In a very short amount of time I developed an irrational excitement for the Tour of Oman. The universe of cycling has many famous names and legendary races. Initially I was drawn to The Monuments, the long-distance single-day races that have become fixtures on competitive cycling’s calendar. As a novice cyclist I have a comfortable 40-kilometer Sunday-morning route that I enjoy. I’m thoroughly impressed by those that compete in 300 kilometer single-day races. (The photos of the delayed 2021 Paris-Roubaix hold a special place in my imagination.)
Multi-day, multi-week stage races, like the Tour de France and Giro d’Italia, had not yet found a home in my brain. I’m still learning the tactics of riding in a team, setting up a sprint, or the unspeakable suffering of categorized climbs – repeated day after day. That is, until an article about the 2021 Tour of Oman popped up on my Google news feed. (Thanks, all-knowing algorithm!) The Tour of Oman hadn’t been raced since 2019, before the pandemic, and it was reinstated very late. Amazingly, it was announced only two weeks in advance!
Within days of the announcement arrow markers started appearing on the roads around Muscat. The race would pass the Royal Opera House, utilize the Muscat Expressway, ascend the mountain pass to al Amarat, and finish on the corniche of Muttrah. The six-day stage race would have world-class cyclists riding on some of the same roads my own bike recognizes. Familiarity with the routes and proximity to the race girded my newfound enthusiasm.
Work and other obligations kept me from watching the first five stages of the race. However, on day six, the culminating day, I was able to watch the end of the Tour. Just after lunch I traded my desk and computer screen for a sunny spot only 100 meters from the finish line.
After waiting alone the race gradually materialized around me. First the race officials arrived by car brandishing clipoards and radios. Then the police motorcycles zoomed through clearing any last traffic in front of the peloton. Press photographers appeared along the street seemingly from nowhere. After the stage had been set the first character appeared. A lone breakaway rider silently emerged from around a bend. After only a half minute he zipped past with the frantic energy of someone being chased. Whether he had hopes of winning or was trying his damndest to overwork his pursuers I do not know. Less than a minute later the peloton arrived to the scene. Like angry bees, it buzzed with energy as it whizzed by in pursuit. The race was on!
The course took three 5 km laps around Muttrah before the ending near the sea. In those laps I saw the race tactics evolve from the 135 kilometer chess match into the sprint melee. The breakaway rider was caught by the peloton. The well-drilled teams rode in a tight formation. Wheel to wheel, moving in unison, their combined strength hurtling them forward. Their chosen sprinter shielded from the wind before the final burst. In the rear were the stragglers, bunched into sloppy teams, showing every meter of the previous 100 kilometer’s they’d traveled.
And lastly, it all came down to the bunch sprint finale. Lead-out riders peddled like demons to slingshot their sprinters for twenty seconds of fury. Weeks of training oriented toward victory at the finish line. In an instant the race roared to a finish and then faded like an echo.
Slowly the race glided to a stop. As the riders crossed the finish line they coasted down the road to waiting team members offering water and food. Within moments I was surrounded by competitors, staff, press, and knowing fans and gawking passersby all drifting amongts one another in the aftermath of the race. It was all within an arm’s reach.
In the flotsam and jetsam of the race’s finale I found myself from England’s legendary sprinter, Mark Cavendish. The “Manx Missile” sat on the curb still strapped into his helmet and shoes. Mark Cavendish had a marvelous sprint to win Stage 2 and earned the race’s green jersey as points leader. Over the next three days he had a collision in the desert, lost points in the mountain stages, and earned a time penalty. He lost the Stage 6 bunch sprint when his line was illegally blocked by another rider in the last 50 meters. No podium, no glory in Oman. I could hear him talking to his teammates, still jacked up on adrenaline and frustration from the final sprint. And . . . that’s the moment I chose to ask him for a photo.
In my years living in England I’d heard some elaborate swearing and creative cursing. But there’s nothing that gives a cleaner cut than the direct punch of a “F*ck off!” in the Queen’s English. For the briefest of moments after I interrupted his venting I could see those two words forming in the back of Mark Cavendish’s mind. Propelled by adrenaline-soaked competitiveness I wouldn’t have been surprised to hear them so close after the race’s finish. They never came, though. He indulged this fan and stood up for one, and only one, photo. (Update: Six days later he won Stage 2 of the Tour of UAE.)
I drove away before the podium ceremony and distribution of awards. Eventually the Tour dissolved into its separate parts. The big teams stowed their gear and cyclists into their buses. The smaller ones crammed into their rental cars. The true minnows hopped back into their saddles and rode the 30-plus kilometers back to their hotels.I guess training for the next race begins immediately for some!
The 2022 Tour crossed deserts, battled crosswinds from the sea, and humbled riders in the Omani mountains in a beautiful combination of six stages. After what I’d witnessed I’ll be waiting for the 2023 Tour of Oman with both rational and irrational enthusiasm. Hopefully the announcement doesn’t come to late.
Andrew Zapf is a co-founder of Pushing Horizons.
