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.
Riding to the rising sun.
The joys of riding on empty streets.
Riding by headlight
A city asleep.
The reward for a long early morning ride.
Smooth roads, wide shoulders, and routes galore.
Pushing at sunrise.
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.
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.
Place de la Concorde, Paris. The site where King Louis XVI and Queen Marie Antoinette lost their heads during the French Revolution. Photo by Andrew Zapf
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.
“Gönül, ne kahve ister ne kahvehane, gönül sohbet ister, kahve bahane.” – Turkish idiom
Translation – “The heart does not want coffee or coffee house, the heart wants a chat, coffee is an excuse.”
Turkish Coffee
First time visitors to Turkey can easily be overwhelmed. It’s my own concerted opinion that three weeks is the minimum time needed to introduce oneself to Turkey, but even one hour is preferable to never visiting. The places of cultural and historical significance are so vast and numerous that it’s nearly impossible to visit them all. In Istanbul alone the remnants of Byzantine and Ottoman empires intertwine with the modern Turkish Republic in a rich tapestry. The beauty of Turkey’s Taurus Mountains, Marama coast, and Lycian Trail have inspired many to abandon their home countries and retire to its tranquil beauty.
However, it is only through food can anyone appreciate Turkey and Turkish culture. Unlike the abrupt social interactions typical in America, relationships in Turkey are dependent on conversation. Enter tea and coffee. The coffee houses of the Ottoman Empire were famous as gathering places where politics, poetry, and business were discussed. In a narrower circle, a hot cup of tea or coffee allowed two friends to converse as the boiling liquid cooled.
Turkish cuisine is far more than the assemblage of ingredients and flavors on the plate. No Turkish kitchen is complete without a healthy supply of garlic, onion, and parsley, but it’s the time spent cutting those onions, shredding tomatoes, or wrapping grape leaves are where mothers, sisters, and daughters connect. Families and friends gathered together for grilled fish (balık) accompanied by glasses of Turkey’s anise drink, Rakı – famously called a “rakı balık” dinner – will enjoy hours of fellowship while eating mezes under the evening sky. I could list more, but dining in Turkey is an experience for the soul as well as a delight for the stomach.
rakı balık dinners in the Beşiktaş neighborhood of Istanbul
Late-night kebab near Macka Park, Istanbul
Peynirli poğaça (cheese-filled pastry)
Food is so central to Turkish identity and culture that it permeates the language. Parsley is so prevalent in Turkish dishes that to admonish someone for being a gossip you would say: “Don’t be a parsley!” (“maydanoz olma!”) (i.e. don’t be in everything or everyone’s business). Or if someone did something stupid you might say: “Look at the mint he ate.” (“yediği naneye bak”). A final example is “ağzında bakla ıslanmamak”) which translates to “To eat beans without getting them wet.” You have to soak beans to soften them before cooking, so this phrase would be used to describe someone that passes news without thinking over the consequences first.
There’s even the song “Domates Biber Patlıcan” by artist Barış Manço, (translation: Tomatoes, Pepper, Patlican – an eggplant dish). Listen to a modern cover by Turkish pop singer Karsu.
Which brings me to my two favorite words in the Turkish language:
“Dolmuş” from the root word dolma, “to stuff”.
My wife jokes that there isn’t a food that a Turkish cook doesn’t want to stuff. Turkish cuisine includes stuffed bell peppers, various forms of stuffed eggplants (patlican), stuffed pastas (mantı), fried pastries stuffed with cheese (sigara böreği), and stuffed grape leaves (dolma). Whatever it is, a Turk can find a way to stuff it and serve it for lunch.
In Turkish cities there are multiple methods of transportation. Istanbul boasts bus service, metro lines, trams, a funicular, and taxi service.Ubiquitous in the city is the presence of the shared taxis that service the areas not reached by regular metro or bus service. They were also fairly inexpensive and even the poorest of travelers could afford to use them. The original shared taxis were large, yellow four-door cars. Were it to be privately owned a reasonable person would identify a driver plus four seats, however as a shared taxi commuters would cram into the every cubic foot of the shared space. They became known as “Dolmuş” (pronounced “dole-mush”) – which literally translates to “I heard it is stuffed” – stuffed with people. A dolmuş today is the size of a mini bus, but the name stuck and I’m all the happier for it.
