Gala came over for a spontaneous equinox visit this week, and spontaneous plans to make a short film. Me and my endlessly riding the Berliner Mauer, calling it art, discovering Tilda did it first (and twice), not caring ’cos it’s not the same, having the Gala with a bike who needs a short “About Me” film for her agency, and me loving the Dreilinden stretch of the former Berlin Wall (plus it’s one of the sections where the Mauer diverges and spreads from the Mauerweg route, and I’m still piecing it together). A Wednesday plan, a Thursday morning prep, a bike via Brandenburger Tor and Hauptbahnhof, S-Bahn to Griebnitzsee, or rather Wannsee ’cos there’s track work, and yes, you can take your bike on the Ersatzverkehr Bus, then biking the bourgie Potsdam side to Glienicke Brücke, and biking back on the forest-y northern side, past Jagdschloss Glienicke and all the bonkers Baroque architecture, around one of the East German exclaves of Klein Glienicke (More cobbles! Hills and cobbles! 2nd worst cobbles I’ve ridden in Berlin, 4/5 Paris-Roubaix stars of terrible joy.) past Steinstücken, along Teltowkanal as the sun came out, and scooting onto the old Autobahn bridge. Then following the sandy tracks where the Autobahn used to run until we went parallel with the A115 and arrived at the bridge by Kontrollpunkt Dreilinden.
After the division of Germany, the West Berlin neighbourhood of Albrechts Teerofen jutted into East Germany like a peninsula. From 1952 onwards, it was cut off to the north, south and east by the East German border fortifications. The Autobahn towards Helmstedt/Hannover passed through the eastern end of the district. This was where the “Border Checkpoint Nowawes” [Babelsberg] was set up. It was later to be called “Drewitz Border Crossing”. When the Autobahn was rerouted on 1969 to pass by the south of Albrechts Teerofen along what is now the A115, the East German government had the Drewitz Border Crossing moved as well. In the summer of 1965, the 42-year-old West Berlin resident Hermann Döbler was shot dead near the old border crossing when his sports boat entered the East German border waters in the Teltowkanal. His female companion was badly wounded and permanently disabled. Although the boat had already turned back. the East German border guards deliberately fired aimed shots at its occupants. In 1981 after lengthy negotiations, the East German government opened traffic along the Teltowkanal near Albrechts Teerofen to freight shipping towards West Berlin. This shortened the barges’ journey by about two days.
Out riding last Thursday with Gala, following the Berliner Mauer from Glienicker Brücke anticlockwise back to Dreilinden in a small, partial remarking on Cycling the Frame, a film I didn’t even know about until after I’d begun orbiting Berlin as an art-ing process. More new bits of the Mauer mapped into me as Wege. More new stretches of cobbles. It’s all about being pounded by the cobbles.
It was going to be something like “enjoy suffering”, for what turned out to be a muddy, sandy, forest-y, riotous fun 107km ride. Decided for something a little more fitting with a 14° sunny mid-February day.
- drink & eat every 15–20 min
- stretch back & neck
- change saddle & hand position
- over & under-gearing
- stand up
- calm & joy
There was this downhill in Narrm, High St in Glen Iris, a long dogleg leading down to the train crossing where, if the traffic was right, I’d hit 70km/h. Apparently the speed limit now is 60. Kinda sketchy, as the road leading in already gave some speed, and the first right bend had a weird camber that pushed towards the gutter. The only way to ride it fast was to apex across both lanes. That’s the easy way to get fast.
I’ve been doing a particular training lately, that I enjoy in that obviously “I’m suffering here” kinda way. Every time I pass a person walking, it’s out of the saddle for 10 revolutions. If I pass another person while I’m up, another 10. A maximum of 20, but there’s a couple of sections around the airport where I might only get a few seconds sat back down before I’m up again. The randomness of it appeals to me, much more than the strict “20 seconds on, 2 minutes off, repeat” kind of thing of intervals. I have Emma Pooley to thank for this. Today I decided to add in one all out sprint per lap, about 250 metres of locked in, high cadence, heart-fucking pain. I like high cadence work, but it’s only been very recently I’ve been doing it, and in the context of high speed it’s very new to me — as much as I love fast.
