Fishing community leaders say Greenpeace’s action is dangerous and illegal.
Yeah, baby. Throw a wrench in it. Even though I eat seafood every once-a-once, I at least try to consume it responsibly. That said, it does bother me when I see grocery stores full of cans and cans and cans of pre-packed tuna or fresh scallops and layer upon layer of fish filets. So if I’m buying from a dealer for the first time I’ll usually request if the fish he sells is from responsible fisheries. Obviously the answer is ALWAYS “yes”. So how much is worst-writer supposed to do? Is not consuming the fish at all an option? Of course it is. Or. Maybe. We should just throw a friggin’ hammer in the whole Neo-feudal, pseudo-capitalist BS that has made things not unlike 17th or 18th century colonial #Eurowasteland. Or maybe not. And since I post this on a Friday, when I usually consume fish, what does it all matter? Then again, the story linked to here forgets to mention the UK dip$hittery of #Brexit, which just may turn that incestuous island into a freak show of epic starvation proportions–which means the dentally challenged, monarch-sucking morons might just have to eat all those luscious scallops just before cannibals come. Or maybe not.
Had a heck of time the other morn, dear worst-reader. As usual, I begin one of three walks a day with Beckett, the killer pug, at around eight in the A.M. After that I feed him and let him sleep until a bird stirs him awake around noon and he barks so loud that babies in quarantine two blocks away wake up. Should I mention how his sudden bursts of barking almost stir me to madness? No. Seriously. There are moments when he has a barking fit that I could strangle his stupid, ugly, disgusting, non-nose hound… but at the very same moment all I really want to do is just cuddle him till his guts spill out all over me in a frantic delirium of love-joy. Or maybe not.
Among the other things seen during a given daily walk, here’s a few pics. The one to pay most attention to, of course, is the one with the Ferrari. Get a good look at that license plate holder.
I’ve been there before, don’t you know, dear worst-reader. There’s something about z’Germans, especially the wannabe rich little $hits that drive around in rented Ferraris, or overly expensive high-end SUVs, that claim they want to do something to Greta Thunberg. I’ve posted other stuff horsepower $hitbags want to do with Greta here and here. Which begs the question: why won’t the earth just eat (and then shit-out) the rich who are so blatantly 1) disrespectful and 2) douchebags?
But at least there are more pics to wonder at. For example. Even though my wife is disallowing me from having a motorcycle, which I haven’t ridden since 2001, I really want to get back on a bike. Although I’m preferring/leaning towards getting a retro Triumph, a few other brands are stirring my horsepower thoughts. For example. The bike that tickles my fancy the most right now is the KTM 790 Duke. What a bike, dudes. And to think Austrians could come up with such a middle-class two-wheeled wonder. Then again, since I’m stuck in a world of golden cage wishful thinking, and somehow know deep in my lust-gut that my wife is gonna fight it till her last breath, guilt by association follows me around forevermore and I lust for a cool two-wheeled ride. And so. While walking around. There it is. There’s a key to a Husqvarna motorclylce that someone found and kindly attached to a tree in the hopes it will be reunited with its owner. Do you see the connection here? That’s right. KTM owns Husqvarna. Which means this key on a tree is really telling me that I don’t want the Triumph. But I die-gress.
The other pic is that of a varmint I’ve been seeing in a local pond. In the three or so years I’ve been living here, and walking past that pond, I’ve never seen that critter before. He’s just above the duck, swimming across the water. There’s always been ducks, geese and swan hanging around… but a large rat-like critter with a tail longer than its body and almost as large as a swan…? #Nomatter.
The dog I love so much is doing just fine in his oncoming old age as he rests in his kingly couch. That’s right. Beckett the killer pug just turned thirteen. Or is he twelve? #Nomatter. He’s f’n barking like a madman again.
PS retro bike of choice–but I don’t want it in red.
