Rudy
Peace Bunny
Every night and every morn,
some to misery are born.
Every morn and every night,
some are born to sweet delight
some are born to sweet delight,
some are born to endless night.
Where do I begin. First I didn't win. No chance, but that's not the story. The SSWC has very little to do with racing. Think a grinding mosh pit, woozy with stagger and sweat so black from the night leaching into daze.
I arrived in Berlin on Thursday late in the afternoon. At the Schönefeld airport myself and five others crammed ourselves and bikes into a taxi and headed to the Generator hostel. The drive to the Hostel brought us through what was former East Berlin which was where the hostel is. On arrival we were greeted by our German hosts, shown our room, and then the bar. As a special guest, I was given a special golden bracelet, which permitted me free drinks and food at the hostel. Arizona was well represented. We had Dejay, Jake, Janet, and myself. And so the party began.
That Thursday evening was the warm up. Well, for me it was. There was more than a few who began their event by passing out. As for me, at three in the morning I decided to call it a night.
Friday was a slow burning fuse. Nothing really got moving until about one pm. This was the start of the Berlin tour. Imagine fifty bikers, Singlespeeder, doing a critical mass on Berlin. Our tour guide was a bit taken back at first as we splashed in puddle, rubbed tires, rode the stairs, and bounce upon monuments. Oh and ate Brezels and drank beer. We owned the streets, we were the traffic. Our only danger was to ourselves. We rode past the the Brandenburg Tor, sights of infamy, and history. Berlin is not an old city in the terms of European citizens, More of a 18 century city. But the history stored on it walls, in its doors, twisted into its architecture make blood and Earth head spin.
Friday part two. The punk rock party, a great way to warm up for the Saturday event. Phaty had arranged to have Fabulous Disaster, an all girl punk rock band from San Francisco to break open the party that was burning within. And the girls poured on the jam. There was only one place to be and that was in the pit. Between the music, the sweat and guy on guy dance, hmmmm, we warmed our bodies with the jab to the chin and elbow in the back. The pit was an international collection of singlespeeding freaks. If I was to winge about it was the girls where done to soon. Sorry, but I could have bounced and thrashed for another few hours would have only added a touch more wear to the endurance quality of this event. I know that the plan was for a high speed hour and one half race the next day, and here I winge again, what is a single speed event if not the opportunity to spread ones body to the edge of cracking the cosmic egg. Christian christened the event with a stripper lap dance burlesques wipe cream, Johnny your mama's calling show. Cheers to the man!
A bit of a side note but I must mention my buddy Shaggy. He promises to come to Tucson and bring on his love to the Southwest USA. Shaggy is the man divide, Doctor Jeckyl and Mr. Hyde. He spent more time on the floor, naked and bleeding. Race down the stair case, it was Shaggy, crashing in the pitch black, finishing the race naked, yup Shaggy again, on the floor under a pile of bodies, Friday Saturday and Sunday, I'm not sure how his body endures, but yes Shaggy is the Timex of single speeders. Takes a licking and keeps on ticking.
Incidentally there was a bike race associated with all this. I'll try to give you a perspective from the inside, but there was just to much going on. No words can do this justice, nor photos. There was the dude in the white skinsuit with a car stereo strapped to his bike, Highway to Hell baby, the reservoir dogs shoot out, some fine men, sweet legs and short skirts, the hardcores, and those still drunk from the night before, four hundred strong charging a short field unsure of where in the world did I leave my bike. If your ever in a race and there are three hundred volk before you, and there's only an hour and one half to ride, you better know where your tutu is hiding. The course was a sweet bit of singletrack with sandy ramps, that dumped riders down a ramp and into a moto cross course. Sand baby sand. Some nice ramps for air, an some shin splinting sand climbs. I didn't know there was a beach near Berlin. For the men it was a day for Germany as Florian Eschenbach former German National team racer took the day. His major preparation was to stop shaving his legs so he'd look a bit less like a fit fu§ker. Dejay and Jake played well but it was not there day. Linda Eckhart became the second two time womens winner. Cheers babe, but please no no no, don't support George W. As Christian would say "Beat on the BRAT!" No more four more years.
After the race it was back to the real work of partying. T, Andy Armstrong, no relation to Lance, kindly picked the zit off my nose, thank you T, and the day was filled again as Raoul began to smile again. Raoul was most happy with the party, the race was more of an interruption to the drinking, and the drinking. Let me back track for a moment as I create and image that will only be seen at a single speed worlds. A fair haired man with nought but a spot bike, and a pair of shoes crossing the finish line. Shaggy is our hero!
And Back to the Generator! Tattoos and Beer and Doner Kebabs and naked skid mark racing and derby riding and the awards and more beer and kebabs, and Christian in his Kilt and black, white and grey camo shirt tossing awards and then to the piggyback fights, and slamming down on the floor of the bar and dancing and sweating and the 3:30 kebab, and blurred double vision conversations, and the bar closing, Marcus screaming "Get Out!" and then the morning ride. Sunrise at the Gedächniskirche, the memorial church. On the way home we, Andy, Raoul and myself were treated to a brilliant image of the Brandenburg Gate. The sky was a pale yellow reflecting off the 17 of June street, the silhouettes of Phil Tonkin, Jon Woodhouse aka the sex midget, Dave on baby blue spot before the black green trees and the back lit columns of the Brandenburg Tor. Sleep deprived, yes, and overwhelmed by the lights of a new day, yes. The party didn't end there, but for me that was the landmark experience.
It would be impossible to name and all the people who put so much energy into this event, but it was through their amazing imagination and steadfastness that a silly gang of reprobate gathered on Berlin and had one of the greatest celebrations to biking, and friendship and the future.
some to misery are born.
