PB stands for ‘Peanut butter and jam sandwiches’; R for ‘Rice cakes’ (home-made, pistachio, vanilla, coconut oil, cream cheese, somewhere between Asian rice pudding and baby food); C, obviously ‘Chocolate’; A for ‘Almond, nuts, fig and date energy bars’ (also home made), also ‘Awesome’, also ‘Alhamdulillah’, ’cos I needed it. Electrolyte instead of just water because I seem to prefer it. Always bananas. End realisation: fewer of A, more PB, R, C. Also even in cold and wet, dehydration is a real, unpleasant thing. Working out where to buy water and where to piss is an ongoing thing (I do have a spot beside the lake in Brandenburg where I always find myself taking a squat). Otherwise, this is my default long ride food and drink. And, there is nothing like discovering I’d packed chocolate when I’m half-way in and feeling shoddy.
Shortly after I took this photo, a cyclist, in that very Berlin, not really paying attention “I’m just riding, me,” way, rode up the grot covering the bike path, realised they had to jank hard right around the perversely located orange rubbish bin, then then hard left down the temporary construction ‘alternate route’, wobbled precariously as they saw the old Muslim woman they were about to run into who’d paused where footpath and bike lane merged and vanished into a cattle-race, wobbled right, found some dickhead had left a shitty ride-share e-bike in the lane, wove drunkenly to an almost halt wondering where exactly the town planners had intended them to ride, before continuing on in that also very Berlin, “Passive acceptance of basic shit this city can’t even manage to do right”. The old woman cut across the street, thus avoiding the endless wait at the pedestrian crossing.
Looking suitably geologic as I walked from Mitte to Kreuzberg on Tuesday, autumn rain, wind and Berlin shifting into grey mode.
One year and one week here. That happened quick. Trees turning towards winter again.
Seen on the corner of Dresdener Str. and Oranienplatz. Hectic sick Fiat Abarth 595 in eye acid Adrenaline Green. It’s like they saw the Lamborghini Gallardo Superleggera green and went, “Hold my barolo.” Absolutely the loudest colour in Kreuzberg. Also one of my all-time fave over-achieving small cars. 180 turbo’d horsepower for a bit over 1000kg is frankly hilarious. 5-speed manual and tops out at 225km/h. And it’s the only one of the recent-ish trend of “Let’s do our old compact city cars again,” that didn’t add, “but bigger and crapper,” to the end of that sentence (Volkswagen Beetle and Mini, I’m looking at you.) Have you ever heard such pretty hoonage? Probably the best, cheap, burbleburblebraaaaapchitterchitter since the WRX slapped a turbo on the boxer and STi’d their way to blue and gold rally glory in the ’90s. “Look like a baller, Ps and that.”
Me, third from right, underneath Victoria, goddess of victory’s arse.
Like I said to the guy behind the counter at Rapha while we yarned about Taiwan, me with a way more alcoholic than I expected Weinschorle in me, buying the Women’s 100 jersey because it looked so good on the other riders, and I’m a sucker for certain intense colour combinations which make my eyes ping, “I feel kinda manipulated here.”
This morning, I discovered the quote in the zip pocket, which for some stupid reason touched me, even though I know fully well the “have it all, do it all, your only limit is your belief” thing is very much for and available to a certain, specific subset of people, while the rest of us have to navigate the intersections. Still, just as others have done the navigating before me, showing paths in the liminal spaces, so too do I do this with others in mind.
I also expect next year’s jersey to have 2019’s Transcontinental overall winner, Fiona Kolbinger’s dead brilliant quote in the pocket: “I could have slept less.”
“For a long time I failed to believe in my own capabilities but on a remote dirt road near the town of Krivača, close to the Bosnian border, I realised that there really was no distance I could not handle.”
— Emily Chappell
First placed woman, 2016 Transcontinental
Time taken: 13 days, 10 hours 28 minutes
Because I always need and desire reminders to myself of how and why I do this.
- drink & eat every 15–20 min
- stretch back & neck
- change saddle & hand position
- stand up on the regular
- over / under-gearing
- serve calm realness
- do it for
- KIA KAHA [-o-]
And repping my trans and non-binary sisters & femmes.
Earlier in the week, I did a 60km ride. Unintentionally. I’d planned for 40–50km, to see how I would feel in the ride and after, and whether physically I could handle a few hours on the bike and 100km, having not done a long ride since before Ramadan. More importantly, whether post-surgery recovery had progressed far enough that the duration and intensity wouldn’t throw up weirdness, either during or after. Three months, or thirteen weeks, felt long enough to get away with it, even while I still can’t really push hard or do fun stuff like headstands. But having my face peeled off has been and is all a very unknown healing process.