Was walking my dog the other day and came across this pic twice. Once it was stuck to a tree on a plate and the other it was on this/a German post box. When I went back to take a picture of the one on the tree a day or two later, thinking it would go well with the one I took from the post box, and also help with my disbelief, it was gone. I’ve since gone back to the post box and the pic has been removed from there, as well. Of course, being the woke #OKBoomer I am, über and ill-informed n’all, I immediately got the gist of the pic–even though someone wiser than me removed it/them. The gist is, according to the pseudo-skeptics of the western world today, George Soros is funding Greta Thunberg and a picture like this is part of the fake newz fight against reality. Or put another worst-way: the ill-informed who run the world through fakeness galore have found yet another scapegoat to hide behind and they have plenty of minions to propagate their agenda–of mayhem and chaos so as to better force centralised authoritarianism on you–the sucker(s) of democracy (or the like). Or maybe not. Of course, there was, I’ve since learned, another doctored pic with Thunberg and Al Gore. But let me not get on about good’ole Al Gore. For don’t you know, dear worst-reader, Al Gore is the one that probably ruined the grand $hit$how by politically mandating the climate problem oh so many years ago. Or at least trying to politically mandate it. And so. That’s right. I said (as I may or may not have said here) that the great #Americant mistake with the entire climate issue is that the likes of Al Gore tried to turn it to his/her/their political advantage when it should never be part of government doings from the get-go–but instead the doings of rational peoples the world over. You know, as in, clean up after yourself, don’t litter, recycle, take care, etc., etc. (Long dramatic pause.) I know. I know. I should leave my worst-naiveté at the door, before entering, before flushing, before anything. But. Then again. I am worst-writer. And so…
At a place where I walk Beckett, the killer pug, is this little body of water that is filled with all kinds of weird algae (due to the extreme summer heat), ducks and swans. Two of the swans are kinda there permanently–as I can see from tags on their webbed feet. These two swans are obviously mates and, as mates do–so I’ve heard–they procreate a whole bunch. Indeed. This spring I’ve witnessed their their third offspring. Needless to say, these critters can be quite ornery. Sometimes, as the banks of the little lake are quite high, I have to be careful not to be surprised by them as they feed with their heads sunk under the water’s surface. For if you are surprised by them they will first start hissing and then they will attack you. With that in mind, are these pretty creatures or what? Then again, what the hell happened in nature that could result in these animals? Just askin’?
Brisk walk this morning… No. This afternoon. Yeah, had brisk walk this afternoon. Nomatter. Get a load of that elbow, dear worst-reader. The left elbow of the dude with the fancy pig head. I’ve been passing by that Baroque building and statue for almost three years now. Never noticed the strange position of the elbow, though. Ever seen such a thing? Luckily, when I consulted Claudia, a former sculptress, and now a highly praised dancer in the art of vertical pole-ology, she told me that she even knows the local artist that made it.
“Yeah,” she said. “He ran out of time and money, as usual. So for shits&giggles he threw an arm on it that was laying around. He saved some money, don’t you know.”
Well, go figure, I thought. But it does (the arm, elbow) look kinda out of joint. Or?
Then I found a teddy-bear from Vulcan (yeah, Spock Vulcan). Found green blood n’all. I’m sure he was a cute little fellow at one time. But he smelled kinda funny when I took the shot. (And, yes, I buried him out of respect.)
The kicker in this post, though, dear worst-reader, is the Anti-Monopoly game I found on a park bench along the Rhine River after a welcome rain storm. You know, we’ve been having a heatwave here. My only question was, did the storm come along and scare the players away? Cause they left the whole game.
Cute as a button how someone could put tiny animal-dolls on their Mercedes dashboard. I only wonder what they are thinking as they drive. I even went around the car to see if there was anything else to photograph. No rotting animal carcasses anywhere. Also, no USB cables or smartphone holders. Whaaaaa? I then headed to the Rhine, which is terribly shallow right now on account of one of #Eurowasteland’s worst heatwaves in years. But perhaps the desertification of the Rhine region might hold out a bit. Then again, shipping German made tractors can’t displace all the much water. Or? Then Beckett, the killer pug, discovered a pumpkin patch right on the corner of a drive-way. Cool, I thought. Now if only Cinderella can find it when she needs it. Say, ever herd of “Gang – Joker Crew”? Me neither. But I think I’ve seen this graffiti before. Nomatter. Final pic is of some German miscalculation when tearing down an old house. Or do you think they hit it right?
