The thin grad line

The War: 1359

noreply@blogger.com (Whiskas) — Tue, 25 Aug 2020 13:44:00 +0000

A major crisis, bringing the world to a standstill.

In the context of The War, however, a minor footnote:
"(…) and in the fourth year, the bullets flying, a pandemic assailed the world (…)"

We've always been at war with... Oceania?

- - -

I first came across the concept of "There's an XKCD for that" through Michael Nielsen's tweet. Riding back home, the Feuchtersleben quote rung in my head: "Reue ist Verstand, der zu spät kommt". Aptly, I found there was already a post on this very blog with this citation.

I'm not Randall, but even the (meta?-)meta-discussion on a certain number of prior experiences sufficing to last a creative lifetime has already made it here.

- - -

That same post with Feuchtersleben's tragic realisation had, further down, the inspirative antidote.

The only way out is through.

Cachaça and Helles

noreply@blogger.com (Whiskas) — Sun, 10 Nov 2019 18:29:00 +0000

Somewhere downtown, at a bar with a couple of friends. After two bottles of wine, a couple of beers and a few drinks, the realization of a rare event: I was the worst time-trialist sitting at that table.

- - -

Six days were much too short: forty-five.

The War: 999

noreply@blogger.com (Whiskas) — Sat, 31 Aug 2019 14:34:00 +0000

A war is also fought during retreats. Many gloryless, fightless steps back, in the hopes of later strides forward.
- - -
I dragged the bike bag back down the stairs towards the subway station. It would have to wait.

On the days that followed, many a standing ride ensued, and throughout the constant fear in the back of my mind. Is it back?
- - -
Two weeks later, we made it to the check-in counter. The performance was lacklustre at best, but deep within, I celebrated joyfully

Everything - the season, and more - is not lost.

Life: a racing metaphor

noreply@blogger.com (Whiskas) — Sun, 27 May 2018 19:44:00 +0000

A two-hundred mile drive early Sunday morning, enjoying along the way the usual diet of beetroot juice, a honey sandwich, a couple of bananas. And a strong espresso from a thermos before the warm-up.

Riding flat-out from the gun and still dropped like a rock within the first half-hour. Legs bursting and the constant feeling of being about to puke. Not even halfway in, the thrown towel - no point driving oneself to sickness for a second time this month. Early call at the showers and a two-hundred mile journey back.

- - -

Lack of doping controls, unfair game play, all the other conspiracy theories notwithstanding - it remains a challenge I can't seem to master easily, with different weaknesses rearing up each time I let the guard down and fail to attend to any seemingly diminutive detail.

And yet, hours into the drive home, the void feelings from the empty endeavour still mixing with the endorphines, the realisation that the only way out is through: more.

- - -

Any similarity to real life is obviously not just a coincidence.

- - -

Stars of track and field, you are.

Douro Deja Vu

noreply@blogger.com (Whiskas) — Mon, 26 Mar 2018 21:58:00 +0000

Late March. Somewhere over the Pyrenees. The eleventh flight of the year already, on a machine named after Erlangen.

In spite of this having been my third training camp installment in this still young season, my training volume to date is likely the smallest since attaining my current category. Work commitments, health concerns, and abysmal weather kept epic outings and frequent interval sessions at bay. Instead, I'm now happy to simply work out a sweat on the indoor trainer during early morning sessions, or follow wheels of my loyal training partners as we fight the elements on the roads south of Munich - or, just now, the wet shores of the Douro river. I still hope to convert the vast amount of overtime clocked into miles under more inviting skies, and draw encouragement from the fact that, even with all the woes and interruptions from yesteryear, the season still ended successfully - perhaps even stronger due to the freshness off the forced break.

- - -

If life does begins at Forty, the Thirties are providing for a most interesting, roaring prelude, shaking up the concepts of career and work-life-balance, relationships, luxuries, or sporting goals. Not the manager, but not quite an employee either. No longer racing the Bundesliga, but still unwilling to drop the towel. Not exactly committed, yet neither absolutely single. Far from riches, and while insisting it is not splurging, rewarding myself more often, say, with a new suit... or four.

American essayist Flannery O'Connor once posed that "(n)othing needs to happen to a writer’s life after they are twenty. By then they’ve experienced more than enough to last their creative life".

I gazed over the snow-covered mountains overlooking dry plateaus in the distance and, devising a traversal crossing of the range, established just how little applicability I could find in the writer's statement above.

- - -

As if those twenty years hadn't been busy enough.

Nihil obstat

noreply@blogger.com (Whiskas) — Thu, 04 Jan 2018 18:46:00 +0000

The wind was gnarling with the waves breaking high against the seawall.

DCFC's New Year began playing just ahead of a silent countdown.

As fireworks went off in the distance, a Swiss army knife opened a beer for the toast.

I drank a bitter sip and felt a sudden urge to throw the bottle off into the dark waters. Instead, I offered the sea some and brought it back to the recycling bin.

