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

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

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

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

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

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

"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.
- - -


West of the Atlantic

I wasn't expecting it. Thinking it would be business as usual, whatever that could be. And within minutes, oblivious to the stressful day, the cold and tiredness, I was completely swept away. The extraordinary - perhaps made (more?) so because it was not planned?

Whether this shall evolve or not - and it really does not matter - it set something, even if as of yet only abstractly defined, in motion. Perhaps just a coincidence, but perhaps the (expectation of) exciting times ahead actually reverses cause and effect here?

Doubt is not a pleasant condition, but certainty... ah, my friend, certainty is absurd.
- - -
Travelling - or perhaps, the idleness associated with boredom during flights and airport stays (certainly not a new idea here) - and the associated movement across large distances allows the mind to wander and through such, put some things in perspective. Businessmen jet-setting for meetings, families resettling, youngsters off for vacations: for one so used to a self-contained routine with minimal external interactions, an almost welcome opportunity to be confronted with a whole breadth of different people (humans! humans everywhere! what do they all do?) .

Besides the WSJ, grabbed a copy of the international edition of the NYT as I boarded my flight. On the front page, an interesting piece on Canada's welcome to Syrian refugees. Fitting, not only because of where the story took place. Flying to Brazil for a short vacation break, it almost as if invited me to ponder the subject through my own lens.

There are distinct terms given to migrants, depending on where they come from or what drove them away - each associated with different perceptions, some more pejorative than others: refugees, fugitives, expats. The country I (voluntarily) left behind is certainly not war-torn to the same extent experienced in the Middle East. Nevertheless, civil violence is an ever present threat (indeed, with such banal commonality that it is almost no longer makes the headlines). And the constant disregard for rules and institutions - appreciated by many, but maybe a tad too much for this Prussian descendant...

I was fortunate enough - by grace of rules almost arbitrarily defined - to be able to relocate without so much as having to apply for a visa. To the bureaucratical eyes of my host country, perhaps strictly speaking I am not even a migrant (the exact status being still an open question). Still the article rang some bells. My attempts to bring my family closer together, the repeated efforts to find ways for good friends to also move. And the feeling of guilt for having found a better life? No, definitively that does not apply.
- - -
Thirty eight.


Sunrise at London Heathrow

Reaching the apex of my Canadian adventure, I wrote a post moments before boarding back to Germany, "Sunset at Toronto Pearson Airport". Connecting with a soul mate and jumping headfirst into the unknown remains the single most exhilarating experience I've ever been through. Full stop.

That notwithstanding, as our story progressed and we focused on keeping our heads above the water and ultimately finding a routine to settle on, we somehow allowed that magic to slip away. (Also, blog entries became more and more scarce... ).

Over time, I rationalized that developing a narrative - whether an academic course, a sports career, a company, or likely any craft or art - requires an immersion and a degree of structure that often times is in direct contrast with those in place when starting anew. The apparent boredom of a strict training regime, for instance, allows one to thrive in a sport that rewards commitment and long hours on the saddle - ultimately awarding one with experiences of a completely different character from those obtained through the thrills of discovering a new activity. And again, I've learned to make the most of such condition and have found great joy in such pursuits.

But - on the subject of relationships, it was more as if I had simply resigned, or perhaps learned to come to terms with such outcome. Or so I thought. A catalytic discussion in a most unexpected setting left me questioning such conclusion. Does it really, necessarily also apply to interpersonal interactions? Can there not be a (stable?) balance between the two?
- - -

If only for an instant, however brief and fleeting - the glimpse of that spark reminded me of the feelings that dwell in new beginnings. And this morning, as the sun pierced through the scattered clouds and shone on Heathrow's Terminal 2, I couldn't hold back, and had to cry my heart out once again.

Thank you, T. .



A trip to the Square Mile requiring an appropriate outfit. My matching brown shoes, which gave up on the sole. And that gift certificate from Starnberg's Sportsman of the Year awards, a 50,- voucher for a local shoe store: an evening's mission.

Left the office way too late, got stuck in the perennial traffic jam at the end of the A952, finally parking the car 18h16 - exactly fourteen minutes before the shop's closing time.

Walked in, quickly scanning the premises, and with laser-like accuracy found it. Colour check - matches. No, wait, wrong size, 43 - two rows down. Right foot in, would you like to try the other one? Sure, why not. Yes, it fits, as expected. I'll take it. Here's the voucher. And the remainder. Have a great evening!

Back to the car - damn, forgot the parking ticket. Back to the store. Hope I still catch them open. Hi, did you perchance spot a - oh, yes, exactly. Thank you SO MUCH. And a great evening once again!

Still managed to manoeuvre it out within the garage's 15 minutes courtesy time.

- - -

Now, if those were cycling shoes...


Is this the end?

Do blogs need an ending?

The progress leading up to my defence was best left unwritten, lest there might have been no happy ending at all - thus, the gap since the last posting. And that is all I'm saying about this subject for now. Maybe in due time, I'll be able to review such facts. I will go on record, however, to say I am extremely happy to have it behind me, to successfully close an important chapter. Magna cum laude, it has a nice ring to it - even if it doesn't really matter .

The journey this blog was meant to describe has now reached its final stop; and for one who always insisted the journey is the destination, this is particularly troublesome - just what is the next journey, the next objective to aim at? Slowly coming to grips with this new reality, this question has been occupying an ever increasing share of my thoughts. One thing, however, is certain: the title at least is no longer fitting. The letters in the doorbell will somehow carry on the legacy of this pursuit into whichever new adventures, but fundamentally, it's a new line to be drawn.

Just - what line is that? What comes after, that was not before? Given the variety of subjects already approached, was the grad choice imprecise to begin with? It's not red (for there are so many colours, and anyway - it's already taken by the eponymous movie..). Rad? I'm definitively not radical, but perhaps as a play with the German word for bike, or wheel? Yet, there is so much more beyond.

Interestingly - these questions are but the same. Who am I? What best describes my adventures? Does defining oneself invariably represent a limitation?

A lifetime isn't nearly long enough to figure out what it's all about.
-- Doug Larson

Doubt is not a pleasant condition, but certainty is absurd.
-- Voltaire

Quite frankly, I don't know. Settling on a new name seems easier, though :)