One day, Mr. Maciek was sitting upstairs in his Męcikal cottage, drinking a glass of hot tea. Mr. Maciek was watching the snow fall outside. Suddenly, Mr. Maciek heard a gentle knock on the door. He approached it cautiously and peered through the Judas window. There was no one behind the door—the doorframe was empty. He was about to leave when he heard another knock. A beautiful girl stood behind the door. Her hair was wet, and raindrops were on her eyelashes.
-copyright (from the Polish word for "gruszba") Mumio
It's Christmas Eve morning, everyone is bustling around the house, everyone is doing something (a bit of a stretch, since it's just me and my concubine, apart from that – we don't do anything). Of course – a free place at the table, according to tradition – is kept. Everyone would prefer that this stranger not show up after all. People my age, raised on decent cabarets (Mumio), they know exactly what's going on. This woman is a gas collector in disguise on 100% – senior Eugenio. I don't have these numbers.
The woman, however, says her name is Fran Millar and she's here because I signed up for some newsletter years ago. It's very possible, if there was a discount because of it, I probably signed up. She also adds that my Festive 500 starts today, whatever that means. The conversation goes something like this:
– Maybe we can go for a bike ride?
– No, what about you, Fran?
- Well, let's go for a ride.
- Well, come on.
- Come on, get out.
– Get a grip, Fran.
– Because you won't make it 500.
– Yes, I won't overtake.
– Well, go ahead and eat it.
- Well, I'll eat it.
- But you don't drive.
- Because winter...
– What winter? What winter?
– …stresses me out.
– Winter stresses you out, fuck?! You've been riding bikes, outdoors, and Zwifts for 20 years, and it's all like blood in the sand!
– Yeah, blood, right away.
– And what is riding for?
- Like what?
– Well, what about riding?
– Well, driving as usual.
"500km, fuck! Haven't you heard of that either?!"
My expression resembles the expression of a dog I met in the village of Płęsno, which seemed to consist of one farm and from which 4 roads depart, but 3 of them end in an impassable field:
And she sits down in the corner, on an armchair. From then on, she'll sit there all the time, looking at me. Every now and then, completely uninvited, she'll also mention who else in the world has already completed the challenge. Of course, I won't ride that much. I won't be tricked. I'm not so stupid that the boss of a large, foreign corporation comes in and says, "Hey Maciek, what bet you can't ride 500 km in a week, in winter?" and I drop everything and go. I've done it before, several times in fact; you have to be crazy and have no life to do it. For what? I'm going to the bathroom.
On the toilet I see that seven of my friends have already done 70 km. Proctologist He wrote not to do that, but I still click away while sitting on the board, risking bowel cancer. Lifeless wimps. And besides, what does she think? I can't handle it, and they can? So look, British woman!
But I can't on Christmas Eve, COVID just ended, I just got to Męcikał. It's 5 degrees Celsius at home. I'll start tomorrow. Let them know.
Not only do I have endless days off, thanks to my generous employer, but the holidays have arrived in perfect weather, with no more mud and gloom, and the record-breaking frosts I'm currently writing this in haven't yet set in. So, it's going to be good.
Sylwia and I set off on the first day of Christmas. We return, cold and tired, after less than 7 kilometers. It's freezing and gray, and we haven't fully recovered from our illness. Fran says that before we even left, the first people had already finished. They'd ridden the whole thing in one fell swoop. I explain that it's unfair, because some people have summer, asphalt, a different time zone, sun, a tailwind, and expensive bikes. Before I can finish explaining, the first people in Poland have finished the distance. Every time I reach for another Christmas chocolate, Fran looks at me reproachfully. Every time I eat a crisp, she informs me that someone in the world is riding because they're a brave cyclist. So many people live outside Męcikał that someone is practically always riding somewhere – so she has no problem showing me this, building up the pressure.
But that doesn't impress me. Nothing has impressed me for a few years now. No matter what you do, someone else has already done it better. While I'm eating my crisps, someone is probably riding those 500 kilometers in a folding bike, in winter, uphill, pedaling with their ears, backwards, on one wheel... in front. To show that it's possible, to do something more, or simply out of boredom.
Fran sits in a corner where I often see a few other people. A guy who claims that when you go for a drive, you have to take new roads to color in the squares. A guy who talks about the same old new roads, but only counts the kilometers, not wearing any squares. Then they show me that I'm a worse explorer than others. A guy who adds up my annual mileage, disregarding tire width or whether I actually move, and then compares it to strangers. There's also a guy who keeps track of what I listen to all year long and then tells me how old I am, and a guy who analyzes my Lidl purchases. In fact, there are even people I've never met sitting there, explaining what I should do to be happier. It's generally a very crowded place – if I have nothing to do, I go there to hang out. There's even a guy who checks my sleep and heart rate, then tells me if I'm tired. Thanks to this, when I wake up tired, I can either confirm this and be more tired, or read that I'm not tired at all. Then I stop being tired. There's even a guy who explains to me that I shouldn't stay in the Męcikale, but in warm countries, because it's better there.