Sites seen while walking Beckett, The Killer Pug. The mushroom is at least 12-14 inches in diameter. When it ejaculated its spores there might have been a slight wind from the South West. There is a metallic greyness, an almost mechanical shade around the base of the fungus. I never before thought I could see a smell, especially one that must, if a taste for it could be acquired, that has a look that smells so hideous. Perhaps I should document how the fungus will end up once it’s completely dried out. For indeed, dear worst-reader, there are hardened, if not fossilised fungi in the forest-park that Beckett and I traverse. And so. Yes. Two things I need to do in life (before it ends). One is to photograph all (ALL!) the churches in Köln and the other, perhaps, is to take majestic pictures of all the fungi inherent to the Germanin Boden (ground). And worst-speaking of Germania. Once I left the forest-park and began the trek home–for my pug has a difficult time right now dealing with the extreme weather situation caused by a world of greed mongers galore and their hate of climate–I finally took a snapshot of one of the houses on Rich-Inheritor Street that I walk by almost daily (on account it’s between where I live and the forest-park). Don’t you know, there are a few of these streets in every major village of Germania. (For those not in the know: there really are no cities in Germania; only villages.) They are the streets where no one earns a thing but their parents and grandparents did. And so. The lap of luxury in almost ancient, if not old #Eurowasteland villas, that all say fcuk-you in caps to people who would like to have a chance at upward mobility, where grand-children of Nazi conspirators and/or corporate fascists bought their way through the game of life. These places (villas) when listed for sale on real-estate sites go for millions of €uros. Yet there is something sinister about them–about them all that is above and beyond their fiat value. I’ve spoken to a few occupiers of these old-money places (villas) as I can’t help but pass their servants who walk the watch dogs. “What’s with the military grade razor wire,” I inquired of a MILF walking a mut hound-dog that has the longest droopy ears I’ve ever seen. Before she could answer I glanced at an open button on her thin blouse, gazing at the lace of the brassiere underneath as it pressed and smooshed her ageing teat. I could see sweat in her sweet place and I think the hound could smell it, too. “So, baby. Is the razor wire because of the neighbour-hate that you Germans have for one another,” I added. For a second I thought she was gonna point two fingers from her breast to my eyes and then to her eyes. But she is not a German servant. Instead her hound growled and she went on a short tirade complaining about Merkel and the immigrant problem that Germans shouldn’t be having at this time. I kept my rude eyes fixated and showed sympathy to her dog. Once she got on about the increase of break-ins in the area I got bored. I then asked her if she wanted to fcuk in the forest-park. “I know of a soft stump you can use to bend over. Will your hound mind or will I just have to push his nose away all the time. Such a thing is very distracting, don’t you know.” But she had moved on down the street, somehow proud of telling an immigrant how she hated immigrants. Nomatter. I’m keeping an eye on that one. I know where she lives. I know that there is no military grade razor wire on one of her accessible ground floor windows.
What are the things you miss most as an unwilling expat? It used to be blue crabs. But I’ve indeed had more than my share of them. (May the God of the Chesapeake, you lovely Bitch, have mercy on my soul for all my sins!) There was also a time when I missed the #Americant highway–especially when traversed on a motorbike. Oh how things have changed throughout the years. Yet there are things I still miss, still yearn for as this going-native journey has become something quite unexpected. For example. Soon in my beloved & missed United Mistakes, especially in the mid-Atlantic area where the headquarters, Washington DC, land of free to be stupid suburbia, it’ll be corn–as in on-the-cob–season. Of all my memories, the fishing and crabbing, the hunting, the untrimmed putang of the early 1980s, etc., etc., and the puffy nipples of THE ONE THAT GOT AWAY, the thing I’m thinking about most, especially this time of year, is the corn. Those ten to twelve inch cobs that are anywhere between two and three inches in diameter, with light-green, almost transparent husk-leaves…. Yeah. My mouth is watering already. And then there’s the experience, once perfectly cooked, you bite into the small, stiff, snow-white kernels of the super-sweet kind and there is literally an explosion between your teeth and gums of juice filling your mouth with a sweetness unmatched by even honey droplets delivered by THE ONE THAT GOT AWAY and her luscious puffy-nipples. And so. In the mean-time, considering that I probably won’t make it there till October, I’ll just have to have some puffy candy to stare at. Indeed. I won’t eat that krapp. But it is a great image to fill the mind’s eye of dreaming about puffy nipples during corn season while forever growing up.
Pulled this nasty guy off my dog, Beckett the Killa pug, this morning. It’s the second one in a month. Indeed. An unusually long heatwave is doing its job on nature here. Bugs are flying around I’ve never seen before. The Rhine river is extremely low and somewhat more toxic than usual. Last week while out and about I noticed a fairly large group of seagulls on the other side of the Rhine. They were there eating all the dead fish probably caused by either temperature or low water levels. Temperatures in excess of thirty degrees for weeks on end with little rain is tough in a place that doesn’t have air conditioning. But that’s neither here nor there.
