Month: November 2017

Europe: The Ones Who Do Wrong Are Always Stronger Than The Ones Who Do Right. More Poison Please.

lauer and rose sex mongers

How easy is it, dear wort-reader, to go through life doing the easy wrong and thereby avoiding the difficult right? Well, according to #eurowasteland (Europe), it’s even easier. In fact, my beloved #americant isn’t much different. Indeed, these brothers and sisters, these kissing cousins, these inbred westerners–split by an ocean–of nevermore… rule the world with the lusciousness of consume-to-survive pions so willingly ruled by mongers who are the few & far between riding on backs of the less or ill-informed of nothingness, meritlessness and a past of war, greed, abuse, etc.

In my previous post, I thought I could get away with making a connection between the war-mongering scoundrels of #eurowasteland and the greed-mongering sex scandals of (my beloved) #americant. But I think I might have bitten off more than I can chew. Still, I’m leaving the post up. In fact, it’s really the picture that I included with my previous post that I should change. But. In keeping with the stubbornness that has lead to this/my worst-life of being the most successful useless-eater ever, I’m leaving it all in place and adding a little more to it. Basta!

Hence, the pic here probably fits better there. But I–worstwriter–digress.

With that in mind, I still think there is a way to connect the behaviour of war-mongers with that of sex-mongers–the details of which I’ll leave up to the scientists. Just as there is a connection with young men raised by ignorance and knowing only abuse, there is a connection to how #eurowasteland has tried and failed to rid itself of its past, which was/is so blatantly obvious in how it has handled these mock trials over the years after the war of the former Yugoslavia. I mean, come on. Why the hell are these trials even in the public sphere? Or am I the only one that is NOT surprised that a nut job Croat can pull off a Shakespearean death on live TV? Wow. Says a lot about #eurowasteland.

Which brings me to the following worst-conclusion: more poison please.

Rant on.

-T

How To Hug Your Abuser, Face Your Poison

drink your poison
Poison: the deserved drink of choice for most stupid, ugly, arrogant, mostly white power-monger idiots.

What’s the one thing that connects all of the recent sex abuse bullshit, dear worst-reader? Ok. Yea. It might be something about stupid white men. (But then there’s the few and far between non-white men that seem to do the same thing.) Then there’s the issue of power. Yea. That’s the ticket, ain’t it? Or maybe not. Indeed. Is there a single thing, a thread that weaves through all this krapp that is #americant and a bit too much daddy-do-good mixed with sexual repression? And so. Are you sitting down, dear worst-reader? Cause here comes some worst-writer galore. Yea, baby!

Pick. Your. Poison.

We are now deep into a world that is literally sustaining itself on

  1. the laurels of the past,
  2. the nothingness of the now and
  3. the meritlessness of the future.

Mixed together, baby, this is our poison. And. As you know. Poison doesn’t necessarily have to kill you. But there’s more.

Not only Matt Lauer but also Charlie Rose–and a whole bunch of other men-of-ill-repute–did not get where they are without sharing one very important thing. They were able to get ahead, to get their outrageous contractual paydays, all that money/power because they rode the backs of the willing. That’s right, baby. Thousands, tens of thousands, millions of people who could have done what these men do–to get their power–could also do their job. But instead they let their backs be ridden. Did you get that? Let me worst-re-write it again.

There is nothing these men do that millions of others couldn’t do. Just like most people/men who run corporations these days, don’t you know. In fact, it’s no different than war-mongers. Or perturbed patriarchs that claim to love their families. The only difference is that these nut jobs that are all over the mind bending airwaves are the cream of the crop of meritlessness run amok. Which begs the question: How the fuck do you get on someones back?

