The Consecration of Spring

(Original em Português abaixo)

The season, once again, inspired his writing. A piece by Stravinsky, picturing an ancient pagan ritual, was elected to title his story - which could equally have been named "All the world's clichés": he experienced, at the time, a collection of all phrases he had been collecting since his youth. Torn between the two possibilities, and unsatisfied with titles spanning multiple lines, the image and symbolism of Springtime baptised the text.
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The boy, who once believed to have understood the secrets of life by watching stones that wept motionlessly alone, but now understood, in all its strength, the distinction between knowing the path and walking down it, had slept little, being troubled with foolish concerns, foolish for he knew they would not be solved through his restless thoughts. He struggled not to focus his concentration on these troubles, and so, as one who, in the hope of falling asleep, remains awake precisely due to the perception of still being conscious, failed in his attempts by the very perseverance of his efforts.

His therapy, and the only which seemed to make any effect in light of the circumstances, was to ride his bicycle - and he found in the situation surrounding him the best motivation to devote himself to hard training sessions. That first day after the equinox, marking the beginning of the new season, he rode directly against the stiff northerly winds - and, despite its resistance, felt light, almost as if propelled, perhaps by the sun warmly shining on his back, or by the odours emanating from the fields, still fresh from the previous day's rain. He rejoiced the course he was about to tackle - the climb up the mountain of the Fire Stone Castle, an ascent, not particularly long or steep, but having some elements - the twisting hairpins, the section across a small village or through a forest, the view from the top - which reminded him of other climbs, popularised by the French mystic of the twenty-three days in July, whose glamour he had glimpsed when riding them, almost seven years ago. Dancing on the pedals, he was sent back to that period, where, climbing those very mountains, he knew no limits to his two-wheeled ambitions. Brought back to his current state by the lactic acid burning in his legs, sweating and breathing heavily, but with mind and soul clear as few times before, he decided to go for broke and invest in a new quest after those long-forgotten dreams.
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Almost a week later, on the eve of the month of April, leaving his Institute's campus heading towards the parking lot, he was euphoric - and equally perplexed, for he knew not the reason to his euphoria.

The training sessions that week, and his performance in the first race of the season, had been good, but the numbers were nothing spectacular, and his placement, especially given the magnitude of his sporting goals, was not nearly as impressive as he would have expected.

Equally, the latest meeting with his adviser could have been described as productive, but he definitively had had better and more inspiring ones; even his attempt to gain support for attending an overseas conference had been met with only moderate enthusiasm, and he persisted with that partially cynical look towards the importance of his results, which he did not yet know how to fit in the context of those plans and ideals that had motivated him, years ago, to follow down the Thin Grad Line. Nevertheless, making sure that he had positive feelings about his academic developments, he concluded he was satisfied about them, but knew at the same time that the origin of his present state of mind was not to be found in his work.

He also believed that source was not to be found in the - even if far from being troubled, still highly delicate and very much peculiar - beginning of a new relationship. The situation surrounding it, and all its implications, he did not fully understand; and despite some promising signs, there were no assurances, and this was perhaps the only certainty that he took after extensively deliberating on the matter - the absence of absolutes, almost as if a requirement for love, or, on a more fundamental level - if something can ever be described as more fundamental than love - for one's whole being, to be experienced in its full extent.

Still walking towards the parking lot, he observed the beautiful sunset of that spring day - and remembering that he had trained on the inside, and so failed to improve his cycling tan, imagined this was not the reason for his unlimited joy. Heading home after shopping for groceries, he made plans for a romantic date with the revision of an absolutely unimpressive research article intended to be submitted in the coming days - and so, or even so, in complete absence of any indication that justified such, he had the sensation of being the owner of the world, or something very close to it, and felt fantastically well. He briefly recorded his thoughts and feelings in a quick note, and perceived himself to be happy, and did not understand why, but still yearned for comprehension.

He then remembered that, for one unable to listen to the music, those dancing were deemed to be insane. He smiled, and danced to the melody which, inaudibly, made up the soundtrack of his journey.
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He got to work on a Friday morning, where milder temperatures, contrasted with the warm summer evening experienced the day before, reminded him that spring was really just in its infancy. Greeting his colleagues, he entered his office and prepared himself a coffee (the cappuccino, he insisted, was the best north of the Danube). Tasting it, the sweet and now lukewarm milk contrasting the bitterness of the espresso, he contemplated the season, and all the metaphors represented by its unfolding. He was aware the epilogue did not symbolise necessarily an ending. Time was still passing, the wind outside still blowing, and the waters unendingly flowing - but, paradoxically, remembering that the journey was his destination, he concluded, filled with joy, he was continuously arriving.

