Bratwurst debates
When Lucas undressed in the center of the little town’s square, Ferdi and I hadn’t yet forgotten almost shivering to death during the night. We had rearranged the wooden bench and table and had consumed our fresh bakery goods when Lucas, utterly unbothered, decided to reset himself layer by layer in the open air.
This moment—absurd, hilarious, quintessentially Lucas—was just another marker in the strange dreamlike reality of a cycling overnighter. Time compresses on these rides. One day you’re navigating perfect gravel through the quiet of the Thüringer Wald, legs spinning, lungs full, laughing at nothing in particular. The next, you’re clutching at every spare layer you own, bargaining with the cold, contorting yourself into a bivy on a wooden bench while one of your friends lays in near-naked defiance against the elements.
We had set out from Bamberg to Erfurt by train, excited for an escape along the Rennsteig. It wasn’t just about riding—it was about stepping into a space where the usual concept of time didn’t apply. We passed lakes, stopped for cake (to keep our cake-life-balance in check), and pushed deeper into the forest, the trees swallowing us in their stillness. At some point, our conversation became just as much a rhythm as the pedaling—banter filling the gaps, laughter breaking the silence.
Then night fell.
It was beautiful, sure. The kind of deep, uninterrupted darkness that city life doesn’t allow. But it was also brutal. The cold crept in with a quiet malice. I layered up, cocooning myself in a rain jacket wrapped around my feet for wind protection. Ferdi added an emergency blanket to his already extensive layering system. Lucas, meanwhile, stuck to his boxer shorts and T-shirt, probably sweating while we battled for survival.
Morning couldn’t come fast enough. We brushed our teeth in silence, half-awake, stiff, layering up with whatever we had left. We passed little huts—actual shelters, a reminder of the things we had not checked for the evening before. But the descent into town was flooded with golden light—warm, soft, reassuring—bringing Ferdi and me back to life.
Breakfast was a triumph. Warm pastries, strong coffee, a wooden bench repositioned for maximum morning-light ambiance. And then Lucas, in his full comfort and confidence, decided it was time for a full wardrobe change, right there in the square. It was so perfectly in character that we barely blinked. Just another moment on a ride between friends.
The rest of the ride was a mix of rough trails, existential debates over Thüringer versus Coburger Bratwurst with every stranger we passed and observing how the answers changed before crossing back into Franconia. We walked our bikes through a forest, laughed some more, and finally arrived at Ferdi’s mum’s house, where cake once again restored our spirits.
These trips reduce life, to simplicity, a small tribe, less worry, no notifications. Phones exist merely to capture a moment when a camera isn’t at hand. Maybe it’s the life we naturally are designed for? Maybe it’s about finding out how little you really need. Or maybe it’s just about having stories to tell, moments to share with a small circle? Maybe this is actually life?
Analogue photos taken by my dear friend Ferdi.
