I saw a DeLorean DMC-12 in Mitte, near Bodemuseum today. All brushed stainless steel and fat typography on its arse. Looks way more serious in real life than photos, kinda like when I first saw an F40. That would be my German Whip of all time. Forgot phone though. Instead, here’s a view out my window. I took the day off. Two lunches, several episodes of The Man in the High Castle (turned the volume way down when they went on a “Sieg Heil” bender; really, really uncomfortable viewing in Berlin in 2018), much chatting with Gala (who was doing similar), no riding, no work, no ticking off shite on a list, just having a quiet, sunny and warm, lazy autumn day in my apartment.
Autumn wander with Charlotte through parts of southern Neukölln I’ve never been to before. Körnerpark, former 19th century gravel pit pretending to be 17th century Schlossgarten, and a Migration Period grave of a horse rider. Berlin, still turning it on like a hard lover.
A little on the tight side, stove and fridge busted, took most of a week to clean and do repairs, but it has a balcony, faces south-east, windows everywhere, gets the sun till early-afternoon, is cheap almost in the way Berlin used to be. Home for now.
A couple of close-ups of the rather pretty 1931 Austin 7 EA Sports Ulster loitering on the corner this morning.
Seen on the corner of Tellstr. and Weserstr. with the red Toyota Supra with the massive spoiler in the background. I’m not usually a pre-WWII car fangirl, but this whip smelt of maximum hill climb and thrashage. “Who told you that I got rusty? Draw for the WD-40.”
Three months ago, during Ramadan, I decided I needed more art goals. This morning I got up early and rode the Berliner Mauerweg for eight hours. 173 kilometres of cobblestones, gravel, deteriorating single lane concrete roads, forest trails (mixed with gravel and more cobbles, or sand), single track, sand everywhere, plus some rather luxurious roads and bike paths for the other slightly more than half. I’ve been thinking of this and other not-quite-art / definitely-art as Solo Endurance Works. Emma Pooley has been a big (remote / unaware) mentor for this, particularly the work I do on a bike, however it might (or might not) make itself as art. Either way, I’m pretty fucking tired, sore, exhausted, space out, possibly rather pleased with myself in the wash of all that raked over-ness. And there’s so much to say about history, the Berlin Wall (along which Germans should have to walk each year, like performing the Hajj), my own selfhood and my struggles with, which is the reason for this in the first place. Another time.
Embrace the Suffering.
Accept it and Suffer.
Make the pain your choice, and be happy about it.
Practice to ride like you care.
You have to really care about it, you have to really suffer. — Emma Pooley
- saddle position
- hand position
- over / undergearing
- stay calm
Seen on my street in Kreuzberg. It’s the combination of slammed monoblock rims, metallic eggplant paintjob, tinted glass, and ’Straya ’roo roadsigns in the rear windows. Also, wagon! “Not white Vans, or white vans”
I was up in Hamburg on Thursday, there and back in 12 hours, saw very little except Großneumarkt (and all of Frohstoff and the wonderful mob there) a glimpse of Elbphilharmonie, and quite a bit of Hamburg Hauptbahnhof. Totally could live there, port city and all.
We went and saw Mission Impossible: Fallout and laughed for 2½ hours at the brilliant kinetic absurdity: Tom Cruise, part of the Jackie Chan and Buster Keaton lineage of getting audiences to pay stacks to watch them do mad stunts. We ate chocolate and ice cream and nachos – cinema nachos! – and drunk Sekt. In the Kino. This is Germany and everywhere is drinking erlaubt. Ten years today, ago Dasniya and I met in her Fabrik studio in Uferstraße.