A little, bitter side story from worst-writer’s past:

I met with a marketing manager once from the corporate headquarters of Adidas in Germany. We were pushing some fancy new URL parsing software to them that would enable a new level of marketing and merchandising on the Internet (late 90s). At the time the software was perfect for manufacturers of consumer products. But here’s the thing. I was there for two days pitching our software and I had to meet with the vice president of corporate marketing. Whoopee, eh! But guess what? The guy turned my stomach. I mean, he was a perfect human specimen–if you’re life is a glossy magazine that appeals to a meritless consume-to-survive society. He was over six feet tall. He had perfect full hair that together with his full shaven beard was perfectly groomed every moment of the day. I mean, he had one of those full beards that grew while you were talking to him. In fact, I’m sure he had the most expensive Braun razor in his office where he could shave three or four times a day. His clothes were perfectly tailored, including his shoes. He looked as though he was in perfect health, too. Yet when he opened his mouth at certain moments while being pitched he was as stupid as a redneck stuck under a car named the general lee. The guy could barely formulate a sentence. Of course, he was German and the whole pitch was in English. But come on. A guy this high on the corporate ladder and he mumbled like a moron and he barely knew what the Internet was? How do these people get these jobs?

But before I get too far off subject.

My worst-point is this. Sex scandal here or there, it’s time for someone to grow up.  Between the abusers and the accusers–this is getting out of hand. Where will all this lead? The way all these men are dropping from their worlds has something more to say about the world than it does about male behaviour. And as far as all the women are concerned… It might be time to consider not turning your trauma into a farce. Charlie Rose and Matt Lauer earn the big bucks, right? Yet maybe it’s time to ask a simple question: how do these people get ahead while leaving so many others behind?

Now don’t get me wrong. I got no problem with big money earners. That is, as long as you earn the money on your own back. It’s when you earn it on the backs of others… That’s when I get ticked-off. And I’m starting to get the feeling that a lot of women out there are also going that extra greedy mile to get something off the back of someone else–just because they can. Matt Lauer and Charlie Rose and Harvey Weinstein all earn outrageous sums of money. And for what? Indeed. Who are the people that so gallantly (sarcasm off) enable these assholes?

Corporatism. Tribalism. Get your gun (or poison) Johnny!

Even if I’m way off base bringing together a war-mongering criminal like the asshole in the pic above and the likes of Matt Lauer, I’m gonna go with it. There is something that all of these people have in common. There is something out there the enables men and their abuse. Power? Money? Greed? Sex? Nationalism? Blah. Blah. Blah. The state-of-things means that it’s time for a lot more people to check their poison drawers. Humanity can only take so much meritlessness.

Rant on.

-T

Links that motivated this post:

The Confusion Of Roadkill, Mighty Mouse And Who Is In My Dungeon Or Who Will Survive My Neighbor’s Dog’s (W)Rath?

 

In my previous post, I wanted to put up these pics. But then I started typing and, well, you know how that batshit show ends up. Still. Here is potentially the post I would have uploaded regarding roadkill, my youthful confusion between Mighty Mouse and Mickey Mouse and a dead rabbit that was obviously mauled by dog near where I live. Poor Bugs Bunny, eh.

Rant on.

-T

The Harvey Weinstein Apology

road kill frog or toad

Subtitle: Or All Men Are Rapists And If So… Sorry About That.

Disclaimer: this post is NSFW; it contains material of a sexual nature; some of it is also what I like to call pseudo-fiction. (Good luck with that.)

As much as I try, I can’t put myself in a mindset that can understand what women go through when it comes to sexual abuse. Seriously. I’ve tried. During one Halloween I dressed up like a sorority girl and I was sexual assaulted by numerous men. There was also the time I had my hair permed—when I still had hair—which was probably the most feminine thing I’ve ever done—and the guy that did it offered to blow me at least three times while I waited for the chemicals to set in; to this day I regret not letting him do it. During yet another period of experimentation I jerked off three dicks that stuck out of gloryholes—and not one of the recipients said thank you.

But all belittlement aside.