Stuffed bell peppers.
“Sarımsaklı” adj. garlicky, from the noun, garlic – “sarımsak”
My wife had led a typical Turkish life in the thirty years before we met. She worked in her home city of Istanbul and each summer she would take a beach vacation to enjoy the turquatic waters, sun, and peaceful atmosphere somewhere on Turkey’s southwestern coast. She had often told me about the most famous, posh or popular beaches for Turks along the coast. Some attract foreign tourists, and some remain known only to Turks. One such location is Sarımsaklı Plajı near the town of Ayvalık. It took me a few years to connect the restaurant-Turkish I had learned to the image of beachgoers in an exclusive destination, but once I made the connection I can never forget it. Sarımsaklı Plajı = Garlicky Beach.
There is no better proof of the integral nature of food and cuisine in Turkish culture than discovering it mixed into the Turkish place names, idioms, and expressions that decorate the Turkish language. Take a visit, a bite, or just lend Turkey your ear.
Andrew Zapf is a co-founder of Pushing Horizons.
Disclaimer: All views expressed are that of the author.
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.
Rose vineyards.
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.
A photo together in Grimauld.
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.
Primos and Wout.
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.
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.
At the beginning of the year I dug out my old bicycle to add some variety to my fitness routine. I hadn’t ridden in over a decade and it needed significant maintenance to become roadworthy again. In the ensuing years since making that purchase I’ve developed a dependency on reading and research when I take up an activity. I can’t simply do a thing. I have to mentally walk the corners of a room before I can sit down in it. Whether it’s a historical topic, cooking technique, or a new sport – I have to contextualize it before I can appreciate it.
In this familiar pattern I approached the world of cycling as I began pedaling through the late-English winter cold and rainy spring. I don’t have the background knowledge (yet) for understanding the sport’s statistics, rattling off names of famous cyclists, or identifying key moments in cycling history. At this stage the best I can do is appreciate a good story. And there are some good stories from cycling’s history which I have found in the following books:
The Monuments: The Grit and Glory of Cycling’s Greatest One-day Races
The Monuments: The Grit and Glory of Cycling's Greatest One-Day Races by Peter Cossins
“Paris-Roubaix is the last test of folly that cycle sports puts before its participants. . . It’s a savage race, but not one for brutes.” – Jacques Goddet, race director, 1968
“The Monuments”. What great branding! It’s powerful wording. It creates exclusivity. And it keeps the same five one-day races perpetually on cycling’s global stage. Peter Cossins writes a straight-up history of these five races (Milan-San Remo, Tour of Flanders, Paris-Roubaix, Leige-Bastogne-Leige, and the Tour of Lombardy) in five distinct sections. It’s not a page turner, but it’s great material for anyone wanting to learn about each race in detail. Best read throughout the racing year. Cossins does discuss some of the great rivalries between cyclists in different eras in the context of these races (Coppi-Bartali, Merckx-Gimondi, etc.) which can add greater context to a wider knowledge of cycling history.
The appeal of The Monuments, especially for me as a novice cyclist, is the unpredictability of each of these races. There is still the feeling that any entrant has a legitimate chance to win. In stage races cyclists and teams can adjust tactics based on daily changes in terrain, weather, or mechanical issues. Monument races are less forgiving. A crash, mechanical failure, or incredible luck can eliminate a favorite from contention and/or place an unknown at the front of the peloton in the blink of an eye. Not to mention, these races generally are designed to be extremely difficult to compensate for their single-day duration. (Riding on bone-jarring cobblestones is a feature sought after in several of these races) These are races of endurance, luck, and grit unlike any other on the racing calendar.
