Massage alpine calves, dress cycling, equip with water, safety vest, some sweet or salty doping and prepare mentally and physically for four hours in the saddle of the bicycle. It is Saturday morning, and dozens of cyclists who have signed up for a hobby ride from the slave square, Slovakia, are part of the race of professional bikers for representation.
Among the so-called hobbies, I am myself and I am one of the six-member team of the slave hall. Approximately one hour before the scheduled start at 9 am, I drive myself to Oromo, so I can handle it until the finish. But the nervous nervousness convinces me that I do not have a chance of giving a cyclist of almost eighty-one kilometers as a holiday cyclist.
When I arrive in the square I register, fastening on my reflective jacket with a start number, a bicycle chip and a sign for a cycling helmet. I also get acquainted with the electric wheel that my owner lends to me. It shows me how to control it to make it easier for me to drive up hills and not to have to give up energy.
After firing from the starter gun, I go along with the group and the other direction. "We are going to last," we agree with our friend Roman and we complete the column, the police stop the transport, the last one behind us is the ambulance car. "This is very encouraging," we laugh and we are happy about the electric boats. But soon my face smiles: my butt begins to hurt painfully in the saddle. And we are only at the beginning! He clenches his teeth and moves on.
I have long since left my team. I'm going to drive myself by the time that someone gets around me. In one of the villages I have a break for drinking, I need to bend the stiff background and the cervical spine. "Oh, no, please, do not stop, I'm nothing, I do not need anything," I say to myself when I see one of the organizers in a reflective clothing coming to the motorbike, it just slows down and I wrestle on it, nothing happens. On my electric bike, passing cyclists are joking about whether I come out of a flashlight or encourage: "Go, electric!"
The organizers are constantly navigating on the route, waving and encouraging somewhere, as well as the inhabitants of the villages. The first one has the most difficult crisis coming on a steep hill near Patoka. I cannot even go. My thirst is tied to the floor, my feet refuse to pedal. "I'm walking," I say, and I sit down from the wheel, the hill is endless for me, the next straight is like a balm on my soul.
A few miles away, a part of my group is overtaking me to get them back in time. I do not have one of the other hills again, I'm off the bike and I'm walking again. "Do you know how I was afraid something happened to you? Do you have a flashlight? "Asked me desperately my friend Roman, confused by the presence of the policemen, I do not know what happened, and fortunately we make it clear that I am almost full of a bicycle flashlight, so I do not even need to reach the goal as a renegade in the van, Unsustainable individual.
"I do not want to have a conversation, I want to eat, drink," she says, following the voice of Hama, for over one hundred years, "I had big problems, big cramps, I could not walk, my feet stiffened. She was flattered, "laughs Hama, who praises an excellent organization.
Then we get a great Slovak goulash again. "Now we've all organized it, we'll turn you around for a year, if you're worried too. A lot of people like it; such actions need to be done, "says Mayor. Go back to Oromo by bus or by car around 4 o'clock in the afternoon. "So far we have not resigned to such an action, but in a few days we will soon wipe out. So in a year we go into it, "we agree with a friend.
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