I've even had guests there for a year who know everything and have the answer to every question I ask. They sometimes lie, but it doesn't bother me at all. None of my questions are particularly important, so I can live comfortably in a lie. I don't have to think about anything anymore.
In the other corner sit sales representatives from Pedaleda, Cafe du Cycliste, Rapha, La Machine, and several other companies, reminding me that RIGHT NOW there's a huge Christmas sale on clothes. The next one isn't for another week, on New Year's Day, and the last one was about three weeks ago. They'll keep telling me this until I buy something. And when I do, they'll run a new, better sale—on the same thing. Then I'll have to return the order and order again, which, of course, out of laziness and concern for the planet, I won't do. Instead, I'll feel like Fran's ripped me off again.
Sometimes I eavesdrop on conversations going on in the corners:
– At night I sleep, sleep, sleep.
"Me too, me too!"
– And during the day I just ride and ride.
- Me and me!
And at night I sleep, sleep, sleep.
"Me too, me too!"
– And during the day I just ride and ride.
- Me and me!
- Well, I eat breakfast, eat, eat.
- Yes? Yes?
- And in the store I buy, I buy.
– Yes? Great!
- Well, I eat breakfast, eat, eat.
- Yes? Yes?
We go out on our country mountain bikes almost every day. The ride in and around Bory Tucholskie National Park is perfect. Zero people, zero trampled snow, and zero anything worth mentioning in a report. Mostly trees, lakes, and fields. When someone asks me why they'd come and what they'd see, I reply, "I don't know." And, of course, a red, frozen face, like a sailor who's spent a year at sea.
Most time spent in the cold falls into one of two states: too cold/too warm. Photos usually don't show this, but anyone who's been out cycling in winter can discern the hidden messages among the beautiful, snow-covered vistas. Crushed snow acts like ice, or perhaps even better, because it's rarely rough.
The discovery of the year is winter, loose trousers from PedaledaFinally, after all these years, my legs are warm. Discovering that I can ride without tight clothing was a pretty significant life change. I don't know what exactly changes, but the riding is completely different. I know what I'm talking about because for the past few years, I've been wearing shorts and padded shorts on bikepacking trips. Maybe people don't treat me like a cyclist then, or maybe I just don't feel that way myself.
Between Christmas and New Year's, I do 102 kilometers and it takes me 6 hours. The following week, which doesn't count anymore, I do 120 kilometers and it takes me over 9 hours. However, after a heavy snowfall, it's harder, and the kilometers seem to fly by differently. Fran asks what happened that made me fail. I tell her I don't know. Like the dachshund in the joke about not winning the race. Everything seemed to point to it being okay. I'll write online that this whole challenge is stupid, pointless, and for people with no life outside of cycling. It's unfair, unjust, and since they've allowed indoor cycling, it's no longer worthwhile. I have to write this because people will think I failed. I have 20,000 followers on Facebook, and I believe at least 19,000 of them check my progress and regularly evaluate my fitness and my life. I definitely do; they're always on my mind, wherever I am, whatever I do.
In the evening I see on Instagram that Mr. sztajfaa went to London to pick up his patch from living room Rapha's Clubhouse for completing the challenge, which he didn't receive because it had expired. A smile spreads across my face and stays there. I look at my patch from back when it still arrived in my mailbox (the physical one, with bills and leaflets) thanks to Royal Mail. There's no date on it – I give it to myself, again, for my bravery. I see Fran sitting there smiling. I'm starting to suspect she wasn't interested in whether I rode 500km, but rather that I posted the blog post and she's mentioned multiple times. Or maybe I'm being unfair and she's just happy someone got outside and rode their bike…
I'm leaving a few more photos for my future self and for you, in case you're wondering whether it's worth visiting Męcikał in winter. Just remember, photos don't tell the whole story. However, since you're reading this online, you probably already know the rule.
By the way, I don't know if you know this, but most of the toys you buy on Temu and Aliexpress may come from China, but they're made in Męcikale. Here's proof: a freshly felted Shiba inu. We're considering entering the Polish market directly:
- The text paraphrases dialogues from Dzień Świra and the Mumio cabaret: "Senior Euchenio / Gas Collector" (introduction), and the reality has been slightly exaggerated. Not in terms of numbers, of course, because that's not allowed. They are checking it.
