I'm standing in the middle of the forest on the beach, and there's a cheeseburger on Mount Everest. Organic beef (medium roasted), crispy toasted bun halves, cheddar cheese, BBQ sauce. So much for the starting point.
It's four o'clock in the morning, a Friday. The cold makes my body shiver as if I'm standing on a vibrating plate. Only three degrees above zero. Silent and billowing, my condensed breath mixes with the black of the night. Awesome realism, I think. This must have been exactly what it was like for Edmund Hillary and Tenzing Norgay when they set off for the summit of Mount Everest at dawn on 29 May 1953. Thirsty for action and disgusted at the same time, I stare into the diffuse tunnel of light that my handlebar lamp is burning into the darkness. It's crazy what strange things you can come up with to feel like a tough, intrepid adventure biker. 8848 metres of altitude in one ride. From the seashore right into the death zone. Just to eat a cheeseburger. What madness!
Of course it's all rubbish. The forest I'm standing in is only the beach in my mind. The zero point that marks the beginning of the hunt for metres in altitude on Mount Everest, on the summit of which a cheeseburger is not really waiting for me, but only symbolically. As soon as the 8848 vertical metres are on the computer display, I want to treat myself to a reward dripping with BBQ sauce. At the "Bandito Grill" burger joint, located directly on my way home. The basic structure of the human brain works like that of the neighbour's lumpy dog. It can only be lured out of its reserve with a treat. The fact that I'm not cycling through the Himalayas, but through my home turf, adds extra flavour. The longest climb adds up to just over 100 metres in altitude. But that also has its good sides: Pulmonary embolism, death from frostbite, altitude sickness - at least that won't do me in.
Will the summit assault work? I have no idea. But that's the point. Just do it. There's nothing better than when curiosity and madness meet. So click on the pedals and off we go.
7:19 am, 69 kilometres, 1830 metres in altitude: The Tremalzo Pass is reached.
So to all intents and purposes, but somehow I had imagined the moment to be more exciting. More powerful, more glamorous. No panorama. Just half-bare deciduous trees, through whose branches the first rays of the day's sunshine are struggling listlessly. I've been circling the same square for hours, because I have to avoid every pointless flat metre. My brain is already starting to grumble. It seems to sense the teasing. My mate "Kante" once told me that when making out with his girlfriend Corina, he sometimes imagines the Finnish gothic metal queen Tarja Turunen lolling in his arms in a studded, bat-black nubuck leather ball gown. Pretending to storm towards Everest in a suburban German mixed forest is a bit like that. But what can you do when you only have mini mountains on your doorstep but want to fatten up your legs with metres of altitude?
10:18 am, 110 kilometres, 2962 metres in altitude: the Zugspitze! Germany's highest mountain.
What a miserable climb. I opted for the legendary Everst South Route. Khumbu Icefall, Valley of Silence, then up the Lhotse flank to Cheeseburger. But although I've already been sweating in the saddle for six and a half hours, even the Everest base camp at 5364 metres is still a long way off. In the Everest Challenge of the training app Strava, participants have twenty days to collect 8848 metres in altitude. In the everesting.cc challenge, you have to complete it in one day. And on one and the same route, which you cycle up and down non-stop. Apparently, the website is run by sadists who want to feast on the participants' mental decline. That would drive me crazy. It's enough to make my legs go into crisis. I want to ride wherever I like. Roundabouts, swings, crossings. The main thing is that something happens on the computer display.
14:58, 171 kilometres, 4810 metres in altitude: Mont Blanc, the highest peak in the Alps.
I cranked myself into an ecstatic rush of altitude metres. Every metre of the route became second nature. The winding, wonderfully overgrown trail downhill. The tough gravel section that sends a surge of lactate through my thighs every time. The winding path that leads back to the descent. It's all great fun. The natural wonder of man! You stuff a banana in at the top and then your legs start pedalling. I don't know what the point of these e-bikes is. Whirring uphill with your sweat glands out and then imagining yourself to be a tough summit hero. Biking for crybabies. I will soon be launching a jersey collection with the slogan "Stromkraft? No, thanks!". In general: everyone trembles like a leaf as soon as they stand in front of a climb. Shuttle, cable car, motors. It's all downhill on the way up. A heavy blow for my legs. They had always considered themselves an important part of the bike movement. Would Edmund Hillary and Tenzing Norgay have taken the escalator, I ponder as I greedily tear open a gel bag with my teeth.