’Cos I’m a slightly drama bitch about keeping details, I wrote this in my notes:
I hit 50.8km/h at 00:57:48, HR 187; HR peaks at 191 at 00:57:53, 5 seconds later and remains at this until 00:58:02, a duration of 9 seconds, 13 seconds after my speed ended its peak, and has dropped to 41km/h. I definitely felt those ten seconds, gasping for air and all. Anyway, fun times.
When I got home and saw I’d finally got over 50km/h, and no downhill assistance, I announced rather loudly, “Fucking banger, you little cunt!”
Not as much riding this month as I’d have liked, with rain (which I like, but ruins bike) and sick (which I don’t like, and neither does bike). But a sunset ride yesterday made up for some of that, finding some more of the gravel, single-track, cyclocross possibilities in the inner-northern field. Another sunny day today, -3°, perfect.
Yesterday was rain; today was snow. Squalls cutting across Tempelhofer Feld, alternating sun and darkness every 15 minutes. Colder than yesterday, and harsher wind. I had my reflective fluoro-pink gloves for the ride, making some colour in the gloom. I shouted, “Yes! Fucking yes!” when the snow first spun across the apron, I love the work in this weather.
Speaking of bikes and starting the year with a wet, cold, and very windy ride, I’ve been using a Polar heart rate monitor while I ride (and climb, dance, yoga, whatever mostly) on and off for the last 2 1/2 years, to give me an idea of what my subjective feel of training compares to what’s actually going on in my body. It also somehow helps motivate me to do the training, week after week.
Last year I decided cycling is my new dancing, so, two things: First, 2018 is the first year in more than 20 years I didn’t do a single dance class, which I feel rather good about. And second, training on a bike is dancing for me, so in fact I did a lot of dancing last year. There’s some gaps in my year, March in Narrm, Australia, April without a bike, weeks here and there where I didn’t train or didn’t use the monitor, and at some point dropping using it for yoga and core. Altogether, I did a lot more training last year than I have in recent years, and cycling is the reason. From doing it to bulk up my endurance for dancing, to doing it because hooning through a wet winter forest is one of life’s deep pleasures, to doing it because it was the only thing that sorted my knee out (and 2017’s riding is entirely why I can do squats and pliés without my patella feeling like it’s being gutted), to doing it because I love it and love the suffering and honestly would ride for hours a day if I could arrange it.
And seeing it change my body. After all those years of ballet and dance, and yoga and climbing, all of which I saw change me depending on how intense I was in each of them, cycling is the first new discipline I’ve got serious about since I was a student. So, here’s 2018, and all the training I did with a heart rate monitor strapped under my boobs.
Yes, I got hit by that rain. No, I did not leave the big ring, even when the 24km/h head wind gusted to 60+ — and even though my big ring is a cyclocross compact 46, I’m claiming Rule #90: Never Get Out of the Big Ring, and Rule #67: Do your time in the wind. Yes, crosswinds of the same intensity are rather scary, especially when the rain is horizontal; and dry 7°C seemed relatively warm compared to wet, so, Rule #9: If you are out riding in bad weather, it means you are a badass. Period. Also, Rule #5: Harden The Fuck Up. I wasn’t intending for a foul weather ride, mainly because the Berlin grot is a bike killer, but I am a rider who loves the work.
There was a big Hokusai show in Berlin at (I think) Martin Gropius Bau a couple of years ago, I went to see with Dasniya. No Shunga. No pervy octopus tentacle porn. Not even a mention. But in Marbella, in the small but very nice MGEC Museo del Grabado Español Contemporáneo, in the very unexpected exhibition, Estampa japonesa — Imágenes del mundo flotante, amidst three rooms of Japanese Edo and Meiji era prints, a whole wall of Shunga. And this one, from Katsukawa Shunchō’s: series, Imayō irokumi no ito. One of my absolute favourites, just hanging on the wall in a small museum in Marbella.