Tag Archives: France

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.

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.

Book Reviews, Mind

What We’re Reading This Month – June 2020

June 5, 2020 Andrew Zapf 1 Comment

My father doesn’t buy antiques. He always says that “antique” is a synonym for “overpriced.” What he does do is attend auctions, estate sales, and the like to find bargains before they get snatched up and resold by antique dealers. I’ve been to a few of the country auctions with him and seen him in his element. He’ll take his measured steps through the items, hands held loosely behind his back, gazing down like an eagle on a warm updraft. If he sees something of interest he’ll pick it up and look it over. If he’s really interested he’ll call out “Hey, Andy! . . . look at this” Drawing me closer to inspect. More often than not he’ll put the item back and walk away. If he’s still thinking about it in ten minutes he’ll go back for another look. It’s how he plays the game.

He doesn’t buy many items, but when he does they are always a steal. Typically, the auctions he goes to require you remove to your purchase within 24 hours. That’s a limiting factor. He’s seen solid oak armoires and giant kitchen hutches go for pittance. He’d probably have several dining rooms worth of furniture if he had a big truck and the strength to shoulder it all. It’s the boxes of books that he goes for. Sometimes he buys enough to outfit a bookstore in a single evening. He’d pick out what he wanted and donate the rest to his town’s library. In the end he pays mere pennies for the books he keeps in his library. He’s a master of his craft.

Last month he sent me one of those auction books. It arrived in the mail with a short note, the torn dust jacket tucked gently into an envelope. Worn out by over 70 years of existence. The pages are yellow and heavy, with a strong smell of decay. In the letter he explained how the author’s name had drawn his eye. James Hilton. Most famously author of Goodbye, Mr Chips, which was turned into a Hollywood movie in the 1960s. After reading this lesser-known work, and seeing his pencil ticks at the edge of some pages, I know exactly why he sent it on to me.

So Well Remembered - James Hilton

“Because, the English, after all, are a race of eccentrics. They don’t think it’s odd that people should be odd. And they always bear in mind the possibility that the lunatic view might, after all, be right. That’s what makes them tolerant of their enemies.”

So Well Remembered is a window into a different era. As a novel, it does not aspire to create a fantastical world with which the characters live in. They live and act in early-twentieth century England, before the world ever heard of nuclear weapons just as it was. James Hilton describes a pre-modern England when time is measured in seasons and small European wars are almost as predictable. His writing style is very different from most living authors. The first thirty pages are a single day, a single frame of mind, and an intimate conversation that takes twenty pages to unfold. He captures the easiness with which someone sits in a chair, with the inner dialogue when trying to impress, and the slow realization that one’s world is being turned upside down. It’s the title’s day, so well remembered by the protagonist. That’s how the book begins and eases into a story of a man’s life, and how life changes that man.

George Boswell’s life brings forth so many lessons about love and marriage, lifetime achievement and determination, failure and resiliency. Hilton’s main characters are complex, beautifully flawed people shaped by their respective families’ pasts and unique upbringing. They are interesting and I couldn’t help but feel sympathy as the moments of triumph turned sour or best laid plans came undone. The collective interactions of the people that come in and out of Boswell’s life left plenty of room for me to be contemplative.

I never would have picked this up on my own. I probably never would have even known of its existence if not for my father. He’s been reflective during these COVID times, archiving old letters from his father, and now reading novels triggering his nostalgia. I can tell he wanted to pass on some of the ideas captured in this novel, unclouded by the sensationalism and immediacy of present times. I understand him just a little bit better now and how the thinking of a different time shaped his perspective on today.

The Gun - C.S. Forester

“And the gun stood there with a faint wisp of smoke still trickling from its muzzle, immense, imposing, huge. It almost looked as if it were filled with contempt for the little marionettes of men who capered round it, little things whose lives could be measured, at the best, in scores of years, and who were quite incapable unaided of hurling death across five hundred yards of valley.”