The thing I learned during my growing up days was that women, mostly because of men, have to have a different point-of-view when it comes to all-things sex. The simple-minded male oriented explanation for it is simple: it is just sex. For women…? Oh boy. Is it because there’s an added biological component that it’s different for women? You know, that whole procreation thing and the fact that women can be men but men can’t be mothers? Or is there something else?

What I could never really grasp is what exactly goes through a woman’s mind when she faces the abuse? I mean, it’s been going on for so long is there a physiological, biological, chemical, ecological evolutionary change? Which brings me to this worst-question: was it ever really necessary that Daddy give his daughter away?

Again. All belittlement aside.

Sex is everything. Just look at how the world works. Money has failed us. Religion has failed us. What’s left? You’re either getting fucked or you’re doing the fucking. This differentiation, by-the-buy, is waaaaaaay beyond the birds and bees, don’t you know. Hence, what’s the point of sexuality or things like gender differentiation if everything is always just about getting your rocks off? And. Does political correctness actually mean what we think it means or is it ultimately just a call back to the days when sex wasn’t everything?

I suppose there was a time when minds weren’t spinning so much (about sex) but those are long gone. And I don’t think they’re ever coming back—even though so many in my beloved #americant hope they do. Those were the days when it wasn’t ONLY winner take all—and there was one fucker and one fuckee. But then again, do we really wish for the return of those days?

There might be one good thing about sex being everything these days. And here it is as only worst-writer can write it: The days of the three little king-queens are gone. That is, money, sex and religion once ruled the world. (Not necessarily in that order.) Now only one of the three rule the world.

Still with me, dear worst-reader?

The Actress

All of this talk of sex abuse has gotten to me, dear worst-reader. It reminds me of those days when I once contemplated: am I a rapist?

I’ve had my way with a few women, don’t you know. And not just women. I’ve had my way with a few actresses. (But don’t call me Harvey Weinstein, baby!) Indeed.

I was once a itty-bitty play producer. And get this. I utilised my itty-bitty play producer casting couch whenever the opportunity arose. In fact, after my first play production, the opportunity–of my casting couch–arose more than I deserved. But let’s focus on the first casting couch experience, shall we?

She was a lovely young actress. She had beautiful skin, long wavy hair, thighs typically early twenties thick. While she read the lines of my play I couldn’t stop my mind from drifting to you know what. I looked at her neck and her lips and her elbows. Yes, dear worst-reader, I am a stickler for joints—my favourite being ankles but they are at times the most difficult to see. Needless to say, within minutes of starting to read the script I had a raging erection. What does one do with a raging erection when the cause of it is breathing next to you?

Due to the discomfort, I stood up in front the actress while she was reading her lines. I thought I was gonna get a cup of tea. But, while my cock was trying to poke out of my relative loose fitting chino-pants, she stopped me. Before I could apologise and make some excuse, the actress said something like “oh my” and “my goodness”. She was staring at the bulge. She then put down the script and told me that I couldn’t cum inside her and she didn’t like the taste of cum. I then quickly placed a huge kiss on her face and at the same time undid my pants.

Within seconds her pants were off and I was caressing her ankles with my ears. I then went down on her and kissed and licked her till she came. Dripping from so much activity down there, I heeded her request not to cum inside her—assuming she was referring to procreative, vaginal activity—and entered her anally. She let out another “oh my” and “my goodness”. Her discomfort aroused me even more. To this day I can still hear her mumbling and gasping and slurping.

And, by-the-buy, she was an awful actress. Her voice had no cadence. She kept screwing up the timing of the dialogue. When I asked her to say some lines without looking at the page, she couldn’t. In fact, she was completely incapable of memorising anything. But before I get too far off subject…

It took a few minutes but the she eventually relaxed. I don’t think she enjoyed anything that afternoon except me servicing her and the shower I gave her after I dumped my goo in her ass. After a few dates she told me that she had found someone else and, she added, that she considered our first encounter to have been rape because of the way I helped myself to her ass. Then she also added that she has a new job and couldn’t continue with my play. I asked her for one last sympathy fuck and when she said no, I thanked her, said goodbye and told her that I had found another actress anyway.