- - -

The Last Time I Saw Richard was on as I poured the remaining coffee and packed for the upcoming ride.

Picked for its symbolism, it was the ride that ended '16; now it should begin '18.

This time - perhaps it was the warmer weather, perhaps an altogether different mindset - I thoroughly enjoyed the descent.

- - -

Deep Blue Something gave way to Natalie Imbruglia and Alanis Morissette as the endorphines of a sun-soaked five-hour ride hit me in the evening. One more day to go. This gift comes with a price. But in such moments I realize just how much I'm glad to pay the bill, time after time.

- - -

There's a sunset somewhere every second of the day. But when one happens to watch it...

365 // Fail better

noreply@blogger.com (Whiskas) — Sun, 03 Dec 2017 22:01:00 +0000

I took my health for granted. Drinking from noon until noon again and waking up to cross a mountain range the next morning.

And then there was Iceland.

I loved the struggle. Always boasting of seeking the hardest path. Betting against the odds and relishing on the challenge.

And then there was Iceland.

I thought I had the answers. The meta-knowledge on how walking down the path differed from knowing it. No hay camino, se hace camino al andar - and those were worn soles.

And then there was Iceland.

I believed in a four letter word. And that a deed done with it could never be lost.

And then, there was a weekend in Reykjavik. An alarm clock that went off too early Monday morning. A whispered "don't let go" before the hotel door closed behind me. A drive to the airport, and then, the void.

- - -

I recovered completely, once more highlighting just what a fabulous piece of machinery hosts my consciousness. But I am now aware of just how special simply carrying out everyday activities by myself can be.

I still cherish my ordeals and voluntarily give up comfortable positions, be it in sport, work or elsewhere, to fight what I believe is the good fight. Yet I'm learning to give up martyrdom and realise that the struggle should not be an end unto itself.

I still undertake those metaphorical hikes, however I now appreciate that sometimes, the walk will not leave a path - or that such path may lead to a dead end and one must then backtrack, as hurtful as that may be; one way or another, the knowledge gained is not static but must constantly be learnt anew.

- - -

Someone once told me it only happens once a lifetime. That I know not to be true. Poor are the souls who have not yet lived through it. And I'm all the richer for - even if only fleetingly - having touched the skies once again.

Yet a price was paid for this experience. The effects of those butterflies flapping their wings were felt by others as well, and I have to acknowledge my share in not properly restraining those, or dealing with their aftermath. Howe is right: the knowledge that makes us cherish innocence makes innocence unattainable. Which, however, in turn "adds to a rich and complete picture of being human (...), part of the wildness and beauty of (a) life lived with depth, commitment and grace" (from a comment in this very blog).

Indeed. Always - and all ways - Yay!

Of hills and writing

noreply@blogger.com (Whiskas) — Fri, 14 Jul 2017 10:46:00 +0000

Some two years ahead of getting my adviser's blessing to start writing my doctoral thesis, I already had the core part of the acknowledgements sketched out within my head. In a sense, those two pages were one the reasons for me to soldier on, suffering the slings and arrows of outrageous Ph.D. fortunes, so that in the end I could have those words published.

To different measure, I can trace similar patterns between last month's race chronicle, or a previous blog post on two similarly motivated hikes: seeking new experiences for want of a life worth writing about. Sometimes the ensuing essay or photo album may already be vividly on my mind before I even set out on such adventures, and may - like pages IX and X in the above - even lend the necessary impetus to see them through; other times the storytelling follows as an afterthought, perhaps if, by looking back through a different angle, I find something interesting enough to entice the writing spirits (who would otherwise picture me writing about shoe shopping?).
- - -
Upon first moving to Munich, a friend commented on the Facebook status where I announced my relocation: "Head South along the Isar, the first hill comes at Schäftlarn".

The climb from Schäftlarn Abbey to the village of Höhenschäftlarn quickly became my standard go-to hill for interval work. It's not such a beautiful ascent which rewards one at the top with majestic views of the Alps, as is the case with the Peißenberg, but it's close enough for rides during the week, and with 1.5km and 80 vertical meters sufficiently long and steep to enjoy the reputation as "The" Schäftlarn within the Munich cycling scene.

The summer of 2013 saw Christoph Listmann take over the crown from Peter Maly, improving the 3'14" that had stood for over three years by a single second. With such distance and steepness favouring my rider profile, I eventually set out on a quest to stamp my mark, and two years later, I first matched the then-new best time of 3'12" by Austrian legend Klaus Steinkeller, and then set a 3'06" to seal my name atop the leader board. I was happy to let that mark stand, continuing to do hill repeats on its slopes, but no longer with any concern for the time. It wasn't until Spring this year that I started conjecturing designs of being the first one to break three minutes, but my illness put those plans on hold. In the meantime, between fellow amateurs and professionals alike, some had come within a second of my time, yet still my name stood. Until last Friday.