I began reading The Gun as background research to another vignette I’m writing. It’s the source material for a Cary Grant, Sophia Loren, and Frank Sinatra film titled The Pride and The Passion. I had seen the film once. Long ago, back in the early days of cable television when anything and everything was played to fill air time, I watched it in our south Michigan living room. Like the movie, The Gun is a story set in the Napoleonic Peninsular Wars of Spain. Published in 1933, the novella only has one main character – a bronze, eighteen pounder cannon – 18 pounds being the size of the cannonball it could fire – a mammoth cannon in any age. The war in Spain was a brutal one. Napolean’s puppet king couldn’t quell the Spanish despite defeating the regular army in the field. It dragged on as a series of small wars against insurgent bands. “War” in Spanish translates to “guerra”; and this type of war in Spain became known as guerrilla, literally “small war” because of the lack of large, set-piece battles. The men and women that fought small wars can be called guerillas or guerrilleros. While the outsized cannon has devastating potential for those who could wield it, the guerrilleros seem cursed by its presence.

C.S. Forester writes a tightly written story where human life is local, simple, and short. Names are inconsequential and the suffering of men is commonplace. I’ve highlighted many passages, noting the horrible conditions of war and the easy deaths many suffered. Passages like are representative of this constant themes (note: el Billbanito is the name of a guerrilla leader in the novella):

“The men did not die. They cursed el Bilbanito, they cursed the gun, and the cattle, but they lived. During this period el Bilbanito slept more securely than before; he knew that mutiny breeds in idleness, not in hardship or hard work. The men might curse, complain, grumble, but they were secretly proud of their efforts. There was a thrill in looking back down a seemingly endless mountain side and in knowing that they had dragged a gun all the way up it. Unremitting toil of the most exacting nature had always been the destiny of those peasants even in peace time, and now in war their labour was made more attractive for them because each man wore a plume of cock’s feathers in his hat and belonged to the noted guerrillero band of el Bilbanito, which was soon to sweep the plains of Leon by the aid of the gun.”

There are no heroes for the reader other than the cannon. Unlike formulaic war stories of action, heroism, and climactic victory, Forester provides a flat narrative that allows the reader more reflection on the real face of war – much as he probably intended when he wrote this in the aftermath of World War I.

Wind, Sand, and Stars - Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

“We must throw out bridges into the darkness.”

I’ve got quite a few books on my nightstand that are so dense that I couldn’t split them with an axe. I’ve attempted to chip away at them night after night, but sometimes it feels like whittling with a dull knife. I picked up Wind,Sand, and Stars as a reprieve. Saint-Expuréy’s writing is poetic and smooth. He delves into camaraderie, the magic of flight, and the mystique of the desert but with a light touch. It’s a pleasure to read and a reviving contrast to my usual reading selections.

Too young to join the army in World War I, Saint-Exupéry spent the 1920s and 1930s as a pioneer of flight chasing the respectability he thought he missed by not being in the war. Earning fame as a commercial pilot in Europe, South America, and Africa, and saw the world before it was interconnected by globalized travel. While a pilot he also began to write, using his time above the clouds as inspiration. Taken from a small portion of his interesting life, Wind, Sand, and Stars is a breath of fresh air and a reminder that beauty can exist in austere and difficult circumstances. It was the mental break that I needed and a true joy.

“For such is life. We grow rich as we plant through the early years, but then come the years when time undoes our work and cuts down our trees. One by one our comrades deprive us of their shade, and within our mourning we always feel now the secret grief of growing old. . . there is only one true form of wealth, that of human contact. When we work for material gain, we build our own prison. We enclose ourselves in isolation; our coins turn to ashes and buy nothing worth living for.”

Andrew Zapf is a co-founder of Pushing Horizons.

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

Body, Cycling, History, Mountains, Soul, Travel Vignettes

Chamonix: Mountain Temple

April 10, 2020 roland.minez 1 Comment

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

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

Marc Twight.

A climber scrambles up the sheer face of Le Brevent.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The descent to the Mer de Glace glacier.

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

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

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

The Aiguille du Dru from the Mer de Glace glacier.

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

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

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

The guides assemble for their annual ritual.

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

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

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

Lisa ascends a rock face in the Aiguille Rouges.

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

Roland Minez is a co-founder of Pushing Horizons.

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

So Well Remembered - James Hilton

The Gun - C.S. Forester

Wind, Sand, and Stars - Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

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

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