If I had to pinpoint my favorite part of each section were the histories of each of the races in their earliest years. From the 1890s until the 1920s the world of cycling was a wild and crazy place. The roads of the time had incredibly variable quality to them, the races weren’t on closed courses and mixed with train service and commuters, and riders dealt with all sorts of unpredictable factors that don’t bother modern-day races. Especially the spectators in those days. Fans were very active participants. They pushed riders up hills, conspired to block rivals, threw tacks and causing punctures, and helped with repairs. This is bananas stuff and super interesting! None of these races were destined to be the great events they are today and I find it fascinating how the races’ organisers clawed their way onto the racing calendar, into respectability, and into history.
Gironimo! Riding the Very Terrible 1914 Tour of Italy
Gironimo! Riding the Very Terrible 1914 Tour of Italy by Tom Moore
Dies slowly he who transforms himself into the slave of habit, repeating every day the same itineraries.
Fabio’s head nodding significantly besides mine.
Dies slowly he who does not risk the certain for the uncertain. To go toward a dream that has been keeping him awake.
How very moved I was to think that a free spirited young offroader like Fabio should look up to me, suburban, middle-aged me, as the standard bearer of flinty-eyed solo adventure. Moved and ashamed. – Tim Moore, while reading Dies Slowly by Martha Medeiros
Tim Moore is not a historian. He’s a traveler, writer, and a Brit. When I look through the catalog of books he’s authored I have two complimentary thoughts. One, I’d like to have a beer with this guy. Two, how do I save enough money to embark on an adventure scheme of Moore-ian style? He’s the type of guy that has driven across the United States in a Ford Model T and walked the 500 miles of the Camino de Santiago with a donkey, written books about the experience, and financed his life with these adventures. For this book he restored/rebuilt a century-old bicycle and donned period-accurate clothing to ride the route of the 1914 Giro d’Italia – a race famously so difficult and misfortuned that only eight of 81 riders finished all eight stages – considered by many to be the most difficult stage race of all time.
This book is less about cycling history and more travel writing. Moore spends a good five chapters bringing the reader through the process of getting a pre-World War I bike functionally rideable and the rationale behind his scheme. He meets, and conveys to the reader, anekdotes from all across his journey of those that helped him build and repair his bike, and those that shook their head at him along the way. It’s filled with British cheekiness and observations about continental Europe finally tuned from a career of writing. It’s worth the read even if you don’t care much for the actual cycling in it.
Moore does have a fair number of stories and information about the 1914 Giro d’Italia interspersed with his modern-day tale. It’s impossible for him to avoid it when retracing the steps of such an infamous race. The cyclists of the day struggled along the entire length of the Italian peninsula, attacked several 400 kilometer stages, and battled the limitations of their equipment. It was a harrowing ordeal for them and I’m glad Tim Moore came along to remind us.
Riding in the Zone Rouge: The Tour of the Battlefields 1919 – Cycling’s Toughest-Ever Stage Race
Riding in the Zone Rouge. The Tour of the Battlefields 1919: Cyclings Toughest-ever Stage Race by Tom Isitt
But with a 2,000 km route in seven stages across the war-torn roads and battlefields of the Western Front in horrific weather a mere couple of months after hostilities ceased, the Circuit des Champs de Bataille took suffering on a bike to a whole new level.
This book is the perfect combination of the first two books and I can’t endorse it enough. I had the privilege of listening to Tom Isitt give a talk to the Western Front Association about this book before I read it. Like Tim Moore, Tom Isitt set out to ride the route of a horrendously difficult race from cycling’s earliest days. He chose the Circuit des Champs de Bataille, a seven-stage race that occured mere months after the conclusion of the First World War. The French organizers, after a hasty reconnaissance, planned the route to pass through Luxemburg, Belgium, and France – especially the recently reacquired provinces of Alsace and Lorraine. The race would befall misfortune after misfortune as extreme unseasonable weather tormented the riders and roads pulverized by four years of warfare hobbled race times.
Isitt rode along a route that best approximated the original race route, accounting for modern highways and pleasanter alternatives. He also made several diversions to tour different battlefields and sites of significance. He didn’t attempt to recreate the conditions or the hardships of the original race, but he designed an itinerary that gave him a sense of history and place. In this way, along with extensive research on the cycling and cyclists of the era, he was able to construct a narrative that successfully weaves his personal story, relevant cycling history, and World War I historical context into the story of the Circuit des Champs de Bataille, region by region.