A relatively unknown, a hobbyist for his lack of a proper license, posted a 3'04". The wind was not unfavourable and his bike could potentially be below the minimum weight stipulated by the regulations, but nevertheless, such a time doesn't come without the legs. Chapeau, I said, and vowed, half jokingly, now I'd have to actually bring out my carbon hoops instead of my regular training setup.
- - -
A very similar feedback loop between experiences and their written expression takes place with my training and racing entries on Strava. My activities' titles are as if mini-blog entries, where I attempt, on occasion, to convey a bit of poetry replacing the standard naming conventions. Trying out new gear: "Shiny shifters, sunny skies, speedy Saturday!" . Warm, sunny day in winter when I decided to cancel or postpone all meetings and go on a ride: "Of global warming and work-life balance" . Rained on? "Wednesday weather warning withheld, wet ways wearily wandered". Most often, though, the titles are nonchalant, fact-of-the-matter ("Breakfast Lactate" or "That warm-up thing").

And so I contemplated - as I rode off early Tuesday morning, bringing my Pride and Joy, with its shining, cut-to-measure carbon galore, for the first time outside of a racing event, to a (if this could be classified as such) training ride - how this endeavour would eventually be titled, and the entire story behind it: from discovering the climb, to countless repeats up and down again, walking its length with my father when he last came to visit, my illness, the first workouts on its slopes when I was healthy again, and now this symbolic moment representing my return to the top of the rankings, to performance levels that ultimately I grew so used to employing to define me. "Sorry, Felix" ? No need to rub it on the poor soul that had just enjoyed his moment of glory. "Schäftlarn Sub-3 Minutes Club, Member Count 1" ? (There is a "3 Minutes Club" for all riders who have managed the ascent in less than 240 seconds). No, though it would be fun to start a second club. "Ops, I did it again?". My mind wandered.

I felt slightly sluggish; and contemplated how I often struggle on early morning rides against my body still craving to stay longer in bed or another cup of coffee; yet last week in spite of similar sensations I had still managed to post pretty usual numbers on my series, so why expect any differently this time? I rode on. It was a beautiful morning. Blue skies, little traffic, even a gentle breeze aligned with the climb. I made my way down, enjoying the aerodynamics and stiffness of my racing machine. Rolling out on the flat section at the bottom, I turned around and waited for the last car to disappear from sight, stretching one last time as I took a deep breath. Then I darted off.

And I failed.
- - -
Writing is like reading, except the book is trying to kill you. This chapter, it seems, won the first battle.

But I'll vow: not the war.

Running to stand still

noreply@blogger.com (Whiskas) — Wed, 28 Jun 2017 19:11:00 +0000

I did my first race in the entry-level "debutantes" class in February 2002. I finished fifth and stuck around, waiting for the awards ceremony, which was to take place after the main Elite race. A certain lad from an orange-clad team made a daring attack and won solo - Gean Oliveira was his name, and he was quickly my new hero.

In January 2003, after moving my way up in the ranks over the course of the previous year, I got an invitation to join the Sapiranga Cycling Association's cycling team - and would get to wear that same orange jersey. Being located in a small city maybe an hour away from Porto Alegre, the team invited me to spend the weekend there for us to ride together and get to know each other better. At the last moment there was a change of plans and my host could no longer offer me the spot on the couch, so I ended up on Gean's room, sleeping on a guest mattress on the floor. I remember telling him just how surreal this all was - here I was, one year later, having dinner and sleeping at the house of a former medallist at the Brazilian Championships.

I raced for the Sapiranga-based clockwork orange "Last Sprint Team" throughout my days in Brazil. I progressed within the team, eventually sharing the team's leadership role with Gean before moving to Germany almost ten years ago.

- - -

March this year, after my best off-season preparation to date, I fell ill with an infection around the saddle area on the second day of our spring training camp. The plum-sized lump was not testicular cancer, but it was still scary enough having flesh-eating bacteria suddenly growing out of nowhere; the associated fever and risk of further spread meant it should be attended to with no delay. The surgeons' words informing me of the risks involved still echo to this day, but it was a matter of risking it with a surgery, or facing certainty in no time - and so after five minutes' time to call my parents and my sister and sign disclaimers, I was put to sleep and wheeled off to the surgery room.

All went extremely well: the exams the days following indicated all matter had been removed, my body was responding well to the antibiotics, and there was no damage to any of the organs in the surrounding area, so within a week I was allowed to go home. It would be another couple of weeks until I was allowed to exercise even moderately, and yet another month until I could bear weight on the saddle again. However, after an initial week of leisurely spinning the pedals, just as I attempted ramping up my training back to a normal training schedule, my still weakened immune system threw another curve ball: I fell ill a second time, with a cold giving way to tonsillitis and another round of antibiotics. It wasn't until the end of May that I could finally throw a leg over the bike without ensuing complications.