A Sagração da Primavera

A estação, novamente, inspirava sua escrita. Elegia uma composição de Stravinsky, baseada na imagem de um ritual pagão, para intitular seu conto - mas, poderia, igualmente, empregar "Todos os clichês do mundo": vivia, naquele momento, um apanhado de todas as frases que vinha colecionando desde sua adolescência. Dividido entre as duas possibilidades, e insatisfeito com títulos espraiando múltiplas linhas, deixou a imagem e o simbolismo da primavera batizarem o texto.
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O menino, que acreditava ter compreendido o segredo da vida vendo as pedras que choravam sozinhas no mesmo lugar, mas agora comprendia, em toda sua força, a distinção entre conhecer o caminho, e percorrê-lo, havia dormido pouco. Inquietava-se com preocupações tolas, tolas pois sabia que não seriam seus pensamentos irriquietos que as resolveriam. Esforçava-se em não focar sua concentração nestas angústias, e, tal aquele que, na esperança de dormir, mantém-se desperto pela consciência de ainda estar acordado, fracassava em suas tentativas justamente pelo empenho de seus esforços.

Sua terapia, e a única que surtia efeito naquelas circumstâncias, consistia em pedalar - e encontrava na presente situação a melhor justificativa para dedicar-se com afinco aos treinos. Naquele primeiro dia após o equinócio, marcando o início da estação, pedalava rumo ao norte, contra o vento, e apesar da resistência deste, sentia-se leve, e quase como se propelido, talvez pelo sol a bater em suas costas, ou pelos cheiros que emanavam dos campos ainda frescos com a chuva do dia anterior. Alegrava-se pelo trajeto a ser cumprido - havia escolhido escalar até o alto da montanha do castelo da Pedra de Fogo, subida que não era particularmente longa, ou íngreme, mas tinha em seu trajeto elementos - as viradas, os trechos cruzando um pequeno vilarejo, ou atravessando um bosque, a vista do alto - que lembravam-no de outras subidas, popularizadas pela mística francesa dos vinte e três dias em julho, deslumbre ao qual ele havia vivenciado, quase sete anos atrás. Dançando sobre os pedais, era remetido de volta àquele período, onde, escalando tais montanhas, desconhecia limites para suas ambições sobre duas rodas. Trazido de volta pelo ácido lático a queimar em suas pernas, suando e com a respiração ofegante, mas de alma límpida, decidia investir em uma nova empreitada atrás daqueles sonhos de outrém.
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Quase uma semana depois, às vésperas do mês de abril, deixava o campus rumando ao estacionamento, e encontrava-se eufórico, e perplexo, pois não sabia o porquê de sua euforia.

Os treinos daquela semana, e sua apresentação na primeira corrida da temporada, haviam sido bons, mas os números nada tinham de espetacular, e sua colocação, especialmente dada a magnitude de seus objetivos esportivos, não havia impressionado como esperava.

Igualmente, a reunião com seu orientador havia sido produtiva, mas já tivera melhores e mais inspirantes; sua a tentativa de obter apoio para participar de uma conferência em além-mar havia sido recebida com entusiasmo apenas moderado, e mantinha aquele ar parcialmente cínico para com a importância de seus resultados, que ainda não sabia como encaixar no contexto daqueles planos e ideais que, anos atrás, o haviam impelido a seguir pelo caminho do doutoramento. Assim mesmo, apesar da certificar-se que dali emanavam sensações positiva, sabia que a origem daquele estado de espírito não se encontrava no trabalho.

Muito possivelmente, acreditava, também não estava esta origem no relacionamento, se não conturbado, pelo menos delicado e altamente peculiar, que iniciava. A situação e as implicações da mesma ele ainda não compreendia por inteiro, e apesar de alguns sinais promissores, não tinha nenhum posicionamento concreto, e talvez isto fosse a única certeza que tirava de uma extensa reflexão sobre o assunto - a ausência de absolutos, quase como exigência para a plenitude da liberdade de amar, ou em um nível mais fundamental, se algo pode ser mais fundamental que o amor, todo o ser e estar.