Yesterday while walking my dog I came across a nice old lady with her nice old Irish Setter. The Setter was stuck in a low water canal that encircles a large park nearby. It had gotten away from her and jumped in to cool off. She said the dog was struggling and couldn’t make it up the high bank. She asked me if she should call the fire department or something.
“Heck no,” I said to her. “This is a job for neighbourhood nice-guy!”
I jumped in the canal to do my good deed for the week. What was unexpected from my little rescue mission was a nice and nasty dip in two feet of water and three feet of mud. The woman offered to wash my clothes when I finally got her dog out.
“No thanks,” I said. “I have a Miele.”
Of course the German worst-joke here is: I actually have a Bosch washing machine, which is half the price of a Miele and it’s been going strong for almost ten years now. (Knock on wood.) Which means I’ve been among the Germans long enough to know their dry humour (if you can call it that) which can only reference consuming-to-survive.
So. Like. About a year ago I was out and about on my beloved E-Bike and, as usual (at my age), I had to take a piss. Usually I find a secluded place among the urban trees but for reasons owned by men of my age bracket… when you gotta go you gotta fcuking go! And so. I found a relative off-street spot but it was aligned with a über-steel fence that enclosed the local water-works facility of D’dorf. Indeed. I knew that I might not be relieving myself in the best place, but like I worst-said… I had to go. Long story short. Some guy caught me at my business and while my (#Americant) Johnson was hanging out he decided to confront me and, only as a German can, give me the once-over regarding my choice of piss station. My first reaction was…
Dude! Is you fcuking out of your fcuking mind? Never. Never. Never confront a comrade while his Johnson is dangling. Can’t you at least wait till I’m done? You fcuking cocksucking German piece of mother fcuking…
And here, dear worst-reader, we enter the world of differences between the Germans and… and those who don’t want to be fcuking German. I think. Anywho. The guy was vehement about the fact that I probably broke a few German laws that afternoon. I indeed had pissed on a fence that housed the local water-works facility. My bad. Yeah. My bad.
By-the-Buy, that’s NOT me in the pics above. It’s a pic I took this afternoon of some dude having his way with a local tree. When I came around the corner while walking Beckett, the killer Pug, I saw this guy pissing in the middle of… fcuking everything. Behind him is the Rhein; in front of him a fcuking restaurant. I walk along this path where he’s doing his bidness almost every fcuking day. When I take this pic (the second one is a blow-up) I’m standing at the exit of a park which is next to a restaurant and local hotel overlooking the Rhein. Should I have tried to photograph those on the terrace of the restaurant enjoying their meals… with this view?
Ok. Ok. None of that matters. I would never be in this or any such situation in my beloved and missed #Americant. Reason? Well, there’s room to piss galore in land of free to be stupid–that gives way to the like of #Trump with with is piss woven hair.
As a pure black pug owner, seeing this guy really caught my eye the other day. According to his owner, he’s only three years old so the white/grey is very odd. He’s almost twice the size of my Pug–and mine is no Pug slouch. Although his facial features were almost perfect (for my standards), his body and tail were not quite right. That was probably due to his size. I’ve never seen a pug like him before. Very nice character, very friendly.
Actually, dear worst-reader, it’s not quite 24 hours. The snow-pic I took yesterday afternoon. The rain pic I took before noon today. Yesterday’s snow storm was a sight to see–if you live in this region of wet-weather-torn Germania. It will snow every once-a-once here and the snow will be gone by the next day, but what makes this different is the amount of snow that fell yesterday. Within half a day there was at least six inches of snow in front my abode. Needless to say it was a wet journey getting to the same spot to take the same picture for comparison. Talk about a soaked area. It was like walking on water.
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.
According to our friendly neighbourhood park ranger, this is not Bambi (vid above). I mean, we thought we were walking next to Bambi. She’s got spots on her back n’all. But according to Ranger Billy-Bob-Junior she ain’t even a “deer”. She’s an elk. Of course, I don’t really care. I was so pissed that we had to–in the land of free to be stupid–pay $20 dollars to enter a national park so that we could go for a walk. The good news is the ticket we bought works in the northern park of the park, too, which we plan on visiting before we end this lovely misconstrued #americant visit. Considering what #americant pays for wars, for stupid white people doing the easy wrong instead of the difficult right, etc., etc., to charge $20 for something that should be paid for by tax dollars is really, really f’d up. But what the hell am I saying? This is a country that has no idear why/how/who it pays taxes to/for/what. Need I worst-remind: The land of free to be stupid–where money is for maintaining the poor, artificially propping up inheritors of century old wealth and letting the inept middle classes think they too can someday be part of it all.