This comes together perfectly in the chapters on stages four (Amiens to Paris) and five (Paris to Bar Le Duc) of the race which crossed the most devastated battlefields of the war. As Isitt points out, many of the riders had seen service in the military, some on the front lines, and the passage of the race through some of these areas must have been emotionally taxing in addition to the severe physical hardships of the race itself. These are heartbreaking and beautiful sections on the devastation of the war and the national trauma it caused, and the individual sufferings of the riders.
Le Petit Journal, the race’s organizing newspaper, hailed the race as a triumph at its conclusion. Such high acclaim was underserved, though. Incessant rain forced stops every few miles to clear mud and dirt from chains and sprockets. The roads chosen were so bad that time cutoffs for each stage were abandoned as riders routinely sheltered overnight (sometimes in unfilled trenches). Artillery shell craters caused multiple crashes and riders to withdraw. Unseasonable weather in the Vosges Mountains forced riders to carry their bikes over their heads in waist-deep snow for several kilometers. It took superhuman determination to endure. As Tom Isitt pointed out in his talk, the motivation of prize money, equal to four year’s wages in the post-war economy, and riders “off their head” on cocaine and amphetamines had a lot to do with anyone finishing the race at all.
Amazingly 21 of 87 entrants finished the race – including my new personal hero, Louis Ellner. (Louis Ellner, an isole rider with a routière bicycle, finished each stage 8 to 74 hours after the stage winner, but never abandoned the race!) There’s a lot packed into this 280 page book that can appeal to everyone. It is prolific in nerdy history for someone like myself, athletic tales of achievement for my cyclist friends, and quality storytelling for anyone that likes being emotionally connected to the narrative. Again, it’s a phenomenal read and it already has me plotting my own cycle route in Western France.
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.
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!
Tour of Oman route markers. Photo by Andrew Zapf
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!
Photo by Andrew Zapf
Photo by Andrew Zapf
Photo by Andrew Zapf
Photo by Andrew Zapf
Photo by Andrew Zapf
Photo by Andrew Zapf
Photo by Andrew Zapf
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.
The Finish Line. Photo by Andrew Zapf
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.
Photo by Andrew Zapf
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.)
Mark Cavendish graciously took a picture post-race. I think he even managed a smile under his mask.
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.
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.
Trail markers in Oman are painted yellow, white, and red. We hiked the relatively short Trail C38a. Photo by Andrew Zapf
The family ascending from Riyam. Photo by Andrew Zapf
Trail markers painted on the rocks. Photo by Andrew Zapf
Crossing the mountains between Riyam and Muttrah. Photo by Andrew Zapf
Treasures of Muttrah Souq. Photo by Andrew Zapf
Muttrah Fort overlooking the Port Sultan Qaboos. Photo by Andrew Zapf
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.
The trailhead at Wadi Shab is only accessible by boat. There is a ferryman to carry you across. While not as dramatic as crossing the River Styx, it still pumps up the imagination from the outset. Photo by Andrew Zapf
Skirting the edge of a small canyon wall in Wadi Shab. Photo by Andrew Zapf
Wadi Shab's floor is strewn with boulders. Photo by Andrew Zapf
Aqueducts for the small farms at the entrance of Wadi Shab. Photo by Andrew Zapf
Crystal clear pools of water in Wadi Shab. Photo by Andrew Zapf
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.
Wahiba Sands. Photo by Andrew Zapf
Exploring Wahiba Sands. Photo by Andrew Zapf
Dinner with a view. Photo by Andrew Zapf
Our lonely tent on the Wahiba Sands. Photo by Andrew Zapf
Sunset in Wahiba Sands. Photo by Andrew Zapf
After the sun disappeared and the moon followed it below the horizon the wind rose and breathed life into our campfire. Photo by Andrew Zapf
At the top of the sand dunes. It seemed like the heavens were a little bit closer. Photo by Andrew Zapf
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.