(For those interested, as far as the play is concerned, I eventually put the female role of my play, using casting couch actress #2, into a TV screen. This helped the productions in many ways. First, we were no longer dependent on an actress remembering her lines, i.e. we could just feed her cue cards. Second, of the three other actresses that were on my casting couch for that play, none of them mentioned rape even though we never once talked about all the fucking we did. And I had them many varying ways, too.)

The Other Girl

I met this girl in college. We went on a few dates, the movies, the usual. I could get to every base with this chick except home base. That is, she wouldn’t fuck me but she would suck on my dick if I promised not to ejaculate. (Who raises these chicks, by the way!) Then I met her best friend who said that she would fuck me. But I couldn’t/wouldn’t  go there; I didn’t go there. I simply didn’t think it the right thing to do—you know: date one chick who wouldn’t and then fuck her best friend who would.

About a year later, long after the chick who wouldn’t fuck me (but would suck me) was out of the picture, I met up with her friend again. She mentioned how we were both caught up in a world of bad timing. Now she was seeing a guy and because she was fucking him she wouldn’t fuck me. She only fucked one guy at a time, she said. But she also said, “how bout the next best thing?” One evening after giving her a ride home she invited me in to her apartment. I was indeed curious… about the next best thing.

Within minutes my cock was at the back of her throat. After about ten minutes of her proving why it’s called a blowJOB, she told me it was ok if I cum. I told her I wanted to fuck and then would gladly finish in her mouth. She told me once again about the other guy that she was hoping to have a relationship with and also added: “he’ll know if you fuck me, so let’s just do this… the next best thing.” I guess she was referring to the mess a man can leave behind. And I thought of two things: first, who doesn’t like sloppy seconds and second, girls don’t leave a mess behind?

Another ten minutes went by. She was getting tired and resorting to the use of her hands. “Please, come all over me,” she said. “Let me fuck you and then I promise to come on your face,” I said. But she was incorrigible. She took a deep breath and tried to break the back of the bear that would be her last ditch effort to get me to ejaculate. I could tell her knees were aching, her arms were getting sore, her nose was slapping the tight skin of my lower abdomen, her tongue was losing its ability to jostle my sack. She eventually fell on her back and my cock was above her, raging hard and blue. “Ok. You win. I give up,” she said. “Are you ok,” she asked.

I packed my blue junk as best I could back into my pants and kissed her on the forehead as I left. “Let me know when things don’t work out with your boyfriend,” I said. I drove home and it took me two days and countless jerk-off sessions to relieve myself of blue-balls.

A few weeks later we were in the same situation. I had driven her home and she mentioned how much she wanted me to cum in her throat. I smirked and admitted that maybe I would give in this time. But I also asked her if she would at least let me play around a bit. “Ok,” she said. “But you still can’t fuck me.” When we got into her apartment she immediately removed all her clothes and I proceeded to fuck her mouth every which way. She laid on her back on the coffee table with her head hanging backwards over the edge. She made me get on all fours on her dinner table and she attacked my junk from behind. She blew me while she peed. She even tried to jerk me off while talking on the phone to her mother. Of course, eventually, we reached that special moment. “Ok, come now,” she demanded. “I’m not ready yet,” I responded. She then gathered her guns, prepped her jaw and continued the good fight.

That’s when something hit me. Fuck this! I don’t have to take this krapp. And so. While doing one of her change-ups, relieving her jaw, my dick and balls getting bluer and bluer, I grabbed both her arms from behind, holding them together at the elbows. She squirmed but didn’t really try to get out of my hold. Slowly, already lubed-up from so much contact with her throat, I slipped my raging cock into her ass. Her squirms turned to a slight jolt but I pulled her arms back towards my chest. I leaned in with my hips and before kissing her neck I said: “is this what you wanted all the time?”