- - -

The national championships were and are always the highlight of any season. In 2013 I transferred my license to Germany, meaning that, instead of fighting for a podium spot in Brazil, I now had the chance of finishing on the second page of the results list against some of the best names in the time-trialling discipline in, well, the whole world (my German countrymen have won 7 World titles and have a total of 17 medals since the discipline was introduced 23 years ago, twice as many as the second-placed nation). On the start line last Friday, there were no less than 6 Worlds' medallists. Against such firepower, the few amateurs who manage to qualify, by winning state championships or having enough rank list points to warrant a start - and are brave enough to show up - form a small, tightly-knit circle, who keeps in touch during the year racing on different events, but will gather on Nationals' weekend to celebrate - and maybe this is part of what I only recently realised - what the sport is all about.

Away from the spotlight, with the cameras filming the world champion and the other Tour de France contenders and many a photographer on the course not even bothering to shoot the amateurs, we all have little to no chance of ever landing on the podium, and yet we train with utmost dedication for an entire year to meet on that day and have a go at the best race possible.

- - -

In years past, I prepared meticulously, with training camps at altitude, special diets and workouts; and I was always pleased with landing somewhere in the middle of the results table. Obviously, this year my expectations had to be reassessed. The initial registration listed 49 names, on race day, only 24 turned up, indeed the smallest field of the last years. As we chatted on the warm-up area, one fellow competitor remarked that, even with only those few, simply making it into the top 20 would already be a remarkable act, and we all nodded in agreement. I had been training properly for barely a month, and if in a more typical setting of 50 or 60 starters a top 30 would well be in reach, here I knew better. Still, I had decided to take part: as a celebration for being healthy, to honour the fact that I had qualified, to meet my friends, to prove a point.

Chemnitz was bustling with a few thousand spectators gathering on the main square that sunny Friday afternoon. One by one, after a final equipment inspection, we lined up the starting ramp, awaiting the final countdown ahead of an hour in hell. I had driven the course in the support car as one of my teammates in the Under-23 category did his run a few hours earlier and had an idea of what to expect, but clearly the crowds had more than doubled as the contenders for the main race were about the start. I had set a conservative target power output given what I had managed on the last few training sessions, and knew from experience not to let the loud roar trick me into overdrive already in the first few minutes, but as I left the city behind and entered the main stretch of road, my legs still felt like they could give a bit more. Nothing to lose, so why not? Every couple of miles, through every small village or intersection, small groups of spectators would be yelling and honking and throwing a small road-side party, and I couldn't help but smile - and keep pushing. Fifteen kilometres into the ride, Lars Bartlau, the Bremen state champion, who had started a minute after me, was about to overtake me, and yet that fazed me not the smallest bit. Ten kilometres later, as we reached the turnaround point atop a small plateau, I had not only drawn even but even managed to again gain a few hundred meters. I struggled on the technical descent, the side wind likely affecting me more than heavier-built riders and was overtaken again, but once more, I just soaked it all in and made my way down at my pace. I would still be overtaken by a further rider on my run-in back to town, and yet I would still be radiant every time I checked my numbers and saw 3, 5, 10 Watts above my intended mark. Entering Chemnitz and seeing the marks for the last 3000 meters, I was completely empty, but somehow the crowds managed to push one to find that final ounce of glycogen to get to the finish.

I crossed the line in 1 hour, 3 minutes and 15 seconds, a 28.3 mph average over the 48 kilometre course. Tony Martin, reigning world champion, won in a time of 54'16", or 32.9 mph. Justin Wolf from Nordrhine-Westfalia was the sole amateur to make it into the top 10, his 58'31 netting him the 8th place, one place and six seconds ahead of Domenic Weinstein, 5th at the Rio Olympics on the track. Lars, my minute man, would end up 19th, with 1h01'19". My teammate Richard Stockhausen, who made himself a name with a 4th place in 2011, would finish 14th as 4th best amateur, just barely beating the hour with a 59'49'.

Upon finishing my run, however, not only was I completely unaware of the numbers or the placings above, but these were utterly irrelevant. I hugged my teammates and supporters who had been driving our follow-up cars, and if someone had reached me a bottle of champagne, I would have celebrated on the spot as if we had won. The exact meaning of what had just taken place was lost on me at that moment, but there was a sense of fulfilment unlike any previous run. I came, I did what I do best to the best of my abilities at that point in time, and had tremendous fun while doing it.

After a quick shower and change of clothes, Paulus, the team owner, drove with me back to Munich; the rest of the team would also do the road race on Sunday, which I had decided against, giving my spot to one of the newer kids in the team for his first time at the Nationals. We got home just before midnight and I still wrote a couple of messages, tried to find photos and reports, and caught up with the results from national championships across other countries before collapsing in bed for a well-earned night of sleep.

