VI was recently in the woods again. The usual mountain bike tour for little time. 15 kilometers, 150 meters in altitude, 50 minutes. Nothing, then, for which my friend Jochen would get his Ghost SL AMR 9 LC out of the shed (even mountain bikes can’t do anything for their names). So I go into the forest, into the circle where every tree, every root is an old acquaintance. Not much happens on this lap, what should I do?
Only once did an elderly forester knock my wife over there with his green forester Dacia, for foresters have to constantly drive through the forest in the forester car, no idea why, maybe to fulfill their forester duties and to look for trees and animals, just not after my wife, who survived the crash with a few bruises but otherwise unscathed. Apart from this episode and its happy ending, as I said, there is little to report about the little mountain bike tour. Except for this one day recently.
I cycled in front of me, in principle I didn’t ride at all, in principle the bike drove the well-known course by itself, almost autonomous driving. Without too much self-praise, I can say I was on the move quickly. Maybe it was because of my new winter jersey, which I took out of the closet in mid-August, keyword climate change. Night blue, “AG2R” printed in white, French racing team, “designed in Flanders”. You won’t believe it, but jerseys like this make you faster. You can’t go slowly with a jersey from Flanders, the sacred home of cycling.
I thought until this day. Until, on my mini-lap, a hundred meters in front of me, I saw a toddler on his dwarf bike – and somehow hardly got any closer. The boy was maybe ten years old and carried a backpack from which a tennis racket peeked out curiously. Tots and thugs probably drove straight home from training. In between it should be mentioned that German cycling (like other sports) has been complaining about a blatant shortage of talent for years.
Back in the forest, where I tried to overtake this outrageously fast toddler on his dwarf bike. You will understand that with a wickedly expensive mountain bike and a jersey from Flanders on, with all the love of children, you have to show a ten-year-old your limits. And so I overtook him on the forest path, which now turned into an incline, with the greatest effort and a hackled hello. The toddler greeted back relaxed. Since then I have no longer believed in the myth of a lack of talent. They exist. Definitely in cycling. Maybe in tennis too.