Gute Fahrt noch
Notes from riding a 200 km brevet.
The petrol station worker takes two steps out the door and lights a cigarette when he sees me coming on my road bike. I can see him sigh as I clearly disturb his hundred-percent-illegal break. This is the downside of having German as a third language; I can't properly scold him for how dangerous it is to smoke at a petrol station. And also - I'm not in the mood. I am on the clock, riding a 200 km brevet, and this middle-of-nowhere petrol station is my refueling break.
I started that morning at 7:10 from Moabit. I was on the start line just a few minutes before seven, and was pleasantly surprised by the variety of bikes. In the past, I did brand-sponsored group rides where all bikes were carbon, everyone wore tight Lycra, and the mood was usually serious and grim. Here, people of all ages were relaxed and smiling and dressed as if they had never seen an Instagram cycling ad. A brevet is not a race; it is a social event where a group of people tries to cycle at least 200 km under a strict time limit, through a series of checkpoints. It is a low-key event for long-distance nerds. Just bike riders standing on the pavement of a quiet street, waiting for their assigned time to come up. Then they jump on their bikes and start pedaling in the same direction.
On long-distance rides, petrol stations are my main source of nourishment. Although I have enough calories on my bike, I usually still need to resupply with water, and this smoker's petrol station is the only thing open around kilometer 110. I enter the store behind the worker and his last puff of smoke. While I browse the drinks, looking for iced coffee and water, four people enter the store, and they all seem to know each other. Nobody is here to fill up the tank; they're here to chat, buy lottery tickets, stale petrol station sandwiches, and cigarettes. With my arms full of bottles and snacks, I queue behind all of them, realizing this is not going to be a quick stop.
I don't like bike racing, but once I start pedaling, I have a ticking clock. As long as I am moving, I feel peaceful. So I am nervous in the queue, because this isn't according to plan. Deep down I know a few more minutes mean nothing on a nine-hour bike, but the pedaling devil sits on my left shoulder, and whispers: "You are wasting time here." I seriously consider leaving the store; the next petrol station is at 135k, and the one after that at 170k. I know this because I carefully went through every segment of the route and mapped every place I could use to rest.
After fourteen minutes of patiently waiting, it is my turn at the register. The worker is chatting above my head with a lady leaving the petrol station, both of them laughing, while he scans my items on autopilot. Silence fills the store as we're alone again; our eyes meet, and his smile turns solemn as he asks, "Cash or a card?" My card taps the cash register before he finishes his sentence.
I love long-distance cycling because it stretches time. Everything feels way longer, and as a result, everything is more memorable. On any other day, this petrol station interaction is something I would forget. But this goes straight into the memory bank along with a guy on a Ritchye bike I rode with for 20k, pushing each other as hard as we could; a lady at a petrol station serving me espresso in a real espresso cup with a small biscuit, saying everyone should enjoy a cup of coffee properly; a dip in energy I felt at 150k, pedaling through it anyway; a guy who shared a water bottle with me at a petrol station at 170k; a rider on a flat-pedal bike who had to shake out her hands every few minutes from the strain; a stain of iced coffee on my left shoulder that I spilled somewhere along the ride and only noticed at the finish line; along with many more small encounters, brief sentences, and unusual patterns of the landscape north of Berlin.
While I stuff myself with the sweets I also bought, the smoker steps outside, takes two steps from the door, looks into the dirty public ashtray, finds the cigarette he left unfinished when I came, takes it out, lights it again, looks at me and says: "Gute Fahrt noch." I thank him, and I feel that my actions haven't disturbed a single thing. I am just a tiny dot moving slowly toward the distant finish line. My legs start infinite revolutions again.