- - -

The following day, there was a message on voice mail. It was Gean, in his unmistakable style and voice:

"Man. The fastest time trial of my life, at (a race in Uruguay), I had a 29 average. That was over 15 kilometres and it was completely flat. I just heard of what you did over three times the distance with all those hills. Twenty-f*cking-eight. With one month of training on your legs. Seriously, f*ck you. That was the most awesome ride and time. First or second-last doesn't matter. Hats off for your guts to go and face these guys. If you were still racing here, you'd be on the podium today. Don't forget that."

- - -

This post is not complete without some acknowledgments. To those that took care and helped me stay the course over turbulent waters. To those that, in good times as well as hard times, wrote, called and kept me in their prayers. To those that inspired me and those that drew inspiration, and in doing so motivated me to attempt to go further.

From the bottom of my heart: thank you.

Repeating what I wrote almost five years ago,

"Chances are, if you are reading this, you have a stake in these accomplishments, and I have a debt of gratitude to you. Thank you all for the pleasure of sharing the way along these roads over the past ~~ten~~ fifteen years."

Missed the boat

noreply@blogger.com (Whiskas) — Tue, 13 Jun 2017 18:17:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (Whiskas) — Sat, 06 May 2017 09:34:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (Whiskas) — Sun, 23 Apr 2017 21:03:00 +0000

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.

Phoenix

noreply@blogger.com (Whiskas) — Sat, 25 Mar 2017 22:19:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (Whiskas) — Mon, 13 Mar 2017 15:22:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (Whiskas) — Sun, 05 Mar 2017 22:30:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (Whiskas) — Fri, 03 Feb 2017 23:12:00 +0000

"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 ?

Unconditionality

noreply@blogger.com (Whiskas) — Sun, 08 Jan 2017 16:26:00 +0000

There's a lingering melancholy on the last few days of a training camp.

Conversation around dinner markedly slows down, all tired from the cumulative fatigue of the past week and a half. The remaining rides to be ticked off the training plan, adding up to another couple hundred of training kilometres, seem like an insurmountable obstacle, so clearly all are already longing for home. And even if by no means as cold as back in the continent, the days, not as warm as when we first landed, contribute to more introspective moments under the blankets or with a hot beverage by the couch. The hours drag by.

- - -

They hugged and said goodbye, he walked to the next tube station, she continued on to her hotel - both had flights to catch the next day. He could barely sleep that night. Watching the sunrise the next morning, it dawned upon him that which, carried away as they strolled around Leicester Square enjoying a gelato, he had perhaps not even noticed: he really had no choice.

- - -

Flying home, one can look back and realise, hard and long and tiring as they were, all it took to accomplish whatever goals were set was a certain drive, perhaps motivated by the reassurance that such journeys are, in the end, always worth undertaking. In this case, leading one to get out of bed in the morning, fuel up, and, throwing a leg over the saddle, ride off onto the distance. "To meet one's destiny", however filled with drama, doesn't quite convey all there is to is: accepting, and resolutely carrying through with that which must be ultimately done: life is much simpler once certain alternatives are removed, whether forcefully or voluntarily, from its intricate equations.

- - -

2017 starts now. There's a lot of excitement from plans and unknowns, but also - the other side of this concept, physically cast as irreversibility: thermodynamics always has the upper hand - a feeling that time, slowly but surely, is steadily ticking away.

Here's to making the best of it, no matter what: unconditionally.

Training Theory for Lobsters and Dummies

noreply@blogger.com (Whiskas) — Sun, 01 Jan 2017 21:19:00 +0000

"People get stronger if they voluntarily expose themselves to things they're afraid of".

In a different context, the above quote - from Jordan Peterson, who, love him or hate him, made an exceptionally moving defence of free speech at a recent UofT forum - represents the underlying principle behind the impulse-response model upon which virtually all modern endurance training theory is based on. In a controlled fashion, you break yourself down and let the body repair itself - coming out just a little bit stronger at the end of the it. Rinse, repeat, and you have my training plan: voluntarily exposing myself to those dreaded sessions, a nearly visceral fear getting hold of me ahead of every Tuesday morning date with the trainer. Yet, frankly, the day I stop fearing those, I might as well as hang up the wheels, such is the passion I've come to develop with this process.

Being a proponent of high-intensity interval training, I tend to go balls-to-the-wall as often as I can. The body's hormonal response is much stronger, and besides, the whole fun is in going fast anyway. My recent bout of fever, however, served to highlight that this approach works only as long as you can handle it - obviously, and yet so often prone to be overseen. Dig a hole too deep, and instead of bouncing back incrementally stronger the next day, you end up in bed (or in the operating room, which - knock on wood - was not the case this time). One needs thus a controlled approach to madness - perhaps I can lay claim to "reasonably unreasonable"?

- - -

Peterson's argument can nevertheless be taken into a much more broader sense. We grow, professionally, emotively, or in virtually any other dimension, through similar dynamics.

Making use of the recent lobster analogy, I was left wondering whether it was not the case that new shells are rebuilt ever stronger the more often one breaks older ones down? Or, maybe framing it differently, perhaps the more one grows used to being subject to the discomfort of this exogenous growth process, the more malleable the shell becomes? Or even - perhaps such constant stream of impulses could ultimately make the shell itself unnecessary?