I’d pretty much committed in July to doing the annual Women’s 100 ride, and it would have taken some pretty gruesome post-ride post-surgery fuckery to have kept me away. My other anxiety though. That kept me occupied.
I’ve seen and lived for decades how trans and intersex women get treated in the world and in sport. Most recently like Kate Weatherly, who’s smashing it in downhill mountain biking, but took so much shit for doing so. Or gender non-conforming people, including cisgender women who get judged as ‘not feminine enough’, like Caster Semenya, who had the rules changed on her to prevent her competing. And non-binary feminine people, who are pretty much entirely absent. This is my lived reality, my truth, my selfhood — along with everything else, along with my endless love of movement.
And I’ve been in Berlin long enough to know it (and Germany) is 10 to 20 years behind on this shit. So, y’know, ‘Women’. But not all women. And not all feminine people either. Cycling is also frankly bourgie. It’s a leisure activity that hoovers up thousands of euros — and yes, cyclocross is the working class Belgian national sport, it’s still mad expensive. It has a certain aesthetic, which in turn denotes who’s going to feel comfortable and see themselves in the imagery — and in skintight lycra, whose body type, whose skin colour, whose history, all this. Who’s going to feel like they can roll up on a Saturday morning and fit right in, and who’s taking a risk.
I was at least going to roll up, carrying all that not as a burden, but as something I’m coming to understand (’cos I’m a slow cunt and it takes me decades) as an honour. The people in my life, closest to me, I would not have them without this, I would not be invited into their worlds without this, I would not see and experience the world as I do without this.
And it was pretty fucking good. Sunny late summer, a very leisurely ride through parts around Potsdam and Brandenburg I’ve never been to before, and skimming along parts I know from my Berliner Mauerweg rides, ice cream at the ferry stop, doing it all in the slow, social group, plenty of very tasty bikes, plenty of very friendly women. A couple of odd moments, but y’know cis people, they don’t have much range.
And for the slow people up the back, this isn’t a criticism of Rapha (the very expensive cycling clothing brand that organised this worldwide event), who seem to genuinely be taking cycling advocacy and outreach seriously and turned on a fun day. What I’m talking about here is simply beyond the scope of what this kind of event (or straightland generally) is familiar or has experience with, which is nonetheless vital, fundamental, critical, if the intent is meaningful enfranchisement. If the intent is to sell expensive, event-themed gear, well shit, I biked home with a Women’s 100 cycling jersey. It’s dope as fuck.
Which brings it all around to me again. Who am I in this situation? Who do I want to be? How much of myself do I want seen, and how much am I prepared to compartmentalise myself? A corollary, existing before and simultaneously with this, is, what are my obligations?
I want my trans sisters and femme siblings to feel — to know — this is something they can do, that they’re not going to be the only one in straightland, to see themselves in this. Just like I want this. And I’m already there and doing it, and have been doing it for years, and I while I might have anxiety about what potential shittery cis women are going to bring, I have absolutely no fear. I’ve been doing ridiculous physicality for decades. This is who I am. Literally embodied in the word, ‘professional’. So I have an obligation to step the fuck up and be seen, and rep this.
And when I say trans sisters and femme siblings, it’s always on my mind, not only this. I’m the secret multiple immigrant multiethnic Muslim (crappy Muslim, but) with neurofuckery, who’s also trans (whatever that means and whatever else I don’t know), who uses ‘she’ and ‘her’ knowing those pronouns only make sense to me outside a binary, cis-heteronormative space, and defo not a young bitch anymore. If I’m going to do this kind of ride, put myself into that space, and fuck it’s taken a long time to feel like it could be possible, if I’m going to be in an event that says it’s for women, I need to be very damn clear about what kind of woman I am, and what kinds of women and feminine people I expect to to see there, to not only be encouraged to be there but to be actively enabled to turn up. This shit is political, and it is entirely about representation, about intersectional feminism, and about all those lived realities, all those people who do not have an easy place in the world.
Yes, I am serving Trans Femme Athletic Realness at the Rapha Women’s 100 in Berlin, and my bike’s top tube notes said, “kia kaha [-o-]”.
’90s ’00s JDM import tuner spoiler red alert. Seen a couple of times on Weserstraße, the curbside rear quarter panel taken a beating, but oh child observe those rims. Observe the hood vent and spoiler. Observe millennial coupé hatchback hoonage. Tight. Apparently a Toyota Celica 1.8 VVTLi T Sport, or possibly a 1.8 VVT-i, defo 7th Gen. and pretty sure post-facelift, so, 2003 or later. I seriously worked out that from the side indicator lights. Memories of Chapel St. on a Friday night, bass bins rattling glass, underside lighting, proper hoonage backed up both sides from Toorak to High St. “See man driving a German whip.”