Missed the boat

He had figured all the answers.
The questions changed.

He figured them anew. Did not even take that long.
Surprise! New questions. Trickier ones.

As long as you have a mechanism for finding answers, it doesn't matter.
The mechanism failed.

So what. If you do it with love, you will never lose.
He did, and he lost.

Nothing makes sense, I'll buy new carbon wheels and ride my balls off.
Two surgical interventions later, they almost did.

- - -

Well nothing ever went // Quite exactly as we planned (...)

But this is a fine promotion, and I shall laugh all my way to hell...

- - -

Beat that, Murphy.


Ultra Violence

It was June and I was busy with another series of hill repeats up Schäftlarn, coasting down to the river for recovery in between the interval work. As so oft happens, the right mirror came within a few centimeters of hitting my left arm. Had I veered left instead of right to avoid a pothole, just two seconds before, it would likely have caught me, sending me flying with potentially devastating consequences. I graphically flipped the driver off - who in return braked hard, screeching his vehicle to a halt just a few meters ahead of me. He stepped off, a man in his 50's, and facing me, demanded an apology. How dare I offend this honest man who is just trying to get to work?

"Sir", I retorted, "you could have literally killed me. Signalizing my frustration in such circumstances is the least I can do". He wouldn't have it. "I may have committed a minor traffic infraction by driving too close, but you, you have offended me. I can't let this pass". If I didn't have my heart on my throat from the past intervals and the incident, perhaps I could have articulated a better response. Or perhaps I should have had the police number on speed dial: fearing a retort - after all he did have one-and-a-half tons of metal at his disposal to just run me over, whereas all I had was my lycra armour and seven kilograms of fine carbon fiber - I gave him the apology he wanted and let it go.

- - -

When coming home from rides to the Southeast, I usually ride the last block on the "wrong" side of the sidewalk, in order to avoid two left conversions across traffic. Given the pedestrian traffic due to the nearby subway station, "riding" here usually means just rolling along at a very leisurely pace. Yes, there is a cycling path right next to the sidewalk, but with it being on the same grade as the road, and in between the bus and the car lanes, the conditions are not exactly inviting for riding against the flow there.

Someone had again steered their car dangerously close to our group, on the way back another had converted left in an intersection right in front of me, ignoring my right of way. I had even bothered to get the license plate of the last one, but thought I shouldn't ruin this otherwise pleasant day filing a complaint. I rode on, coming out of Karwendel Str. and taking the southern sidewalk on Albert-Roßhaupter-Str. to convert left again less than 200m later. Another cyclist rode a few meters ahead, likely heading to the bicycle stands under the train tracks in front of Harras station, with me following slowly as we slalomed between pedestrians and bus stop shelters.

And then I was hit. It wasn't a hard or particularly painful hit, but nevertheless a solid strike just as I rode past a family, mother, kid, and father. The later, deciding he did not concur with my sidewalk riding, opted to demonstrate his disagreement by punching me on the hips.

I braked and turned around. Caught up with the trio and wished my aggressor a nice day. And added, if tolerating my behaviour was out of question, then still there should be better ways of expressing dissatisfaction with my actions than resorting to gratuitous violence.

In particular, when immediately next to his daughter.

On a sunny Saturday morning.


Road trip

750 kilometers to where the Drac meets the Isère

21 hairpins on the way to the top

48 days later.

A comeback has to start somewhere.



Those had been some hard weeks at work: a trade fair, a colleague on holidays, a new release going out among other pressing deadlines, and those nagging tickets coming in from the support desk. Then the ordeals in cycling, the meetings with team management and sponsors, and training camp preparations, all while riding like a man possessed. Not to mention, well, all that actually matters.

Life has a funny way of sneaking up on you and one could say the writing was on the wall that something had to give. Or perhaps it was indeed a combined hand of improbable events and my recently reaffirmed vows towards the Gods of Yay had no bearing in the ordeals that ensued. Maybe - likely - a mixture of the two.

Previously I had discussed certain virtuous masochistic tendencies and my appreciation of hardships on the way to not at all megalomaniac goals. But, contrary to previous times where such setbacks were faced with the usual dose of enjoyment (!?), the aftermath of the latest events left me in a desolate and bare state, questioning choices and capabilities that I once had taken as unassailable: a whole new meaning to the idea of a lobster with no shell. Interesting times indeed.

