. Although it was only our first hill our group quickly began to stretch out as the unfit began to feel their legs grow heavy and their hearts beat with exertion.

The beginning of our trek into the Kaçkar mountains. Photo by Andrew Zapf
Resting in heavy fog and a light rain on Day 1. My rain gear would reach its saturation point within only a few hours. Photo by Andrew Zapf
Visibility in the Kaçkar mountains on Day 1. Photo by Andrew Zapf

Upwards we walked. The air was brisk and heavy with moisture and soon we were meeting the raindrops halfway. For hours our visibility was limited by a gray shroud that hid the peaks and valleys around us. We trudged southward, cresting a ridgeline and entering another rain-soaked valley. The peak of Mount Kaçkar somewhere off to our right.

Descending from a snowy ridgeline in the Kaçkar mountains. Photo by Andrew Zapf

We stopped overnight in the village of Yaylalar. It had a hikers lodge beautifully placed in a rugged valley next to a rain-swelled stream. It was a godsend. I was woefully unprepared for the onslaught of mother nature on that first full day of hiking. My rainjacket had already reached its saturation point and wet spots began appearing underneath its seams. I was impractically wearing shorts on that cold day, and I soon came to the realization that my modest hiking shoes weren’t rugged enough for the terrain. Their lack of ankle support became especially bothersome later when crossing rocky fields. The only piece of clothing that performed admirably was a fleece jacket. 

The lodge’s four walls meant heated rooms and the opportunity to dry out soggy gear. At every available space soaking equipment was strung up in a desperate attempt to dry it out. A dozen pairs of boots formed a smelly, soggy ring around the lodge’s wood burning stove, creating a steamy dining room that evening. We all hoped we wouldn’t endure a whole week of similar

Gear and boot drying around a wood-burning stove in the village of Yaylalar. Photo by Andrew Zapf

The rain would eventually abate. The next few days the sun shone and the skies cleared and revealed to us jutting spires stabbing into blue skies. At that elevation the trees had disappeared, but a grass and wildflowers still covered the ground below rocky slopes. It was a simple, harsh beauty.

We were building up strength in our legs in those first few days before making the more challenging climb to the summit. Eventually, the shakiness in my legs disappeared as the muscles grew stronger and my lungs adapted to the thinner air. Some in my group never adapted and continued to struggle mightily. I’d frequently end up leading the group with my longer stride and faster pace, and use my  advantage to rest longer as I waited for the stragglers to catch up. This disparity earned me the nickname “Superman,” as I often was waiting for the group with my arms in a pseudo-superman pose, usually standing higher on the trail, trying to hide the deep breathes I was taking.

Building up leg strength and endurance in the Kaçkar mountains. The varying fitness levels of our members would sometimes stretch our group out. Photo by Andrew Zapf

At Dilberdüzü campsite, elevation 2860 meters or 9383 feet, the air temperature was cool. The sun still shone, but frequently the evenings brought rain and hail – flooding the mountain streams and chasing hikers into their tents. I took a mountain bath in a stream – a precursor to the ice-bucket challenge years later. We didn’t attempt a summit the next morning. The weather was too foul and we didn’t want to make an attempt in the dark morning hours, on slippery rocks, under a hail storm. So we waited. Amazingly, I had one bar of cellular service in my tent. My puny cell phone had enough strength to get a call out, but was not strong enough to explain to my girlfriend (now my darling wife) that I was lying in an individual tent, unable to make conversation due to the pounding of hail down. It turned out to be her first mountain experience, as well.

Our second morning at Dilberdüzü was summit day. Our start time was hours before sunrise. Headlamps of climbers already on the trail flickered on the mountainside in front of us. We hoped to summit in eight hours and return to base camp that evening. Although the early morning was still and calm, there was an urgency that didn’t exist on other days – a storm was forecasted to hit that afternoon.

Dilberdüzü, elevation 2860 meters.The last campsite before out attemt at the summit of Mount Kaçkar. Photo by Andrew Zapf

Kaçkar’s ascent immediately tilted up and I took large vertical strides as if climbing a giant’s staircase. Despite the drop in air temperature in the pre-dawn light, my body perspired heavily. Within an hour we could no longer see the yellow and red tents of the base camp. Our path took us past a mirror-like mountain lake and over a sea of boulders. None of them smaller than a basketball. All of them threatening to roll and with each step. I was certain this is where my shoes and ankles would fail me and I’d have to be carried off the mountain in defeat. 

Despite the difficult climb we rested infrequently in those first few hours. The trail never seemed to level off for a bit of respite and three of our party quit, beaten by the mountain. We left them eating snacks and drinking water. We would collect them upon our descent. 

Kaçkar’s summit wasn’t an awe inspiring peak. It was a bit rounded with a large shoulder giving the appearance of an easy summit. The sparse vegetation of the hillside had long since disappeared and our only companions were snow and rock. As we climbed the peak never seemed to get closer. Climbers simply shrank into little specks of color as they ascended.

Mount Kaçkar in the distance, elevation of 3,937 metres (12,917 ft), is the highest point in the Kaçkar mountain range. Photo by Andrew Zapf

As our elevation increased we could peer into the surrounding valleys. The morning’s clear skies were fleeting and thick clouds were building. When we lost sight of the summit behind some angry-looking clouds our guides called off the attempt. We were already four hours from basecamp and the summit would add another four hours to our trip. It was too much of a risk for them to take. Disappointingly, we turned our backs and descended the mountain, picking up our resting comrades, and heading for shelter. 

Despite our failure to summit there was still a celebration at base camp that night. One member of our group had come on this trip as a 60th birthday gift to himself. He’d set out to prove something to himself and had packed a bottle of Jack Daniels Whiskey to open on the summit. We had not known he was carrying it with him every day of the trek until he took it out that night. He gave a heartfelt speech that night which warmed the spirits of all in the tent. After he passed around the bottle we were warmed even further. Aided by tiredness and whiskey I quickly fell asleep that night, but it wasn’t the deep sleep of victory.

Andrew Zapf prior to Mount Kaçkar summit attempt, August 2012. Photo by Andrew Zapf

The next day we left base camp.  The rain and snow we had feared did not enter our valley during the night. We might have succeeded if we would have risked a little more. At the moment of our departure I promised myself to return and make another attempt at Mount Kackar. (It’s been nearly eight years and I have yet to redeem that promise.) Our descent was pleasant and under and increasingly warmer sunshine. Fragrant wildflowers and warm grass perfumed our descent. With a downhill and direct route we reached  Ayder Yaylası by mid-afternoon.

A brief pause on our descent to Ayder Yaylası. Photo by Andrew Zapf

Before we could prepare ourselves for our return flights we had one final task to complete – a stop in the village hamam. After days of walking and enduring less-than-desirable weather, the soothing, steaming waters of the Turkish bath were the ultimate treat. My tender feet and tired legs experienced a rejuvenation when alternating between cold and hot swimming pools. Days of mountain dirt was released from my skin and hair, and my lungs greedily breathed in the heavy air. I left renewed. That night we celebrated again to the sounds of traditional Laz music and dancing.

I would leave the Black Sea region having failed to conquer the summit of Mount Kaçkar. Although, the experience ignited a spark for trekking and being in the mountains. This was only my first mountain attempt, but it would not be my last. I’ve returned to the mountains in other countries seeking the same exhilaration of rock-strewn trails, physical exertion, and summit views. I’m still hoping to call myself a mountaineer one day.

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.