I would venture that also my caveat pledging for moderation holds in such cases - just as well as the conclusion I reached while convalescing: In dubia pro audax. When in doubt, go all in. Expose yourself. For if, by failing, one still learns something new, then it's not a failure at all. The shell will take care of itself.

- - -

The northern slopes of the island were covered with clouds, temperatures falling slightly. I dread Puig Major, not the climb, but the descent, and on a cold afternoon no less. Already the ascent was frigid enough, with few cars and fewer cyclists seen on that last day of the year. Reaching the top, I zipped my windbreaker, looked at the village almost a thousand meters below, and even if shivering, as if to make a point to the fading year, went for that which I'm afraid of.

- - -

Happy 306th prime.

Backcoupling

noreply@blogger.com (Whiskas) — Mon, 26 Dec 2016 21:26:00 +0000

It's the third day of the first training camp for the upcoming season, and I'm at home, with a sore throat and a minor sunstroke. Inspired by my out-of-season springtime and the phenomenal weather currently gracing the Balearic islands, I may have pushed, erm, just a tad beyond what would have been deemed appropriate for this time of the year (#FuckReasonable being the tagline of choice on many of my recent Strava rides) - and must now pay in full the price of my daringness.

With my training mates gone to explore the decadent bar scene, I sit, my entire body hurting, shrunk in the couch by the fireplace, as Elbow's "Leaders of the Free World" plays in the background. Between writing friends back in the Continent and sipping chamomile tea with honey, I skim through some entries from this very blog. Reviewing stories from the past few weeks - and years - somehow the aches are diminished, and I must restrain myself not to begin drawing plans for yet another long, and fast, day in the saddle tomorrow (maybe I do want to keep that remaining tonsil after all...).

Nevertheless. I wrote, and I hold to it, that inspiring others is the ultimate goal behind sharing my adventures here. Sometimes, however, it turns out that I am the one inspired. Even if perhaps a bit narcissistically, I manage to be touched, why, even admire some of my own prose as it reminds me of the obvious conclusion when facing this evening's maladies:

That's a bill I'm glad to pay.

Canadian Lakes, Bavarian Mountains

noreply@blogger.com (Whiskas) — Fri, 23 Dec 2016 20:41:00 +0000

November 21st, 2010. Bruce Peninsula National Park, somewhere by Georgian Bay. After a cold, windy night, the morning sun coloured the overcast eastern sky with shades of magenta. The sea is a good place to think of the future - but on that weekend, a lake had to make do.

- - -

December 21st, 2016, Winter solstice. Atop the Wallberg, Bavarian Alps. The alarm clock went off at 4 AM ahead of the drive to Rottach-Egern where the clear, moonlit sky made headlamps redundant for the night ascent. Reaching the top just ahead of dawn, I savoured a cup of coffee awaiting the first rays of sunlight.

- - -

In between, exactly two thousand, two hundred and twenty-two days. I swear I did not plan the dates.

Le Sacre d'hiver

noreply@blogger.com (Whiskas) — Sun, 11 Dec 2016 18:46:00 +0000

I flew back from the Middle of the Atlantic with more questions than answers, clinging dearly to the hope that my stream of overflowing emotions somehow managed to reach out, to inspire and embrace. I was afraid, exposed, and exhausted - yet simultaneously radiantly happy and whole. And as I woke up from almost twelve hours of sleep the day after, I could hear that electrifying music playing again - silently and yet so loud.

- - -

Walking back from our company's Christmas dinner, I contemplated the small, and perhaps not so small, goals and milestones we've achieved, and the plethora of ideas and plans for the way ahead we had just discussed over a Nero d'Avila or three. For the first time in many a year, I felt like there could be, however blurred and tortuous, a greater goal, a sense of purpose. Reaching the subway platform, Münchener Freiheit greeted me with its trademark classical concert on the background. I had to smile.

- - -

The wind didn't come stiff from the North, but rather gently from the South. The Föhn, a dry, warm air rushing down the Alps, is perhaps the most charming meteorological event to grace the Bavarian capital and its surroundings. The clear air allows for an untarnished view of the entire mountain range, and, for this cyclist, is seen as a standing invitation to hit the slopes of what is now - replacing Burg Feuerstein, the ascent to the Castle of the Fire Stone, from seasons gone by - my favourite local climb, the Peißenberg.

Going under 20 minutes to the top, in December no less, is perhaps less than reasonable in view of progressively ramping up volume and intensity. Yet - despite the training wheels, the crust of mud still stuck to the frame from a previous Autumn ride - with the legs effortlessly turning whatever gear I chose, come wind or hill, there was absolutely no holding back. And how could I? After all, the music was almost deafening...

- - -

Comme dans le Sacre du printemps. Mais, c'est l'hiver? Peu importe: Yay! toujours.