Every morn and every night,
some are born to sweet delight
some are born to sweet delight,
some are born to endless night.
Where do I begin. First I didn't win. No chance, but that's not the story. The SSWC has very little to do with racing. Think a grinding mosh pit, woozy with stagger and sweat so black from the night leaching into daze.
I arrived in Berlin on Thursday late in the afternoon. At the Schönefeld airport myself and five others crammed ourselves and bikes into a taxi and headed to the Generator hostel. The drive to the Hostel brought us through what was former East Berlin which was where the hostel is. On arrival we were greeted by our German hosts, shown our room, and then the bar. As a special guest, I was given a special golden bracelet, which permitted me free drinks and food at the hostel. Arizona was well represented. We had Dejay, Jake, Janet, and myself. And so the party began.
That Thursday evening was the warm up. Well, for me it was. There was more than a few who began their event by passing out. As for me, at three in the morning I decided to call it a night.
Friday was a slow burning fuse. Nothing really got moving until about one pm. This was the start of the Berlin tour. Imagine fifty bikers, Singlespeeder, doing a critical mass on Berlin. Our tour guide was a bit taken back at first as we splashed in puddle, rubbed tires, rode the stairs, and bounce upon monuments. Oh and ate Brezels and drank beer. We owned the streets, we were the traffic. Our only danger was to ourselves. We rode past the the Brandenburg Tor, sights of infamy, and history. Berlin is not an old city in the terms of European citizens, More of a 18 century city. But the history stored on it walls, in its doors, twisted into its architecture make blood and Earth head spin.
Friday part two. The punk rock party, a great way to warm up for the Saturday event. Phaty had arranged to have Fabulous Disaster, an all girl punk rock band from San Francisco to break open the party that was burning within. And the girls poured on the jam. There was only one place to be and that was in the pit. Between the music, the sweat and guy on guy dance, hmmmm, we warmed our bodies with the jab to the chin and elbow in the back. The pit was an international collection of singlespeeding freaks. If I was to winge about it was the girls where done to soon. Sorry, but I could have bounced and thrashed for another few hours would have only added a touch more wear to the endurance quality of this event. I know that the plan was for a high speed hour and one half race the next day, and here I winge again, what is a single speed event if not the opportunity to spread ones body to the edge of cracking the cosmic egg. Christian christened the event with a stripper lap dance burlesques wipe cream, Johnny your mama's calling show. Cheers to the man!
A bit of a side note but I must mention my buddy Shaggy. He promises to come to Tucson and bring on his love to the Southwest USA. Shaggy is the man divide, Doctor Jeckyl and Mr. Hyde. He spent more time on the floor, naked and bleeding. Race down the stair case, it was Shaggy, crashing in the pitch black, finishing the race naked, yup Shaggy again, on the floor under a pile of bodies, Friday Saturday and Sunday, I'm not sure how his body endures, but yes Shaggy is the Timex of single speeders. Takes a licking and keeps on ticking.
Incidentally there was a bike race associated with all this. I'll try to give you a perspective from the inside, but there was just to much going on. No words can do this justice, nor photos. There was the dude in the white skinsuit with a car stereo strapped to his bike, Highway to Hell baby, the reservoir dogs shoot out, some fine men, sweet legs and short skirts, the hardcores, and those still drunk from the night before, four hundred strong charging a short field unsure of where in the world did I leave my bike. If your ever in a race and there are three hundred volk before you, and there's only an hour and one half to ride, you better know where your tutu is hiding. The course was a sweet bit of singletrack with sandy ramps, that dumped riders down a ramp and into a moto cross course. Sand baby sand. Some nice ramps for air, an some shin splinting sand climbs. I didn't know there was a beach near Berlin. For the men it was a day for Germany as Florian Eschenbach former German National team racer took the day. His major preparation was to stop shaving his legs so he'd look a bit less like a fit fu§ker. Dejay and Jake played well but it was not there day. Linda Eckhart became the second two time womens winner. Cheers babe, but please no no no, don't support George W. As Christian would say "Beat on the BRAT!" No more four more years.
After the race it was back to the real work of partying. T, Andy Armstrong, no relation to Lance, kindly picked the zit off my nose, thank you T, and the day was filled again as Raoul began to smile again. Raoul was most happy with the party, the race was more of an interruption to the drinking, and the drinking. Let me back track for a moment as I create and image that will only be seen at a single speed worlds. A fair haired man with nought but a spot bike, and a pair of shoes crossing the finish line. Shaggy is our hero!
And Back to the Generator! Tattoos and Beer and Doner Kebabs and naked skid mark racing and derby riding and the awards and more beer and kebabs, and Christian in his Kilt and black, white and grey camo shirt tossing awards and then to the piggyback fights, and slamming down on the floor of the bar and dancing and sweating and the 3:30 kebab, and blurred double vision conversations, and the bar closing, Marcus screaming "Get Out!" and then the morning ride. Sunrise at the Gedächniskirche, the memorial church. On the way home we, Andy, Raoul and myself were treated to a brilliant image of the Brandenburg Gate. The sky was a pale yellow reflecting off the 17 of June street, the silhouettes of Phil Tonkin, Jon Woodhouse aka the sex midget, Dave on baby blue spot before the black green trees and the back lit columns of the Brandenburg Tor. Sleep deprived, yes, and overwhelmed by the lights of a new day, yes. The party didn't end there, but for me that was the landmark experience.
It would be impossible to name and all the people who put so much energy into this event, but it was through their amazing imagination and steadfastness that a silly gang of reprobate gathered on Berlin and had one of the greatest celebrations to biking, and friendship and the future.