Oh. Before I forget. The pine trees on Assateague Island have some kind of bug eating them from the inside-out (see pic below). This has devastated the forest there. We stopped one journeyman, an elderly Dame, and inquired about the devastation. Her faced turned sad as she explained the Southern Pine Beetle to us. To prevent a tangent into her life story we weren’t ready to listen to, I interrupted her and blurted out the following question:
Worstwriter: Is this a climate change thing?
Without getting into any reality that is climate change, here is the crux of her response:
Nice Old Dame On A Walk: Well, if you’re the type… and I am one… I think you can say that.
Indeed, #americant. If you’re the type… you too can have… a land of free to be stupid. Also, if you’re the type, you too can believe in virgin births, i.e. books written during the bronze age.
A pretty gruelling ride yesterday. It started with a train ride that took me and my electrified The Panzer to the badlands at the end of Wuppertal. (Btw, if you’ve never been to Wuppertal, you have to go. It’s worth it to go there and just take a ride on the Schwebebahn.) From there I planned to ride back the whole way to the Rhein and then D’dorf. I got started late after meeting with some folk and drinking a few. Since the sun is beyond it’s summer solstice, and it got away from me quicker than I expected, most of the ride was in the dark. And we’re not worst-riding (writing) about the dark on some paved roads. I was in the friggin woods most of the time. Thank goodness I’ve got some pretty decent lighting on The Panzer. Btw, the panzer is a Riese&Müller Charger GX Touring (what a mouthful, eh). Now. The distance I travelled wasn’t the farthest I’ve been. It was only about sixty and half kilometres. The challenge last night was something else. Most of the first half of the ride required some pretty serious uphill trekking, including having to get off the bike and push it, albeit with electric motor assist. Seriously. There were these tree roots covering one pathway and I thought I’d have to put that damn bike on my back to get it up (and that’s what she said, eh). The darkness that quickly overcame me didn’t help matters. Anyhow. See elevation and speed profile of pic above. Moving my well endowed, well-over 200lbs a$$ up a hill–see 10km mark in pic above–pretty much wiped an entire bar from my battery. I even had to use the walk-assist of the motor to get up some of the hills. Keep in mind, five bars indicate a full juiced battery. By the time I hit 25km two bars were gone. On flat-land, I can average 15-20km (on tour-assist mode) per bar. And so. In the middle of some serious darkness on a lonely road in the middle of nowhere, and only one bar of battery left, I finally changed batteries at 45km. I was pretty tired at that point, too. I rode around 35-40km through dense woods and trails, up and down lots of steep hills–and it was f’n fun! But this middle-aged fellow was pooped at 30km. Would I do it again? Damn straight. But I’d prefer to do it when there’s… let there be light.
Rant and ride on.
PS The speed profile is a bit whacky. I think the reason it has such a large blank space in it is because, while going down one hill, I exceeded normal bike speeds by whole bunch. Indeed. I clocked well over 60km/h on one down hill short trek. (Oh, it was light out, in Ronsdorf, when I did that.) Yea, baby.