Caminhava ainda em direção ao estacionamento, e contemplava novamente o lindo dia de primavera - lembrando-se que havia treinado do lado de dentro, e assim deixado de aprimorar seu bronzeado, supunha não ser este o motivo de sua alegria desenfreada. Dirigia-se para casa, fazendo planos para, após as compras, ter um encontro romântico com a revisão de um artigo que intendia submeter nos próximos dias - e assim, nesta completa ausência de qualquer indicativo que isto justificasse, sentia-se como o dono do mundo, ou algo bastante próximo disso, e a sensação lhe era simplesmente fantástica. Saia do campus onde trabalhava, brevemente registrando seus pensamentos e sensações em uma nota rápida, e percebia estar feliz, e não entendia o porquê, mas deseja ardentemente compreender.

Lembrara então que, para aqueles que não houviam a música, os que dançavam pareciam loucos. Sorriu, e dançou ao som da melodia que, inaudivelmente, compunha a trilha sonora do seu caminhar.
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Chegou ao trabalho numa manhã de sexta-feira, onde temperaturas mais amenas, contrastadas com a tarde de verão experienciada no dia anterior, o lembraram que a primavera estava apenas por começar. Adentrou seu escritório, cumprimentou seus colegas, preparou um café (insistia ser o melhor cappuccino ao norte do Danúbio). Degustando-o, o já morno leite adocicado contrastando com o amargo do café, contemplou a estação, e todas as metáforas que eram representadas pelo seu início. Naquele momento, tinha consciência de que este epílogo não simbolizava o fim. As engrenagens ainda estavam a girar, águas ainda iriam correr, e o vento, lá fora, muito ainda viria a soprar. Mas, paradoxalmente, lembrando-se de que a jornada era seu destino, concluiu com felicidade que estava continuamente a chegar.

Of posts and plots

To a good measure, my writings in this blog do not differ, in content, to what I often discuss with friends over at the bar, or during a training ride, or having a mate in the park. Here, as there, I express my own opinions, on facts and people, and take full responsibility for what I write or say. However, in the other environments, I know - usually personally - my audience, and, if needed, can immediately discuss the implications of a strongly-worded argument, or even make a request for a subject not to be commented further. Clearly, that is not the case in an open-access blog such as The Thin Grad Line.

This very issue had already been pondered upon over one of the first posts here. At the time, I opted for a different approach to the different topics I wrote about, and thus a decision was made to keep the blog open. It meant avoiding some subjects, or writing only indirectly about others - but I figured those who knew me, or were sufficiently informed about the particular events at hand, could establish the necessary connections and enjoy the bigger picture. With time, however, I learned that others, reading this blog, had formed quite a different image of me than what I believe was, or is, the one I strive to project for myself. Maybe that was in part due to the writing style, maybe due to the subjects about which I wrote, specially as, more recently, I became increasingly willing to be open about my thoughts and feelings. The reason of such (in my view) misinterpretation doesn't matter. I wrote before, and I'll repeat the Pullman quote here: nobody has the right not to be offended. This includes, for instance, when reading this blog.

Now, if you disagree - great. Leave a comment, write me an email or, better yet, join me on a cup of coffee for us to discuss the subject further. Or simply let it be - live and let live...
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Regarding La Trama: what for me may represent "going for broke" may as well be someone else's typical day at the office, nothing more than the regular bread-and-butter. Or vice-versa. It's also clear that not everything must be done balls-to-the-wall - balance, as always, is key. In a sense, what I wanted to convey was the idea of aiming high above for the overall combination - of sports, career, relationships, experiences in general. And it's no secret that one must accept giving up on one side to be able to accomplish more in another - at least in most cases.

But sometimes, one just needs to go for the non plus ultra. I promise to keep you posted...

La Trama

Uruguayan singer Jorge Drexler's latest album is named "Amar la Trama" (Love the Plot), a name he justified on his passion for the plot, "the space between the beginning and end, to be completed, in which things happen".

Drexler sings, "to love the plot more than the outcome" (Amar la trama más que al desenlace). For a long time I insist that the journey is the destination. It doesn't mean goals are unimportant, but I believe getting there should bring at least as much satisfaction as the final objective - otherwise something is clearly amiss. Maybe a good explanation can be found in MacIntyre's inner goods theory - which was the subject of a previous post. But how exactly can one assert that a particular choice will lead to (better, longer?) satisfaction as one walks down the chosen path? Can such be quantified? And does departing from the path, giving up on the objective, invalidates the whole process undertaken until then?
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On a random discussion over in a cycling forum, someone posted "If a person never quits when the going got tough, they wouldn't have anything to regret for the rest of their life". Curiously, reading an editorial on (former) minister von Guttenberg's resignation this morning, I came across "Reue ist Verstand, der zu spät kommt" - regret is the understanding that came too late.