The lobster of Reykjavik

noreply@blogger.com (Whiskas) — Thu, 08 Dec 2016 11:30:00 +0000

Casting off an old, confining shell is, however painful, a necessary act for the lobster to be able to grow - as Rabbi A. Twerski points out when discussing growth through adversity. Using such as a metaphor for getting out of our comfort zones (or, in the case at hand, jumping from the heights of the tallest mountain, sans parachute, in hope of learning to fly) would be exactly fitting, but for two caveats: One, when doing so, we may not enjoy having the protection of a rock to hide under, with the metamorphosis due to take place out in the open, akin to rebuilding the hull of a ship in the maelstrom of a perfect storm, when the safety of the docks is not an option; And two, while the crustacean, as it undergoes the shedding of its old and growing of the new shell, has - probably - a good idea of how his new armour will look like, our growth process leads to an entirely unknown final state - wherein lies its terrifying beauty.

- - -

Deciding to face such undertaking could be cast as the single most important question, defining our whole existence. I'll argue that, should the answer be delegated to reason and reason alone, then we are ultimately no different than a sophisticated, yet mechanical, and thus soulless, artificial intelligence. And there's no point of living // if you can't feel alive ...

... and no better way of feeling such than helping someone else find the same.

- - -

The sun broke through the winter foliage on a cold December morning. Temperatures in Munich were almost as many degrees colder as the latitude difference to Iceland's capital. A thin layer of frost covered the cars parked left and right as I opened the balcony door, placed the fan outside, and climbed on the bike. Four hundred watts can cure almost everything.

Shake It Out II

noreply@blogger.com (Whiskas) — Sat, 12 Nov 2016 22:07:00 +0000

Irony would have it that South Park would be right in saying that "the Simpsons already did it": He who shall not be named elected president of the world's largest economic and military power.

Waking up on that Wednesday morning, the garden covered in this winter's first fresh snow, even before I could fire up the computer and catch up on the news, a message on my phone, on a single line, announced the unimaginable:

I can't believe what I'm observing. I'm in utter disbelief.

Over the last couple of years, we've seen the rise of populist, mostly right-wing movements, not only around here in Europe - illustrated with examples from Poland and Hungary, to Germany and Austria - but virtually everywhere, the controversial impeachment/coup d'etat in Brazil being just one more to hit somewhat close to home. In the beginning, I could rationalise: it's a minor problem here; it's a banana republic issue there. It progressed to a stage where even the people in supposedly well-educated countries - grüezi, Switzerland! - start veering off down this road.

And yet - now this reaches the last remaining superpower. I will refrain from trying to explain or analyse what took place, or what may come to pass in the upcoming months and years. But seen from the perspective of my recent visit to South America, reading first-hand reports of how antisemitism and racism more than once affected my family's trajectory, splitting relatives and destroying lives, the viral message from a certain "Johan Franklin" made me question: have we not, as a society, as a civilisation, learned our lessons?
- - -
In the news one finds many a well-written piece warning of the imminent apocalypse. Maybe also my initial reaction that morning would have been one of despair, were it not for the lucky coincidence of a completely senseless conversation which, just at the right time, arrived at the works of Douglas Adams and discussed an interpretation to the answer to his Ultimate Question. Precisely in time to remind me that, in the cover of the eponymous book, one reads, "Don't panic".

Indeed: everything's not lost. While the easy way out may be to decry the fall of civilisation as we know it and go running to the hills, one has to be reminded that in the end, however painful progress may be, the forces of reason, compassion, and equality always prevail. Love conquers all.

History will shows us that such conquests do not come easy. Thus the need, precisely in such times, to rally together - not only to defend rights so hardly won, but above all, to continue to inspire others. And to remind ourselves, however faint and distant, that there is some rightness in the universe, an ideal order in the world worth seeking, and fighting for. (Apologies for the cliches).
- - -
Escaping persecution and finding refuge in South America, my grandparents woke up one day in 1942 to find their storefront destroyed - with Brazil finally joining the Allies and declaring war on the Axis powers, German-owned businesses were suddenly target of a series of attacks indirectly motivated by the populist Vargas regime.

Similar deeds were, and are, routinely observed in my vicinity, with Germany having absorbed a record-breaking number of Syrian refugees over the past two years. Now, seeing acts against minorities on the rise following the American election, one can't help wonder if the past is bound to endlessly repeat itself.

Finding some comfort, after those turmoils of almost 75 years ago, good did prevail. They rolled up their sleeves, cleared the store of the glass shreds, and eventually managed to raise, with good health and proper education, all their four kids. Others obviously didn't share the same luck: a call to remind us that it is up to us to ensure it may yet be different this time around.
- - -
It's always darkest before the dawn.