After I finally released, I sat on the couch and said something about needing more of the same in a few minutes. You know, that old saying: “Hold a sec, baby. I’m not done yet.” Then she turned to me and said something about rules and how I just broke them. I smirked. “You’re not serious,” I said. “You can do what you have to do tonight–I’ll grant you that. But this is it. I’m the one that sets the rules. You broke them.”

My jaw was hanging even though my dick was still raging. Then she mentioned that she had done anal a few times before but it wasn’t really her thing. She added that she would definitely not suck on my cock anymore even if I washed it with turpentine. Then I asked her if she was crazy. She repeated: “I’m not crazy. I set the rules.”

Since I was a good listener back then, I got up off the couch, grabbed her by the arms again and turned her around. I bent her over the dinner table and fucked her in the ass till I came two more times. It was glorious.

Finding Love

And so. I’ve had my way with a few women here and there. As far as I can recall there have been a total of two No’s and numerous encounters where the issue was never discussed but I still had my sexual fun. Through out all my years I’ve often asked: Have I always thought enough about her while I’m doing her? Is her orgasm as important as my release? Does any of this make me a rapist?

While growing up in my beloved and missed #americant, while entering the world of sex and relations and fun, of the women/girls I was with, the majority of them complained about being abused at one point in their lives. That thought has never left me. So let me try to say it again, put it another way. By the time I was 25—and I started having sex when I was 17—the majority of girls I had sex with complained about sexual abuse–and not by me but by someone in their family, their stepfathers, church, athletics, etc.

Whaaaaaaaaa the fuck is going on?

And so. I have never cat-called a woman. I have never asked any of my girlfriends or wives or fuck-buddies to either make me a sandwich or iron my shirt. I’ve never entered a woman once without at least taking her out to dinner or to a movie … afterwards—where I then tried to fuck her again and most of the time succeeded. I’ve also never had a one-night stand because to me, no matter how bad the first time was or what my (relationship) intentions were, I always believed you had to do it with the same woman at least three times to even begin to get it right. With that in mind, there were still two women in my life that said “no” and I fucked them anyway because 1) they wouldn’t/didn’t leave (when they had the opportunity to do so) and 2) they didn’t stop what we both started.

Now. Am I a…

Which brings me to #Trump, Harvey Weinstein and being raised in sexually repressed #americant.

The worst part of living in these nightmare times of a president #Trump is that he’s not just a sexually repressed man but he’s also an atypical greed-monger–and he is one among the many. So in a way, I guess, it’s no wonder women are going nuts. Especially those raised by very confused mothers. And so. Where has feminism got them? Did they end up not being like their mother(s) or did they just become the same (as their mothers) albeit wearing more fashionable fancy coats and shoes?

The other thing is, I feel like the thing that #Trump really is, is that he’s something that is everywhere and he is, unfortunately, that which raised me. And no matter what I do the thought of being an abuser because I had my way with a few ladies will never leave me–as I’ve worst-written about here today. Indeed. I have to live with that. On the other hand…

While I was out there trying to find love the Harvey Weinsteins, the Bill Clintons, the Bill Cosbys, the Woody Allens, etc., etc., have been ruining good fucks since day one. And for that I am very sorry. I really am.

Rant on.

-T

Only In The Land Of Free To Be Stupid Can You Get Fired For Being Smart

Screen Shot 2017-11-06 at 20.05.03
Screenshot from the article link below. Can you believe she was fired for this? I say, you go gurl!