Disclaimer. This post is somewhat NSFW. Good luck. §On account I’m so jealous that I couldn’t see the solar eclipse yesterday, here’s a pic I took two weeks ago while visiting the Ostsee. Sorry for the over-exposure. (That is over-exposure, right? I really know zilch about picture taking.) §I do recall seeing a solar eclipse in 1979, though. I even tried to catch its shadow on a paper plate but instead was distracted by a neighbourhood hottie. §She was riding around on her pink bike towing along her family poodle. Robyn was her name, I think. We were both in the same grade–eighth or ninth and since puberty barely shared a word with each other. She had really big hair and corresponding really big boobies. But not too big. Big boobs and hips. She was a show to watch/look at. I was terrified to talk to her. Indeed. §As the eclipse approached and everything began to darken Robyn stopped riding her bike, turned to me, and lost control. She stopped in the middle of a neighbours drive-way. Her dog ran away and within seconds was up the street and got hit by a speeding 1972 Impala. She dumped her bike in the driveway of Victor, the neighbourhood grouch. Victor proceeded to run over the bike while leaving his house, smashing it to pieces while singing “I’ve Gotta Be Me” as the celestial happening approached. §Robyn grabbed my hand and lead me off behind her house. We ran like a gazelle and a thick, beautiful cow. We even jumped over the fence guarding, surrounding her backyard. We went into the woods. §Only a few days before I had caught a whole bunch of frogs in the creek at that same place. A guy that lived in the houses on the other side of the woods told me that the frogs were gathering because they knew the eclipse was coming. If I didn’t do something they would all go crazy during the eclipse and annihilate each other in an orgy of self-destruction. So I gathered them up and put them in little containers. I would be doing them a favour, I thought. §Robyn pulled me behind a huge honey locust tree, the thorns of which I had removed recently because me and a friend wanted to build a tree-house in it. (Of course, if completed, we would have had the perfect view of Robyn’s bedroom window. But I digress.) §Robyn placed her mouth on mine and at the same time pulled my hand and held it over her left boob. I let her stick her tongue in my mouth and I focused on some tenderness, avoiding teeth–holding back my inexperienced tongue, feeling hers quiver and search. Under the veil of the woods and the disappearing act of the sun in the middle of the afternoon, I thought it was time to lose something. But I wasn’t ready to lose it. It just wasn’t possible under those circumstances. I realised it would take a life-time just to get underneath her shirt and bra. There are too many hindrances, I thought. Too many hindrances to this game. And. There was no place to lay down. There was nothing but old tree limbs, leaves, stumps, etc. Could we do it standing up? Of course not! Way too soon for that. Or? No. §First it’s time to finally learn the real purpose of a brassiere. It was a barrier, a guard-house, maybe even a trap–to the softness of a teat. A bra’s sole purpose is to hide and protect, to shield–it is not to support. But then she said, “if you can get underneath, go ‘head.” As I pushed on the metal support to get my fingers underneath, crickets started chirping–as they do at dusk. The birds stopped singing–as they do at night. And Freddy, a neighbours German Shepard, started barking. Freddy always barked at sunset. But it’s two-thirty in the afternoon. §We were let out of school early that day for the eclipse. I was doing my best to capture the sun and moon’s shadows on a paper plate that I was supposed to trace with a crayon and bring to school the next day. Primitive, elementary, but what the heck. #Americant was educating all of us to be geniuses now was it? Nomatter. Instead I was thinking about the paper-plate I stole while my mom wasn’t looking. Yes. I grew up in a household that counted the paper-plate supply. But I wasn’t going to get distracted by all that–the frogs were enough. §I was thinking about how Robyn was finding places on my face where she could make gentle smooches. She would circle my eyes with her lips and then move down the bridge of my nose. She whispered that she loved my flat nose and my big nostrils. She then touched her top lip to my bottom lip and grabbed the back of my head. She pulled me closer and closer and our skulls began to touch. She pulled back and then touched her bottom lip to my top lip, her top lip kissing the septum of my nose. She whispered, “how come you didn’t finish your tree-house?” Before I could answer I finally learned the method of the French Kiss. Placing the left side of my nose to the left side of her nose, my top lip gently met hers. Simultaneously we moved our lower lips lower to make room for the tip of our tongues. She moved her tongue more than I did. More experienced? I was focused on the electricity of her top lip. It felt similar to her under-boob. I had gotten the bra up above her nipple but was preoccupied with the milky flesh of her under-boob. I couldn’t find the gentlest part of my hand to caress it, though. The calluses of my palm must have scratched. Or it didn’t. She put her hand over mine and pulled my hand towards the whole of her boob. She crushed it as though massaging a very large itch. I squeezed with my finger tips, I could feel the weakness of the nail of my little finger gorging her boob. Then the first gasp came from her mouth, even while she tongued me. I could smell that she had milk and a banana recently, maybe even a peanut butter and jelly sandwich before that. Then I noticed an urge in me. I wasn’t sure where it was coming from. Was it coming from the sun–or the moon? No. It must be coming from both as we could still hear Victor, the grouchy neighbour singing I Gotta Be Me in the back ground of what we were doing in the oddity of new darkness behind Robyn’s house, beyond her yard’s fence, in the woods. §I pulled my mouth away from her lips but caressed the side of her face with the hand that had just left her boob. I sunk down low and placed my face on the roundness of her puffy areola. Immediately the areola recessed and her nipple grew ten fold (or the like). I fiddled with it with my tongue until I could coordinate with Robyn’s gasping. She placed gentle kisses on the top of my head, running her fingers through my hair. She then offered to help me finish the tree house–if I come and talk to her tomorrow. §Suddenly the darkness was gone. It all happened in the span of a life-time during two or three minutes. The crickets stopped chirping. The birds started singing. Freddy was again silent, probably snoring away his afternoon. Robyn pulled my head away, covered her beautiful, swollen left breast with the bra, pulled down her shirt and ran off. She repeated as she ran: finish the tree-house, finish the tree-house. I watched her milky cow leap over the fence of her backyard like a gazelle. I sat down at the base of the honey locust tree that had shielded these first moments of love from the sight of others. I then slowly pulled a thorn out of my ass. I realised that I completely wasted my time with those frogs. But I had something to talk to Robyn about–if next days come.
