Magic Lanzarote 2017

Midday heat, Rocks and Salty Waters

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Eike Eisenmanns Einfälle – english version

Midday heat, Rocks and Salty Waters
The Suffering of a Mountain Bike

I am bright, toxic and green and I’m a “Bergrad”- a mountain bike. Since the Americans make more interest spotlikewise through espionage then sporting achievements, I somehow liked myself better as a good German “Bergrad”. (berg=mountain; rad= wheel/bike)
But these are vanities. Nothing compared to the experiences that I may soon experience under the rear part of my well-trained and proud owner.

Yesterday he overdid it again, sporty driving. What was planned as a gemutlich get-bread-before-breakfast with his daughter, turned out into
a three and a half hour drudgery underneath the merciless midday sun.

It was the evil daughter’s fault. The often rather lazy-moving 11-year-old girl gets whipped from her cozy bed by her father. She claims, ”Ironman” results from “I’m running, man,” and now often accompanies daddy along his training laps. Some well-trained norwegian claims in his clever book for the iron-men-to-be’s, that training in young-ladies-pace is significant for basic endurance! Mhmmm this word melts on the tongue: basic endurance! That sounds like a steadfast german oak and tough as Krupp- steel. Already close to the ironish man, eh?

Mainly of durable metal parts is man’s most faithful friend, and not man himself. No, I am not talking of iron dogs,
but of bright, green, poisonous mountain bikes- Bergräder.

Loose workout before breakfast therefore should be to test such resistance: man _and_ material.

A few tiny kilometers downhill on the gravel piste. Big stones occasionally. Dodging elegantly. Careful braking. Ye-heeesss, my lord and master knows how to take care of myself. Or is he simply scared and hasn’t noticed during his long-distance runner career, that there is something like the thrill of speed or the motto “No Risk, No Fun”? Somehow he has learned that during this trip, acquired a taste of it. As said before, blame it on the daughter…

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…before the start

To her, Sir Daddy hardly cannot resist in granting a wish, and if the sweet brat also likes to exercise then- well, who do you think is all-for-it then? Daughter Luza certainly was hooked after a few miles and wanted moooooore. Screamed her cumulative youthful energy into nature and challenged  forces of nature: wind, sun, rocks and water shortage. Exactly. The team had not thought of this, that a few more sips might be necessary.

In the meantime we arrived at a lonely mountain path. In the meantime uncontrollable haul ass-ing across jagged rocks, regardless its consequences.  And in the meantime… thirstness.
Relief was provided by a friendly-grumpy hermit, who in the middle of the impressive massif “Risco da Famara” owns a solar energy powered habitat,  including one of the few sources of cloud- water, which our dry volcanic island is offering.

Now refreshed, daughter and father got jaunty and bombed with their honest servants, us Bergräder, down to the beach across rocks and boulders.  Adrenaline, testosterone, traditional chinese endorphins – ah – I have no idea, what led the gang of rascals in testing me and my little sister under the not so well-trained daughters rear even on the beach of Famara and – to top it all – even in the Atlantic.
It was fun nonetheless! I liked it best when I went in the shallow waters across thousands of small bumps and splashing the iron-man-to-be with salt-water- sand-drops to my heart’s content. He probably meant that this would look chic, smelling like exercise and adventure.

Rockspike number twothousandsevenhundredseventytwo… …

The tour ended ingloriously: spike number twothousandsevenhundredseventytwo impetuous drilled into the strong profile of my rear wheel tube.

My air crackled out as fast as the energy of the now back-to-the-ground daughter. She dragged herself troublesome into a beach bar and
then to a bus stop where the two like-whipped-dogs adventurers had to take the bus home. I enjoyed he ride in the cool, dark rear trunk of the bus.

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… After all, they both did take poignant care of their bikes …

I know, I know. In the coming yeaer I myself will reach no glory and not be covered with medals as “Iron Bike”.
Because on the road and without the brake called “daughter” I’m sure I will be too slow for my boss during the competition. Until then
lots of cloud water will rush down the Risco de Famara and will still be completed with many “short breakfast rides” on the way to the Great Goal!

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 Translation – thanks to Delia Tedeschi


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