Only in the land of free-to-be-stupid where 1st and 2nd amendments lay waste to, well, the ultimate stupidity, can you get fired for a deserved traffic gesture. On the other hand, some nutcase can beat his wife, get a military discharge that is not dishonourable, and then go about his bidness of being fcuking stupid, stupid, stupid–not unlike the morons that have given way to the stupidity of republican politics (including Hillary)–and shoot up a church. Oh wait. Am I worst-mixing things up here, dear worst-reader? Maybe so. But with that in mind…

Way to go #americant. I reckon it’s a good thing that something like this (see pic above and its corresponding link below) takes place because, well, if one considers the amount of time it may take for an otherwise ignorant populace to wake up (and smell the roses of distaste they have sewn for themselves) the/a window of opportunity (to change $hit) may have passed, passed, past.

I guess, considering what happens to a female that flips (her) bird to a Trump motorcade (pic above), it’s a good thing no one got a picture of me flipping a limp-dick Hitler salute to a passing Dick Cheney motorcade… back in the day. I was walking one morning down Mass Avenue in DC, still drunk but conscious enough after a night of debauchery, to realise Cheney’s motorcade was passing. It was just before some new-fangled war mongering was about to take place–that only dip$hit Dubya and his war-mongering cronies could come up with. You know, the shit these nutbags pull off on account they can only achieve through destruction (and not creation). Anywho. When I saw Cheney’s motorcade acoming, I couldn’t help but raise my right hand and arm. Heil Cheney–you rat-fink, chickin-hawk coward! And so…

resist trump much
Rear window of an old Volvo.

Come on #americant. Have you all lost your balls or have you always been this way while suffocating in a state of Orwellian perpetual war? Oh wait. Say! There’s a sale at the mall (or at your race-to-the-bottom Amazon website). Or how ’bout buying something on an equity loan in the hopes you too can partake in the leadership of free-to-be-stupid democracy?

Rant on.

-T

Link that motivated this post:

Pseudo Review #4: R&M Charger GX At 3000km

charger GX in the woods

As stated here and here, I’m a big fan of Riese & Mueller e-bikes. In fact, after my better-half bought me the Charger GX last spring, the only time I’m not on this bike is 1) I’m pooped from riding it and 2) the weather sucks. Since the power of this e-bike eliminates the need to consider weather, especially wind as a riding factor (wind can be pretty severe on this part of the Rhine) only heavy precipitation keeps me from riding it. I use this e-bike for everything including grocery shopping and errands (utilising trusty and ageing Ortlieb saddle bags and the rear rack). After becoming a single-car family, I’m somewhat surprised how little I’ve missed having a second car. I suppose if we lived more remotely instead of on the outskirts of a city there’d be more reason to have a second car. But knowing what I now know about e-bikes, I’d actually continue without a second car until circumstances dictated otherwise. Of course, every time I drive our remaining car I’m also reminded of how $hitty it is to drive in Germany anyway. I mean. Come on. Just get a load of the traffic between D’dorf and Köln—most of which is hindered by severe construction (as though the Germans are just now learning how to build Autobahns). I’ve been riding my R&M between the two cities and other than an extended, boring passage which feels somewhat middle-of-nowhere-ish, I don’t mind the extra time it takes to ride the forty or so kilometres. But then again, I’ve not actually done a direct comparison of riding or driving from D’dorf to Köln. Maybe I should do that someday. Especially considering parking. But I digress.

charger gx picking up sushi
Picking up Sushi for dinner.

Inspections & Dealer Krapp.

The “Service” notice keeps appearing on my Bosch Intuvia screen. I think I’ve had two of the service inspections done so far. To be honest, I’m not quite sure what the dealer does with the bike during an inspection. The process is not at all that transparent and the bike doesn’t feel like anything has been tightened, changed or oiled when I get it back. Hell, they don’t even clean the thing. Of course, there’s some kind of checklist they have to go through—which they arbitrarily hand to me after I pay. In the end, as usual, it’s all just a waste of money–and time. Then again, I can’t update the Bosch firmware, which has been updated twice since acquiring the bike, hence the two inspections I’ve subjected myself to. Which brings me to the following question: Why do dealers have to charge for a firmware update if Bosch doesn’t charge for it? Oh wait. Who would pass up a chance to rip-off customers of 25,-euros if they can? (Sarcasm off.)

