The world is one big boombox. The bass is thumping in the café, someone’s on a hands-free call on the train, and a Bluetooth speaker is blaring in the park. There’s hardly a place where your ears aren’t put to the test. I call this acoustic pollution. Noise is the fine dust of the soul.
And I no longer want to be part of the problem.
Especially not in the woods. I want to move silently amongst the beech trees and ferns, like a buzzard gliding through the air. But then my rear wheel starts to whir. Or rather: it screeches. Like a circular saw. Of all places, right where I’d prefer to hear nothing but real bees.
And yet I used to be a fan of freewheeling myself. I loved it when my back wheel would whir as soon as I stopped pedalling. Passers-by would jump out of the way, and slower cyclists would swerve onto the verge. I thought that was a sign of respect. Nowadays, I suspect they just wanted some peace and quiet.
I had a defining moment in Munich-Forstenried. Just after six in the morning, I was racing through the A95 tunnel. My freewheel screeched as if a rescue helicopter were about to land. A man lying in a sleeping bag under the bridge sat up and shouted after me: “Blimey, are you mad?”
A valid question. I hadn’t asked myself that until then.
And yet the technology is fascinating. Industry Nine Hydra with a few hundred metal hooks, Chris King with its ‘Angry Bee’ whirring, NonPlus or DT Swiss with a 54-tooth ratchet: engineering masterpieces that demand to be heard. If you’re after even more noise, reduce the grease, use thinner oil or opt for tall carbon rims to act as a resonance chamber. The freehub becomes a metal concert. The cyclist, a mobile warning system.
The message is clear: Listen up, here I come! And if that’s not enough, I’ll just turn it up a notch – acoustically, of course.
Der SPIEGEL once summed it up as follows: ‘Is the freewheel the sports exhaust of road cyclists?’ Spot on. Although I’d prefer to leave the gender issue aside. Women, too, sometimes let their rear wheels screech. The desire for recognition knows no gender boundaries.
Of course, you can sell all this as an improvement in security. If you’re loud, you’ll be heard.
But does that mean you have to sound like a major building site?
In any case, I’ve had enough. In town, my own screeching gets on my nerves; on country roads, too. In the woods, it’s simply embarrassing. Recently, I was hurtling down a forest track from the Feldberg in the Black Forest. My rear wheel was causing an acoustic massacre. Walkers were coming towards me. I looked away. I felt so out of place with that high-pitched clattering, as if I were carrying a booming ghetto blaster through the abbey church.
Just plain embarrassing.
So enough of this threatening behaviour on the rear wheel. I don’t need an audible show of strength. I don’t need to announce my presence three bends in advance.
But perhaps those living near cycle paths can breathe a sigh of relief now. Autumn is on its way, and the dreary weather is setting in. Fair-weather gravel riders and road cyclists are disappearing onto home trainers and into spinning classes. The paths are emptying. The background noise is dying down.
The time of silence begins.
My time is beginning.
Dimitri Lehner
Editor