17:03, 187 kilometres, 5642 metres in altitude: Elbrus, Europe's highest mountain.
The power in my thighs has dwindled noticeably. A feeling of creeping dejuicing pervades every fibre of my body. My head is also under stress. The psycho department wants to renegotiate. A cheeseburger as a summit bonus is not enough, my morale and willpower colleagues inform me. I promise myself a gourmet evening at the Greek restaurant and continue to suffer - lonely and silent.
17:28, 194 kilometres, 5895 metres in altitude: Kilimanjaro, the highest mountain massif in Africa.
That damn rise. As cute as it is, it shows no mercy. The sun is slowly making its way towards the end of the day. And I'm still circling around in the forest without making any significant progress towards the 8,000 metre altitude mark. The grandad, whose semi-detached house I've now passed almost sixty times, is already looking after me with a quizzical expression. Oh my god. I might be travelling for days before I reach the cheeseburger. I'll probably fall into a kind of gyroscopic delirium and keep on pedalling until the end of my days. Just on and on. Up down up down. My body will adapt to the harsh conditions in the forest and get its energy from the humidity in the air. At some point, the semi-detached grandpa will inform the press, whereupon ZDF tabloid Sandra Maria Gronewald and her camera crew will come by every Friday to enquire about the current altitude for "hallo deutschland". People in faraway countries will be telling stories about the bearded madman who rides around in circles on his mountain bike in a forest near Munich - driven mad by a craving for cheeseburgers. That's the way it's going to be.
20:50, 223 kilometres, 6962 metres in altitude: Aconcagua, the highest mountain outside Asia.
Even with her eyes closed, Corina doesn't become Tarja Turunen. It's pitch black again. My legs actually feel as if I've scaled the roof of the Argentinian Andes in an unbridled par force ride. But my head calls my bluff. To him, I've just been travelling up the same hill all day. That damn tormentor. But he's right. I ride down to ride up again, only to hurtle straight back down. I drink water to sweat it out again. I'm cooking in the devil's hamster wheel! The route is great, but unsuitable. Only 400 metres in altitude per hour. To make it up Everest now, the Chicago Bulls would have to send their puffy, sex goddess-like cheerleaders over to cheer me to the 8848 metre mark to the sound of relaxation-denying booming beats. And even then, I would break the International Date Line. The mental death zone! I stare hatefully at the altimeter. Where does ambition end and bollocks begin? That reminds me: There are also delicious cheeseburgers on the Aconcagua. In a burger joint called "Bandito Grill". Yes, really! What a coincidence. Let's go there.
ADVENTURE ON EVERY DOORSTEP
There is a Mount Everest on every doorstep. Or a Gobi Desert. Or a Kokopelli trail. All you need is a bike and a little imagination. Three examples of bikers who prefer to experience their adventures on their home turf.
Everesting, Lake Constance (Slim Gahm Drid, Bohlingen)
Whilst looking for a way to train for a 24-hour race, I came across "Everesting". This involves cycling up and down a climb until you have covered 8848 metres in altitude. I did this on my local mountain in Bohlingen am Schienerberg, near Lake Constance. 50 times 183 metres in altitude, 164 kilometres, 9800 calories. The original snapshot even turned into a fundraising campaign: 6611 euros for the earthquake victims in Nepal.
Rennsteig, Thuringia (Thomas Taut, Langenwetzendorf)
I love bike adventures. But as a family man, I can't travel all the time, so I like to think up something crazy nearby. The crossing of the Erzgebirge mountains followed by the Rennsteig was something very special for me. The bare figures speak for themselves: 525 kilometres, 10500 metres in altitude, 35 hours of riding time. I spent the two short nights in a minimalist sleeping bag in a refuge and in the hammock of a children's playground. A fantastic tour!
Pilgrimage route, Brandenburg (Thomas Strobel, Berlin)
There are hardly any mountains where I live. But beautiful landscapes that are worth visiting in all four seasons. Perfect for micro-adventures. I prefer to drive the whole weekend and spend the night outdoors. The Mecklenburg Lake District, for example, is like Sweden for me. There's a pilgrimage route there that hardly anyone knows about. I set off on Saturday after closing time and then cycle 170 kilometres through the lake district. Then a beer in front of the tent in the evening. Perfect!
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