Replacing Frame.

Luckily, my dealer and the people he hires are a bit ditsy. That leaves me plenty of space to criticise, criticise, criticise. As mentioned in a previous post, R&M has provided a new frame for my e-bike due to damaged paint when it was delivered. I’ve had to put off frame replacement though because my dealer is unable to cope with not only e-bike demand but e-bike service. Now get this. The replacement frame was delivered in June. The dealer requested that I wait till the fall to replace the frame because he was too overwhelmed with “seasonal” business. When fall came around, due to my schedule, I requested that we do replacement in October. We finally set a replacement appointment for Nov. 2. When I arrived Nov. 2 (the morning after jet-lagging from international travel the day before) the dealer told me his mechanic was sick and I’d have to leave bike with him for two weeks. That was/is unacceptable. We’ve now changed the date to Dec 5 and I have insisted that an appointment is appointment—he shouldn’t tell me that he needs two weeks to replace the frame when I bring it in next time. We’ll see how that goes. (And by-the-buy, let it not be told that I could easily give up my GX for two weeks because, well, I could always use my wife’s Charger Mixte. The only problem is, I don’t want to give up my GX—at all!)

rear tire 3000km

Tires.

There is something fantastical about the knobby tires on the GX. As far as biking goes, regular or e-biking, the Rock Razor tires are huge, bulky, and kinda ugly. I have to deal with countless comments from fellow bikers about how my tires are… not really bicycle tires. Seriously. I mean… I have pedals. Wheels. A Frame. Handle bars. And there are still some people that think I’m riding a monster-truck on two wheels. With that in mind, the huge tires on this bike are so well designed and made that, other than the noise they give off on flat roads, they are like the best friggin tires I’ve ever experienced on a bike. You would think, due to their size, width, knobs, etc., that high speed turns on roads would, at the least, be edgy. This is not the case. They don’t get unstable, wobbly or feel the least uncomfortable. Of course, off-road, they are even better. There is no terrain that I won’t ride across on these tires. Whether riding through sand, mud or rocks, nothing shakes them.

Then again, they don’t last forever. As you can see in the pic above, my rear tire no longer has any bite. I’ve ordered a new tire to replace it which will be added when I get new the frame next month—and probably just in time for winter. I am indeed curious how these tires will handle the wet, cold and sometimes icy winter weather around here.

Battery.

Juice be told, baby. I really wish I had access to the Bosch system in order to see how my battery is performing. I should be into the hundreds of recharges on the battery by now. I think it’s recharge limit is around 700. I guess it’s held up well so far. But… In 3000km I’ve noticed how the battery has definitely weakened. I’m getting at least 20-30km less battery than the first 1000-1500km. I really started noticing the weakening after 2000km. Of course, if I had access to the Bosch system, I could see if, perhaps, I’ve let the e-bike spoil my legs a bit—which could be the  cause of higher battery usage.

As far as battery modes go, here’s how I use my battery:

  • Eco: I use this mode for 1-2 hour leg and cardio workouts. This mode neutralises the bikes extreme weight and literally turns it into a workout machine–with a great view (of the outdoors). I also use this mode if/when trying to conserve battery on longer tours. Obviously, with battery getting weaker, having to use this mode more often.
  • Tour: this is my main riding mode. I use this when running errands and/or have to jaunt into the city centre. Usually won’t exceed trips beyond 50-65km.
  • Sport/eMTB: Recent update has turned Sport into “eMTB” mode. This is supposed to be a mix between all of the modes and is determined by pedal speed/cadence, pedal weight/strength, resistance/terrain, etc. I use Sport when I’m on trails or mountain biking and when I’m lazy.
  • Turbo: I only use this mode on extreme hill climbs.

That’s it for now.

Ride safely.

And rant on.

-T