Back in Prague

When I was leaving for Japan, the clouds were gray, calm (not calming), cool, flat, boring almost, covering the sky for days. Strati. March. The season between winter and spring. When everything is still asleep, but late in the REM phase, wildly dreaming of all the things that will come and happen and that will be done. The right moment just to come for spring to fully hit.

Now I’m back again, and the clouds are shining white. Little and big, soft, fluffy, the definition of fuwa fuwa. Many of them! Dancing under a bright blue sky. Forming and dying off. Cumuli. June. The season between spring and summer. All the blooming and blossoming has just culminated. Allergy sufferers can finally breathe. Some birds have happily started families.

On its own, that’s a perfect reason to go for a bike ride. But having a package to pick up in Řež from an old friend makes it a gift. The only bike I haven’t distributed among my friends is my oldest, beloved Karkulka. Classic city girl. Fearing wolves in the woods despite there being close to none.

She’s missing six spokes in the rear wheel since yesterday’s ride. Nothing happened. I’m just too slow to notice. Luckily, my neglected workshop readily provides spare spokes, nipples, and rim tape, so fixing that is just a question of patience.

Laced up, I head for the wind in my hairhelmet. Down the river. In my head, Smetana’s Vltava has been playing since this morning when we played it out loud from the old LP I got from my dad. I know, I know, this is becoming too nationalistic.

The package waiting for me is an old dumb phone of mine I need to resurrect to stand in for my drowned “waterproof” iPhone. Though, being phone-less for the last two weeks turned out to be an awesome ‘decision’ that happened to me. Maybe I’ll be able to become smartphone-less, at least?

Thus, my only map is a mind map, and it says “follow the river until the next bridge, then to the right, up the hill, and somewhere there, they are.” I follow that map. And then stand in front of Michal. Zuzka and Skye are coming too, and they’re happy and excited for their bike-packing honeymoon, and despite the shit that life gives them, their heads, as always, are up and smiling. I silently adore their endurance and stubbornness to be positive.

Michal hands the phone to me like a meishi and sends me off. Not more than two kilometers down a gravel segment, I see a black cliff perched above the river. I climb up. Sit down, feet hanging in the air. Listen. Watch. Not having my phone forces me to be bored for once. My brain complains for a while, asking for some more intense stimuli. But then it finally calms down and starts to wander into itself and finds all sorts of ideas. I note them down on a tram ticket. A blog about some of them is in the plans.

Back on the gravel segment, I catch up to a massive road biker. He’s fast but at a comfortable pace. For him. I’ll be fine too — drafting. And so I apologise for the awful noise my lock is banging on my rack, and I kindly ask if he’d mind me on his back wheel. Not that I’d understand what he mumbles back, but I draft him anyway. We pass another guy on a gravel bike, and he silently joins the train.

We whizzzz. The roadie seems slightly annoyed to be followed by one foe in sandals, jeans shorts, riding a city rat, and another with a big beard, hairy legs, and drop bars flaring out of his lane. He pushes harder. But we hold on. He cuts corners. But we hold on. He looks back. We’re still there. I almost want to offer him a paceline, but I’m not sure if that’s rude or not. The graveller suddenly sprints off. Neither of us react. He’s in an escape for a minute or two, and we slowly catch up. Then he sees a beer garden, and it immediately reminds him what his priorities for this ride were. He turns there, not even looking at us. One down. I follow the roadie for another five kilometers, and as we enter the city, I don’t want to look like a creep and don’t follow him down the branching street net.

Next stop: check out what Stromovka ponds look like in this season. I sit down on the bank where I was putting on my skates in the winter and watch again. This time a phone wouldn’t even be needed to entertain my dopamine-addicted brain. There’s an isle in the middle of the pond with a big cypress and a couple of benches in its shadow. Short of swimming, the only way to get there is this raft on a rope.

A nine-headed group of middle-aged Slovak brothers and sisters board the platform that is rated for two people. It barely stays above the water, and with some wet shoes and many laughs, they pull themselves over. They clearly enjoy the feeling of having an entire island for themselves and the tree’s shade too. A couple of boys have the unexpected idea of leaving with the raft, stranding the rest on that tranquil island. Everyone seems happy. The boys having their fun. The rest with, now solely theirs, island.

The situation evolves into one of the nicest social interactions I had a chance to witness. The stranded group is eventually rescued by a completely unrelated group of Ukrainians. But before these new settlers have a chance to even decide whether this island is worth a stop they become the castaways! Shocked but amused, they must wait for a random pair of students to show up and rescue them. And, what they were given, they pass forward and escape with the raft again. Then a family with a kid barely standing up on the wobbly raft rescues them in turn. This goes on, and everyone is always a little shocked, but amused and excited. I snap some pictures.

On the way out, I stumble upon that pair of students. ”Sorry for taking a pic of you without asking! I was just really moved by the entire scene and couldn’t resist etching a bit of that vibe onto a film. Anyway, it’s been done, so maybe you’ll want to get the pic once it’s developed?” I receive an email address and give no promise because who knows how it’ll develop out.

I’m taking the usual exit out of Stromovka around Georgia’s embassy. There’s a biker in front of me. The gate that is always open is closed and locked. A big ugly sign explains that this is a “private property!” and thus ”keep out!” The biker pulls out a key and goes straight in. Not hesitating, I ask if I can get through. “Well, it’s closed, but hey, you’re a biker, come on.” He apologises for the lost passage and justifies it with “there were too many, too noisy people going through, and this is private property, you know…”. I know, but can’t agree.

The last stop on this ride is my old workshop. Orlin is there as always. Since he started working on his camper van, it was almost certain you’d meet him there. Usually with Markéta too. Covered in wood dust, slowly and painstakingly turning their dream into reality.

Today, though, the camper is done. It’s beautiful. Done much cleaner than mine, I must admit. Though Orlin waves at me from under the engine. His face black, long beard, swearing at all the hi-tech bloat they put into cars nowadays, all the high-tech that always breaks at you. A bucket of red liquid at his feet and a pile of plastic tubes gutted from the engine. He looks about ten years older than when we first met here two years back. He’s swearing but happy. He knows that the feeling of getting out of the other end of this deep, dirty rabbit hole with a fixed car is going to be more than a sufficient reward. “But, for real, this is the last time I do this shit myself!” Yeah yeah, good luck, you’re gonna need it next time!