Ok. Ok. As I write this I think I have exactly 1958KM on my Charger GX Touring. I’m sure I’ll pass the 2k mark within the next few days as a number of commutes to Köln are in the works. We also just got back from a week-long vacation on the Baltic Sea, at Germany’s most northern point. The original plan was to go by train with our bikes (my better-half as the Charger Mixte Nuvinci) but we couldn’t secure tickets for the train car where the bikes are stored. Next time we’ll have to reserve the tickets probably three to four months in advance. Since there is no way to take the bikes with our car, we went ahead and rented a midsize utility van. The cost of the van is the same as the train. Luckily the eight hour drive through German holiday/vacation season wasn’t all that bad. Someone we spoke to up north said that most Germans this year flew to the Med for their vacations anyway. Good for us.
Btw, if you’ve never been, and you have the capacity to do so, and you’re interested in nature, fresh air, beautiful brackish waters and rolling hills not unlike Tuscany, check out the Baltic Sea coastline of Germany or Denmark. Even though I’ve been living in Europe for a quarter century (sounds so much better than writing 25 years), this was the first time I was at the Ostsee (East Sea, as the Germans call it). I was not disappointed. It is stunningly beautiful up there–but you’ll also have to be tolerant of the rain and coinciding über wetness. When hanging out in the forests in the north, there is an uncanny feeling of the past that lingers around your every move. And not just a recent past. I kept thinking of vikings while there. Maybe even neanderthals. Cool!
The plan for this little getaway was to do all our local commuting with the bikes, including a days trip to Denmark via ferry. In fact, we didn’t use the utility van once. The ferry ride, for instance, took us across the Flensburg fjord. Once in Denmark we rode the 60KM trek back to Germany around the fjord. What a ride it was, too. More on that in a bit.
Back to the Charger.
Would you believe, dear worst-rider, unlike other bikes I’ve owned, the Charger GX Touring still feels brand new. The Giant TCX cross racer I purchased last summer, which has around 3000KM on it, but of course only weighs 10kilos, and I don’t ride it nearly as much anymore since purchasing the Charger, feels ten years older in comparison. Riese & Mueller have made the right choices regarding parts for these robust e-bikes, including great tires, brakes, screws, bolts, etc.
Btw, I Purchased my Charger GX in mid-February and it was (finally!) delivered at the beginning of May, 2017. I suppose, for some, two-thousand kilometres in less than four months might not be a lot. But as I’ve said in previous pseudo-reviews, we actually replaced one of our two cars with this e-bike. Since I live in an urban environment, I can easily do all my shopping, chores, errands, etc., with it. In fact, I rarely ever ride it anywhere without the Ortlieb panniers. I’m never concerned about how much the bike weighs, either. My wife calls it my SUV. Although I’m not using the front rack much, when I do use it, I’m glad it’s there. Even though the rack is only rated at 3KG, I’ve carried much more than that with ease and comfort. This is, without doubt, an extremely useful and fun vehicle.
I no longer look at the Bosch CX system range estimator to determine how far I can ride on a battery. Instead, I consider the amount of time I’ll be on the bike. The thing is, I’ve yet, even after rides of 80+KM, actually drained the entire 500W battery down to only one bar (out of five). If I’m off on a daily tour I consider whether or not I’m gonna be gone the whole-day or half-day and then determine whether or not to bring a charger–or, better yet, just carry my wife’s battery as a spare. I’m really surprised at how well the Bosch motor and battery work on this bike. It is very impressive!
