Tag Archives: Oman

Secret Societies of the Sultanate

October 28, 2022 Andrew Zapf Leave a comment

At the moment the sun rises above the Hajar Mountains an alert observer can spot the tell-tale signs of clandestine activity in Muscat. In the pre-dawn hours a subculture of like-minded individuals meet in near-secrecy, under the protective cloak of darkness. They can be discerned from the activity common to any sleeping city by the flickering and blinking of red lights and the whirr of unseen gears and spokes. Even if you’re an early riser you might only spot a glimpse of rear tires in the distance asembers disperse from these secret meetings to resume the banality of normal lives. In the summer months cyclists in Oman become nocturnal.

Winter starts late and ends early in the Sultanate. The remainder of the time summer reigns with a molten-iron fist. Summer-time temperatures can soar to 120º Fahrenheit (49º Celsius). These extremes drop to the cooler temperatures of the mid-80s Fahrenheit (~30º C). Humidity levels exceeding 70% throughout the summer chase any hope of outdoor comfort to late-October and beyond. Add to the equation roads radiating absorbed heat back and it can truly be said that sportic activity takes true passion. Cyclists are driven to the nighttime to survive.

Replicating the epicl tales of the desert, the cyclists of Oman prepare for each ride as if the rescue plane will never find them. Water bottles are frozen overnight, spare innertubes and patch kits are checked (and rechecked), pockets are filled with carbs & electrolytes, and sun protection is slathered on uncovered skin in terrifying quantities. When alarms are set for 4 a.m. and moonlit rendezvouses are made, it is done with deliberate preparation.

Undiminished are the joys of cycling in such extreme conditions. Riding at night behind the narrow beam of headlight reveals mile after mile of open roads uncluttered by the day’s traffic. The dawn is also a photographer’s dream as the golden hour of gentle sunlight graces beautiful scenes along the routes. It’s also an undeniable pleasure to be amongst other cyclists that embrace the same difficulties week-in and week-out.

When the sun rises and reaches its full power the journey quickly come to an end. Water bottles that have been emptied, refilled, and emptied again beg for mercy. Sweat has long-since rinsed sunscreen and saturated every inch of clothing. Cyclists happily trade their place on the road with those behind a different kind of wheel. By the time the coffee is brewed, the calm and inviting streets of the early hours are transformed into a dusty, exhaust-choked 91-octane scrum. And so it remains until the wee hours of the next day.

The time from April through September reveals those truly dedicated to their bicycles. On a balmy July morning the Waveriders, Nite Riders, and Cyclogists might only summon a half dozen initiates to the darkened roads. Membership of these riding clubs swells to double-digits during the winter months as they flock about the city and surrounding hills in the daylight. However, those with the mettle can be inducted into these Secret Societies of the Sultanate . . . dues are paid in the summer.

The reward for a long early morning ride.

Smooth roads, wide shoulders, and routes galore.

A brief pause before the sun is fully cooking.

A sight seen at various meeting points across the city.

Andrew Zapf is a co-founder of Pushing Horizons.

Disclaimer: All views expressed are that of the author.

Cycling, Photo Essay

Tour of Oman 2022

February 22, 2022 Andrew Zapf 1 Comment

In a very short amount of time I developed an irrational excitement for the Tour of Oman. The universe of cycling has many famous names and legendary races. Initially I was drawn to The Monuments, the long-distance single-day races that have become fixtures on competitive cycling’s calendar. As a novice cyclist I have a comfortable 40-kilometer Sunday-morning route that I enjoy. I’m thoroughly impressed by those that compete in 300 kilometer single-day races. (The photos of the delayed 2021 Paris-Roubaix hold a special place in my imagination.)

Multi-day, multi-week stage races, like the Tour de France and Giro d’Italia, had not yet found a home in my brain. I’m still learning the tactics of riding in a team, setting up a sprint, or the unspeakable suffering of categorized climbs – repeated day after day. That is, until an article about the 2021 Tour of Oman popped up on my Google news feed. (Thanks, all-knowing algorithm!) The Tour of Oman hadn’t been raced since 2019, before the pandemic, and it was reinstated very late. Amazingly, it was announced only two weeks in advance!

