Continuing art goals. 113.5km of the Berliner Mauerweg from Zehlendorf to Kreuzberg the long way around. One pinch flat on the way. Interesting variety of psychosomatic complaints that each went away when they realised I wasn’t stopping. Sometime around Invalidensiedlung I too realised I wasn’t stopping and went way past my usual ‘long ride’ distance (cyclocross does not prepare me for long days of arse pounding). Beautiful countryside, cheerful Germans everywhere, some cobbles, some truly shameful city ‘bike paths’ that were worse than the cobbles, decided that riding the route counter-clockwise, and finding alternate side-streets through some of the industrial mess of Schönholz (it isn’t) and Wilhelmsruh (also isn’t) is the way to get it done. Sometime in the coming weeks maybe. I’m not sure I have the capacity to get through 50 more kilometres yet. Unknown territory and all.
You all know how much I love the arse on this car.
Over the last month (yes, that month), I decided I need more goals. Art goals. So I put down hypothetical / future works I’d like to make onto my other website, and went for another ride. The last month’s riding, being when I couldn’t hammer myself and had to practice restraint, turned out to be rather bloody good for me. So, sitting around thinking about how I could ever turn me doing Paris–Roubaix into An Art, and people mouthing off about how it takes ‘hard work’ to get what you want — nah fam, it doesn’t work like that, that’s the lie of meritocracy — I thought, fuck ya’s all, you want hard? See me. And thought a good preparation would be to cycle the 167 or so kilometres of the former Berlin Wall. Some of which I’ve already done, so I know it’s got cobbles and all, and is a madness in that department.
167 kilometres is also a pretty good single day race, and going from roads to cobbles to gravel, through the city, around Brandenburg, fields and lakes and forests, it’d make a banger of a women’s Spring Classic, Germany’s own Strada Bianche. Just saying, UCI.
Under-slept, with pockets full of energy bars, I decided to reconnoitre the southern part of the Berliner Mauerweg, starting from where Kreuzberg turns into Alt-Treptow, just over Lohnmühlenbrücke on the Landwehrkanal, working out how that connects to Johannisthaler Chaussee (which is the part I know up until Waltersdorfer Chaussee), and then all the sketchy bits following the Berlin-Brandenburg boundary until I ended up in the arse of Zehlendorf, a spit away from Größer Wannsee. Then back through Steglitz. Dead weird out there. 80-ish kilometres, a bit under half the full loop, plenty of stops while I looked at my GPS track and worked out if I was going in the right direction. Gloriously beautiful fields blooming with late-spring flowers, farm life everywhere, cheerful southern Berliners everywhere. And cobbles. Oh my, cobbles. I am so, so very far from hard.
Next up is Zehlendorf up to Frohnow, via Spandau, which covers most of the route I don’t know, and gets me used to spending those hours in the saddle, something I don’t have a habit for. Then it’s just another hundred kilometres, a lot more cobbles, and that’s Paris–Roubaix.
Binged the entire seven of Ben Aaronovitch’s Rivers of London novels again, ’cos sometimes a girl just wants a black Harry Potter and a Muslim Hermione — even if they are cops.
It felt like Gough Whitlam inside.
Last night here. Full day, saying goodbye to Onyx and Kiesia, writing, climbing, hours with Paea, minutes in Melbourne Museum Bunjilaka, hours with Emile, then travelling home.
Who put this there, Emile? It’s all new.
On my way to meet Emile for Pacific BBQ Café Cantonese roast duck and our usual madness (which happens all too infrequently). Sci-fi replacement skyline and Sydney / London memories.
Post-Bush Mechanics 15 minute visit after successful cross-town burn to make it before closing.
Those two railway bridges: Grosvenor St and Nightingale St. I would start on the south bluestone wall of Grosvenor, do six laps, right-to-left and left-to-right, then move onto the north side, slightly harder in the last half. Then if my fingers had any skin left, I’d go up to Nightingale St and work on the north side from the left — the south side had all this hardware clogging it, street signs and other rubbish. That north side was always the hardest thing I’d climbed, not sure if even out on real rock, in the Grampians or Guangdong, I climbed anything harder. The repetition appealed to me, same thing over and over, having a relationship with the rock. I’d tape my fingertips to get through the last laps, but in the end it was attrition, my skin would give out first. In winter, the first lap or two would be agony as the cold rock cut in, harder to climb but something proper in enduring it. There’s more graffiti now, about the same amount of dirt and clag, a few marks of chalk, unlikely to be my leftovers, even though they mark my route. Emile walked with me as I traced my moves, memory in physicality, movement, emotion.