On a recent trip to northern Germany that included a 50+-KM ride from Denmark back to Germany after a fjord crossing by ferry, I put the battery to its hardest test yet. I did a lot of trail riding, some mountain bike riding and a few long uphill road passages. Remember, fjords were cut out of cliffs during the ice ages. Lots of passages have to be ascended. Anyhow. At about 20KM left for the ride, just before re-entering Germany from Denmark, I hit a number of pretty steep hills. I actually put my bike on “eco” mode while my wife left her Mixte on “Tour” and, when necessary, “Sport”. I really thought I’d end up giving her my battery before we made it back to our bungalow. But that wasn’t the case. In the end, she made it home with only one bar (out of five) but i still came home with two bars. Wow.
There are not many negatives about this bike, except for the hard rear-end and the accompanying even harder Brooks saddle. So let me just say this: riding this bike is waaaaaay hard–especially if you’re off-road or you have to ride on pathways that are full of obnoxious tree root knots (which are abundant here in Düsseldorf and Köln). But get this. I love riding this bike hour after hour. The saddle and Thudbuster combination is perfect. It’s the best friggin seat I’ve ever experienced on a bike. Even though I’m up to the hardest rubber mount on the Thudbuster–and I’m still a little lost on how that thing actually works–I wouldn’t change anything on this setup. My wife’s Charger Mixte has a spring seat-post and a traditional rubber/plastic saddle. I don’t like her saddle at all (but she also hates mine). The Mixte saddle moves too much, literally shifting me backwards as the spring in the seat-post does its job. The Brooks saddle and Thudbuster, on the other hand, although not as flexible, is as comfortable as comfort can get–on a friggin e-bike! I only wish that there was more feeling from the Thudbuster.
My Brooks saddle is starting to show wear. I considered it broke-in after about 1200-1500KM. My only concern about it now is that I over did it with leather treatment. I’ve erased the raw look it had when it was new. But I’m good with that. I’m curious if the leather will start to crack and, maybe, flex more now that it’s broke-in. I’m not sure I want one of them old Brooks seats that looks like it’s been through a century of riding. Even if this saddle fails because of my inexperience in caring for it, I’m buying another one toot-sweet. Learn by doing, eh. Oh. Before I forget. I’ve tightened the leather tensioning bolt on it once (one full turn) and tightened the strings on the bottom that, I guess, are supposed to prevent it from developing wings that could push on my inner thighs.
Have I mentioned how much I love this saddle?
The thing that makes the Brooks B17 the best saddle in the universe (for worst-moi) is the fact that its thick, hard, stretched leather is the perfect place for a human to place not only his/her ass but those damn seat-bones and the infamous perineum. The leather both supports and cushions and allows you to actually sit on your seat-bones. Even after three or four hours of riding I do not get the same amount of numbness as I do with conventional seats. Heck, this saddle is even better than the fancy (Selle) race bike seat with those centre cut-outs that I have on my cross-racer.
There’s really nothing to report regarding up-keep of this bike. I’ve actually allowed myself to get a bit lazy lately when it comes to cleaning it. But I still regularly clean and oil the chain and derailleur. The chain gets a thorough cleaning every fourth or fifth ride and less thorough cleaning every other ride. Even if that’s overkill, I’m good with it. Other than adjusting distance of brake levers, there’s been nothing to do with the brakes. The rear disc brake does rub a bit, which prevents the rear wheel from turning freely when I’ve got the bike off the ground. I’m gonna have that looked at during the next service appointment. It looks like there’s no more room to the move the brake calliper to free up the disc.
As far as my choice of the “Touring” model of the Charger GX, i.e. the one with the chain and derailleur, I wouldn’t have my final drive any other way. Although I get a kick out of my wife’s Nunvinci hub, it just can’t compete with the efficiency and precision of this chain setup. I ran across a fellow Charger GX owner recently who has the Rohloff hub. Watching him struggle through gear shifting reassured me that a conventional chain with an excellent derailleur is the only way to go–even if you have to get your hands a bit greasy to maintain it.
As you can see in the pic, my rear wheel is beyond its heyday. I would say that my road to off-road riding is about 70-30. I noticed during recent mountain biking that grip isn’t as good in the rear as it once was, but it was also quite wet at times. I suppose this type of wear is to be expected for knobby tires that are mostly used on the road, which actually speaks for them. The question then becomes: what do I replace the tires with? Do I stay with knobby tires? These knobby tires do not feel like off-road tires–even on paved roads. Or do I go with more street oriented Big Ben plus tires? A bit more thought required.
Not sure when I took this pic except that it was around recent anniversary of Steve Jobs announcing the iPhone. I’m living my “internet communication device” more often than I’d like. And like everything else in this krapp world-life: nomatter.