Shake It Out I

noreply@blogger.com (Whiskas) — Sat, 12 Nov 2016 21:34:00 +0000

I didn't update the blog as of my last visit to South America, exactly this time last year. On that occasion, it marked my first trip back in over three years. In 2012, Brazil was arguably still enjoying its commodity-inflated bubble, and yours truly still a Ph.D. student, living the student lifestyle, with numerous expectations, but less settled, less found of the structured routine I came to enjoy over the last years after settling down in Munich. My grandmother, while weakened following her stroke in 2010, would still greet me and ask on the progress of my studies. Both my parents' business were blossoming, and boarding an overcrowded bus downtown was an experience I could, if not enjoy, at least laugh about. All in all, nothing far from the status quo I remembered when I first packed and left, in 2008.

Contrastingly, the situation last year had a different flavouring. If in the years prior, friends and relatives would ask when would I come back ("we need people like you here"), this time, the tone was borderline sombre ("I'm happy at least you managed to get out"). The burst bubble of expectations following the hosting of the 2014 soccer world cup, the downfall of commodity prices coupled with the sudden devaluation of the national currency and rising unemployment were all cause for desolate perspectives permeating virtually every conversation back then. Experiencing first hand a particularly graphical example of all that seemed wrong about the country just as I was checking in for my return flight, I remember feeling a sudden jolt of relief when the doors closed on the plane which was to take me across the pond - cue escaping war on the last civilian machine out of the conflict zone.

(Obviously, the situation was not, and is not, in such dire state. An alarmingly increase in crime rates, while by no means to be taken lightly, still doesn't translate into an open civil war. Strolling around our neighbourhood on a sunny Sunday morning, I even remarked that, minus the desolate sidewalk pavement, one could be excused for mistaking the surroundings for an European suburb).

This time around, the impressions were different. If a year ago I was still awed, shocked by the downfall, today - perhaps due to the context surrounding my journey - the conditions only seemed to leave somewhat of a bitter aftertaste. Often I would be somehow all too aware of a certain trait of the local lifestyle, manifested through a disdain for the system - or which perhaps defines the system itself. Moral relatives are exceedingly commonplace; all justifying their actions by acknowledging that much worse undertakings take place on the spheres above, or, in a Machiavellian tone, that such actions are in the end necessary to achieve whatever good purpose lies at the end. Others, if not acting upon similar guidelines, seemed reluctantly accepting of having to go through the motions, reinforcing my view that much revolves not upon concrete ideas, actions and results, but rather on the external appearances, with the representation, the outside shells, more important than the actual content.
- - -
And yet: not only by developing a growing appreciation for certain nuances of my parent's characters, in particular over the course of the many evenings as we extensively talked about family, relationships, past, present, and future plans, but also through lively gatherings, dinner and lunch meetings with friends and former colleagues, this week served to once again remind me that there is still so much more in heaven and that tropical part of the earth than often dreams my vain philosophy.

As my flight pulled from the gate, I did not feel like I had just managed to escape a collapsing pandemonium. Being ever more certain that staying in, or returning to, Brazil would not be a decision I could come to terms with, I can still recognise it's a part of me and will forever explain a little of how I came to be who I am.

All that you can't leave behind

noreply@blogger.com (Whiskas) — Sun, 06 Nov 2016 00:40:00 +0000

"Dear Dieter - on this blurred photo you'll see our house, and to the right the shed with my coach. We could retrofit it as your room so that you're left undisturbed. Knowing you I believe this will be your preferred choice. Let this sink in and come! Yours Geist + Herta"

Learning that that my grandfather was stranded without means in Rio de Janeiro after Hitler had passed an exchange embargo, Paul Weirich wrote the above letter, offering his former school classmate a place to stay. After journeying over many weeks, across unfinished and failing railroads, Wolfdietrich Wickert reached the small town of Jaguary the day after Christmas with nothing but a worn-out suit and a small handbag. The year was 1934.
- - -
After a week going through numerous shelves and cabinets filled with glass and silverware, maps, books, table cloth from my Oma, paintings and woodwork from Opa, I'm flying back with an extra suitcase to ferry home some of those items. Ironically, a large share was once brought over from Europe - maybe when my grandparents first flew back to Germany after the war, precisely to go through whatever was left of their original belongings, or what they inherited from their parents. At some point, holding Brazil to be their new home, they took the decision never to move back - and had thus to go through a similar process in deciding what to bring, and what to leave behind. Granted, it's much easier to put items on a box and ship them overseas nowadays, but allow me some historical nostalgia as I pack...
- - -
I was also completely dazzled by some of stories recovered from family chronicles, travel memories and diaries. How my grand-grandfather, just days before he was about to emigrate to North America, went to say farewell to an old friend - and meeting his daughter, decided for a complete change of plans, eventually settling down in pre-WWI Kassel. Or how my grandmother and her brother worked two jobs to afford bringing the rest of the family to South America, literally with the last ship before ports were closed ahead of WWII. And of course my grandfather's journey, a little glimpse of which is illustrated by the postcard story above.
My transatlantic musings, past and present, pale in comparison.
- - -
Thirty-nine.