- - -

The phrase, "create something from nothing", was found in many a conversation some time ago, but in the case at hand, there was something, only now it's been burnt down to the ground. And I long to foster it anew, hoping to force back some meaning onto what is otherwise essentially chaos.

To constantly re-create oneself, from decaying states that Entropy (ah, Boltzmann, my friend!) strives to steer towards the Void - perhaps in cycles of varying strength. There's a mythological figure for that.

A bird, no less.


Amplitude Spectrum

Fall in love, rush up a mountain to see the sun rise, lead a start-up as it ventures onto new markets, or command a thriving cycling team on its first year racing the Bundesliga: I've recently rediscovered the thrill of reaching for the highest highs.

But in a sudden turn of events, I found myself grasping for dear life, watching powerless as an infection spread and urgent intervention was required. In those few minutes between hearing the diagnosis, signing the disclaimers for the procedure, and being wheeled off to be sedated, there was a sheer panic unlike any I had ever experienced.

As I convalesced, even while absorbing positive news from my recovering state, questions flooded in: would I ever cycle again? How hard should one fight for what he loves, and when is it wise to let go? Who am I, if I'm stripped of what makes me be?

The non plus ultra experiences set the bar for what is the upper limit ever higher, and push me to try and always reach out further. But events such as the latest, experiencing joy simply from being able to carry out activities otherwise taken for granted, remind me just how important it is to remain aware of the fundamental state which still defines us as human beings: the lowest low.

- - -

In between these extremes, the broad range over which it all unfolds.


Pity and Fear

The recent lack of episodes left me wondering, questioning deeply if I could have been so mistaken or had done so wrong in piercing a hole through my thorax and laying a still beating heart on the table announcing, it's yours for the taking. As I watched its beat grow ever slower, like a paramedic rushing for the defibrillator, I channelled my remaining energy into two other endeavours as is often my wont. And while this energy was well absorbed into work as we faced a perfect storm of trade fairs, missed deadlines and customer issues over the past few weeks, in cycling, this corresponded to - again ignoring warning signs - pushing out too far during our second training camp.

The fear, once of the abstract, is now of the physical. I will only know the full scope after surgery but I'm scared: this godless atheist, with no heavens to pray to, can only hope such fears are unjustified.

- - -

If you're reading this, it means I have now not only been subject to, but also survived, surgical interventions in exactly 20% of the twenty countries I have visited.

A yay! for being alive!


The How and the What

"The journey is the destination" is, undoubtedly, the most overused cliché in this blog (in fact, even referring to this is already becoming cliché - I'm so meta, even this acronym...). Often times, however, the story lies not in the goal - the what - nor even necessarily on the road towards it, but in the way it is to be traversed: the destination, then, is actually the how, and not simply the undertaking itself.

- - -

My choice of means seems to heavily favour electing the hardest path. I have a fable for going with the underdog, clearly exemplified with my company or cycling team - the additional hardships of fighting against the odds, the suffering of slings and arrows somehow raising the enjoyment of any eventual achievement.

This, however, only makes sense if there is still a worthy goal, even if an ever-moving target - seeking the harshest ways as an end unto itself would be a worrisome evidence of a known, classified mental disorder: Millon's virtuous masochistic personality subtype includes, among its traits, a tendency for weighty burdens to be judged noble. Just where is the line to be drawn?

- - -

As I fought over the entire summer to maintain my status in the highest ranked amateur division, I traversed alone thousands of kilometres to take part in deplorable races, under miserable conditions, in often vain attempts to score those feeble missing rank list points, feeling expectations and anxiety build up with each missed opportunity. And then, on the second last race of the calendar, I drove back from the Baltic with an exquisite trophy on the passenger seat, the A letter assured on my next year's license: Win.

And yet, that triumph was but the external good (MacIntyre, once again). Two years before, in what ended up being another particularly hard season, I went through a similar struggle - and failing then only served to emphasise the reasons why I would, later, again choose to subject myself to such ordeals: the goods internal to the practice - the journey - and perhaps even internal to the very act of fighting. The love for the how. I hold there was, and is, a certain virtue in simply not giving up, no matter what odds one may be up against. Which defines me, or rather: which I want to define me.

- - -

Can the how be the what ?