Within days of the announcement arrow markers started appearing on the roads around Muscat. The race would pass the Royal Opera House, utilize the Muscat Expressway, ascend the mountain pass to al Amarat, and finish on the corniche of Muttrah. The six-day stage race would have world-class cyclists riding on some of the same roads my own bike recognizes. Familiarity with the routes and proximity to the race girded my newfound enthusiasm.

Work and other obligations kept me from watching the first five stages of the race. However, on day six, the culminating day, I was able to watch the end of the Tour. Just after lunch I traded my desk and computer screen for a sunny spot only 100 meters from the finish line.

After waiting alone the race gradually materialized around me. First the race officials arrived by car brandishing clipoards and radios. Then the police motorcycles zoomed through clearing any last traffic in front of the peloton. Press photographers appeared along the street seemingly from nowhere. After the stage had been set the first character appeared. A lone breakaway rider silently emerged from around a bend. After only a half minute he zipped past with the frantic energy of someone being chased. Whether he had hopes of winning or was trying his damndest to overwork his pursuers I do not know. Less than a minute later the peloton arrived to the scene. Like angry bees, it buzzed with energy as it whizzed by in pursuit. The race was on!

The course took three 5 km laps around Muttrah before the ending near the sea. In those laps I saw the race tactics evolve from the 135 kilometer chess match into the sprint melee. The breakaway rider was caught by the peloton. The well-drilled teams rode in a tight formation. Wheel to wheel, moving in unison, their combined strength hurtling them forward. Their chosen sprinter shielded from the wind before the final burst. In the rear were the stragglers, bunched into sloppy teams, showing every meter of the previous 100 kilometer’s they’d traveled.

And lastly, it all came down to the bunch sprint finale. Lead-out riders peddled like demons to slingshot their sprinters for twenty seconds of fury. Weeks of training oriented toward victory at the finish line. In an instant the race roared to a finish and then faded like an echo.

Slowly the race glided to a stop. As the riders crossed the finish line they coasted down the road to waiting team members offering water and food. Within moments I was surrounded by competitors, staff, press, and knowing fans and gawking passersby all drifting amongts one another in the aftermath of the race. It was all within an arm’s reach.

In the flotsam and jetsam of the race’s finale I found myself from England’s legendary sprinter, Mark Cavendish. The “Manx Missile” sat on the curb still strapped into his helmet and shoes. Mark Cavendish had a marvelous sprint to win Stage 2 and earned the race’s green jersey as points leader. Over the next three days he had a collision in the desert, lost points in the mountain stages, and earned a time penalty. He lost the Stage 6 bunch sprint when his line was illegally blocked by another rider in the last 50 meters. No podium, no glory in Oman. I could hear him talking to his teammates, still jacked up on adrenaline and frustration from the final sprint. And . . . that’s the moment I chose to ask him for a photo.

In my years living in England I’d heard some elaborate swearing and creative cursing. But there’s nothing that gives a cleaner cut than the direct punch of a “F*ck off!” in the Queen’s English. For the briefest of moments after I interrupted his venting I could see those two words forming in the back of Mark Cavendish’s mind. Propelled by adrenaline-soaked competitiveness I wouldn’t have been surprised to hear them so close after the race’s finish. They never came, though. He indulged this fan and stood up for one, and only one, photo. (Update: Six days later he won Stage 2 of the Tour of UAE.)

I drove away before the podium ceremony and distribution of awards. Eventually the Tour dissolved into its separate parts. The big teams stowed their gear and cyclists into their buses. The smaller ones crammed into their rental cars. The true minnows hopped back into their saddles and rode the 30-plus kilometers back to their hotels.I guess training for the next race begins immediately for some!

The 2022 Tour crossed deserts, battled crosswinds from the sea, and humbled riders in the Omani mountains in a beautiful combination of six stages. After what I’d witnessed I’ll be waiting for the 2023 Tour of Oman with both rational and irrational enthusiasm. Hopefully the announcement doesn’t come to late.

Andrew Zapf is a co-founder of Pushing Horizons.

Photo Essay

The Beautiful Sultanate of Oman

February 10, 2022 Andrew Zapf Leave a comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

Andrew Zapf is a co-founder of Pushing Horizons.

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

Soul

Coming Soon: The Beautiful Sultanate of Oman

February 5, 2022 Andrew Zapf Leave a comment

South of Bidiyah, Oman. Photo by Andrew Zapf

Body, Cycling

Relearning to Cycle in Oman

November 16, 2021 Andrew Zapf Leave a comment

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.

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.

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.

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