I was recently asked what I was truly afraid of. I'm scared of a number of things, but I was always afraid of feeling regret for a decision. Thus, for a long time, I managed to avoid situations that could lead to possible regrets - and that is precisely the only thing I have to regret when looking back.

As I went over a list of objectives for the times ahead, I found a plethora of possibilities that would be fun, exciting, and still allow for a balanced, unregretful life - many of those still very much fitting the overall Whiskas' Lifestyle theme. And then I had a glimpse of myself in a Radiohead Fitter, Happier song. No way. I'm going for broke. Maybe I'll bemoan trying, but I will not resent fearing regret. At any rate, "durch der Reue niedres Tor, wandern wir zum Glücke" (Through regret's lowered gate, we walk towards happiness). Thanks, Herder.
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Coming back from Brazil, after a short, but intense week-long visit, I realised the obvious, but absolutely non-trivial answer to the identity question posed in the previous post.

In an uniquely Whiskas way, I am both.

And together we're invincible .

Another instance of Whiskas' travel-motivated commentary

Echoing Monica's comment of a few weeks ago, Brazil impresses by its accelerated economic growth. Internationally-traded stocks are on all-time highs, exports blossom, and foreign companies invest heavily. Nevertheless, the magazine I picked for reading on-board still had as its cover story racism issues and the social disparities between races. Browsing through the articles, this contrast is strikingly visible: whereas one discusses the Central Bank's decision on interest rates and another reports of BMW's plans to expand its dealerships and even contemplates setting up a manufacturing plant, reports on the low levels of investment on primary education or a story about the lack of an effective witness protection program to safeguard the lives of those who attempt to raise voice against the ever-present corruption in the higher spheres of the Brazilian society show that the South American giant still has a long way to go before it can have the label of 'developed country' stamped upon itself.

I dwell further. Brazilian science advances with the growing economy as local industries realize the potential of applied research in the vast - and capable - University environment. But at the same time, laboratories still struggle under the bureaucratic machine to maintain their expensive lab equipments running: a million-dollar atomic force microscope (AFM) employs probe tips costing, in Europe, but a few dozen dollars each. Boarding to Brazil, a fellow physicist asked me whether I could help out their lab by bringing some AFM tips, as they are hard to find - and then, usually prohibitively expensive - in the local market. I don't want to go Machiavellic here - that is to say, employ the "the ends justify the means" adage -, merely illustrate another point where the land still must come to terms with its own progress.

And then there is the Critical Mass incident. Critical Masses (CMs) are anarchic manifestations, mostly by bikers, attempting to call attention to the fact that today's urban (traffic) planning leaves alternative forms of transportation mostly sidelined, what in greater part can be blamed on the automobile-centred mentality which permeates the views of (almost) everyone living in an urban environment. The first CMs took place in North America, before spreading now to be found in virtually every continent, and in particular in cities and countries where a sufficiently large community of alternative, liberal minded cyclists attempt to fight, outnumbered, the status quo. As a cyclist, I took part in some of the first CMs in Porto Alegre, then dubbed "Bicicletadas". After a few rounds, I ceased to participate, as I had the impression such events would foster more annoyance among drivers rather then actually spreading a positive image about the idea. But I digress.
Two weeks ago, during the monthly edition of Porto Alegre's CM, as the manifestation cycled through a tight downtown street, a driver lost his temper and ran over over a dozen cyclists, knocking them out of the way or over his windshield, fleeing immediately afterwards. Behind, the almost one hundred participants were left in uttermost shock - amateur videos of the attack remind of a Carmaggedon game scene, and it was by sheer luck that no one was killed, no, wait, murdered. (Shameless plug: always wear a helmet!). After overcoming the shock from the news, and finding out that my friends who took part were mostly unscathed, I was, needless to say, relieved to be cycling in a way friendlier environment...
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I flew Business for my 26th crossing of the Atlantic. I'm terribly spoiled by having insiders in Brazil's largest airline - which usually translates into getting cheaper deals for a ticket or an upgrade for the 12-hour haul over the Big Water Pond. I figure I wouldn't have enjoyed most of these crossings so much, were it not for the added comfort of the extra leg room, fully reclining seat - and the wine menu, of course :) . Thanks again, Roni!
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Put together all the points above, the bending of rules, or their re-interpretation, and one should be able to draw a pretty good picture of the famous "Brazilian way" - the jeitinho brasileiro, which could be translated as the institutionalization of helping one's own (including oneself) out. This unique approach leads to innovation, flexibility and tolerance, but seems also to be, at the very same time, the most infamous character trait of the Brazilian society - precisely when it is translated to impunity, or lack of observance to valid standards, regulations or safety measures.
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Among the ponderings of the past few months, I've spent time trying to figure my identity more precisely. I was born and grew up in Brazil, but I don't fully grasp the culture or the people in its entirely. Most of the country is unbeknownst to me, being familiar only with the European-influenced southern states - and, in fact, I had never cooked the traditional beans dish until last week :) . At the same time, I am German, I live in Germany, and have grown up in a half-German family with many influences from my Old Continent relatives - and yet, in many senses I am still a foreigner.

During my time in Canada, I would often identify myself as Brazilian, but spent more time with German-speaking friends. Coming back to my home town this week, I again faced myself with the identity question. Fortunately, I came to realize that such lack of a properly defined answer must not be taken negatively: never mind that most of my closest friends have some sort of migration or living-abroad background; I am among my own in different countries, continents and cultures. Home, finally, is always where the heart is.

Roller coasters, road trips and power meters

It's been one incredible journey, both literally and figuratively.

I have gone, or maybe am still going, through some very intense ups-and-downs during these early months of 2011 - many of which have somehow made it to the blog or twitter/facebook updates over the last few weeks. Many former assumptions have been reworked from scratch; established ideas have been thoroughly questioned, some new future plans have been laid out, and, altogether, a lot has been learned about myself - and those around me. Facing my own weaknesses and confronting myself with the possibility of failure makes for an outright scary ride. But still a most rewarding one: "Life is made up of experiences, and the more experiences you have, the more you live" (Gordon Shrum).

The journey is not only abstract, thought. Movement is an integral part of my being whole, and road trips are a quintessential definition of that. In January, I drove halfway across the country to visit my cousins in Herten with my sister in tow (450km), then picked Carol up in Frankfurt (250km) and drove her to Ulm (300km), and from there went on to visit Jason, a former colleague from the Institute (150km). We took a hike through the hills of Upper Bavaria, before I drove back home (250km) - with a tad over 1400km in the extended Dreikönigs weekend. And last week, another trip was in store, picking Carol in Ulm and driving to Grenoble (1800km round-trip) where we met Kazik and Marnes for a weekend in the French Alps - including riding up a certain famous Tour climb enjoying the pleasant springtime weather and the company of friends to cheer me up during the effort.

Finally, and in spite of the whole turmoil, or maybe precisely drawing motivation from it, my early season training sessions have been quite encouraging . The addition of an integrated power meter gave a whole new dimension to quantifying, analysing, and planning workouts - and plain simply reminding me to ride harder. The resulting endorphins afterwards are just an added bonus...
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Good things come for those that make them happen. Sometimes, though, one must wait for that - and patience is, indeed, a most virtuous trait in those times. As the saying goes, it all boils down to "manter a mente quieta, a espinha ereta, e o coração tranqüilo" - keeping the mind quiet, the spine erect, and the heart in peace.

Cheers,

Twenty-Ten

Five years ago, I wrote a review on 2006, saying that freelance photography, new friendships, the beginning of the new Elipse/LAST cycling team, and my Physics graduation, all made it a rather special year. One year later, I posted on this very blog about 2007, saying it went further, with my Graduate studies filled with euphoria, cycling victories, trips abroad, language courses, and what not. Then along came 2008, setting an even higher standard, with international conferences, my Master's defense, an epic transcontinental bike ride, and the beginning of my Ph.D. in Germany. One more, and 2009 included visits to Portugal, Brazil, Uruguay, England, and trips all over Germany to Hamburg, Hannover, Düsseldorf, Ulm, Berlin, in adition to conferences and workshops, a great road racing season and fantastic rock concerts.

Now it's time for 2010. This year, I
... moved out to my own apartment
... published my first paper
... bought my first car
... organized a surprise overseas birthday party
... won my first cycling race in Europe
... travelled to Australia
... moved to Waterloo, Canada
... experimented with new food, beverages and sports
... fell in love
... and ran a marathon.

A gallery with one hundred pictures telling the visual story of the year gone by can be found on my Picasa gallery. Do check it out!
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The old adage goes, "once is an occurence, twice may be a coincidence, but thrice is surely a tendency". What's left to say when five years in a row have surpassed each other in setting new marks for incredible achievements? Easy:

2011 will be A W E S O M E.

Yay!