Back to the Part Where You Don’t Know Shit

“The power of showing up as a rookie. Of being curious instead of competent.”

Chris’s Letter and the Shift It Sparked

Chris talked about the joy of not knowing. About showing up with zero expectations and no plan. About doing something just because it pulls you in — even if you have no idea what the fuck you’re doing.

And it made something click.

I actually had a different post lined up for today — another entry from our Vestkystruten ride diary. But this morning, Chris dropped a new edition of his Das Z Letter, and the moment I read it, the plan changed. His words hit something raw, something real. Not because the idea was new to me, but because it gave language to a feeling I’ve been circling for a while now.

If you don’t know Chris, you might want to. He’s one of those rare people who doesn’t write to prove anything — he writes to explore. A runner, a thinker, the founder of Willpower Running, and someone I’ve known since the late ’90s.

Back then, we were both orbiting the hardcore scene — DIY shows, zines, sweat-drenched venues where everything felt vital. We first connected through message boards — yeah, those — trading ideas, music, and probably a lot of bad takes. Eventually, my band played a show in Munich, where Chris lived, and we finally met in person.

That whole scene created the foundation for so many lasting connections. Some faded, some re-emerged years later — but the depth of it never really disappears. We’ve stayed in touch ever since. I’ve followed his journey — as a runner, a writer, a question-asker.

And he’s one of the reasons this whole blog-slash-newsletter even exists. Before that, I was just tossing thoughts into the void, hoping maybe someone out there was listening. Now we hit “send,” and hope it lands somewhere with meaning.

“To remember what it feels like to not know what the hell you’re doing, and to find joy in that space.”

Chris’s post wasn’t some polished manifesto. It was an invitation — a reminder — to step back into the mindset of a beginner. To remember what it feels like to not know what the hell you’re doing, and to find joy in that space.

That struck a nerve. Because lately, I’ve been wrestling with that same shift — how the unfamiliar becomes familiar, then invisible.

When the New Becomes Numb

From a brain-wiring perspective, this makes sense. Our minds crave efficiency. What once took attention and effort eventually becomes automatic. It helps us survive — but it also dulls our sense of wonder.

Novelty hits us with dopamine. It lights us up. But as routines settle in, that novelty fades, and the spark goes with it. We adapt — and in doing so, we stop noticing.

“Boredom doesn’t live in the thing itself — it lives in the way we look at it.”

There’s a concept I’ve always liked: the idea that to stay fully alive, we need to keep rotating our perspective — even within the same surroundings. Because boredom doesn’t live in the thing itself — it lives in the way we look at it.

So maybe the goal isn’t always to chase something new. Maybe it’s to learn how to see the old with new eyes.

Not by going farther — but by arriving more openly.

I think that’s what it means to be a beginner.

Not someone without experience — but someone who refuses to let experience kill their sense of awe.

Adaptation, Attention, and the Art of Noticing

And there’s science to back this up. Psychologists call it hedonic adaptation — the way we quickly get used to even the most amazing experiences. That perfect route, that epic descent, that moment the sky opens up and you feel something shift inside you — eventually, your brain says: yeah, seen it.

So we start chasing more. Bigger. Harder. Faster.

But maybe the answer isn’t more. Maybe it’s deeper. Maybe it’s slower.

Mindfulness research suggests that the act of noticing itself can interrupt that adaptation. Noticing. Not in passing. Actively, deliberately.

Not tuning out the familiar — but tuning back into it.

That’s a skill I want to sharpen. The ability to see what I’ve seen a hundred times and still feel something. The texture of the gravel. The shift in light as clouds move. The sound of tires on cold tarmac at sunrise.

“Maybe wonder isn’t a thing that just shows up. Maybe it’s a muscle.”

A Ride We Thought We Knew

We felt that shift last year on the Vestkystruten.

We’d ridden it before — heading north, all the way to Skagen. That time, everything was fresh. But on the return trip, riding south toward home, the route technically hadn’t changed — but everything felt different.

Same hills, flipped. Same towns, different light.

“Novelty doesn’t always mean new terrain. Sometimes it’s just a shift in direction.”

How Familiarity Creeps In

When Jana and I first started riding together, every road was an adventure. We didn’t care about distance or weather or logistics. We just went. No structure. No expectations. Just legs and wheels and curiosity.

Every sunrise felt earned. Every wrong turn was a story.

But over time, new became known.

We got better. Smarter. More strategic. And in the process, something slipped through the cracks.

We know the routes now. We know the headwinds, the shortcuts, the dead ends. And sometimes — more often than we’d like to admit — we stay in bed. Not because we’re tired. But because the unknown feels harder to find.

I Want It Back

And honestly? I miss it.

I miss that hunger to explore. That buzz in the chest when you roll into the unknown. That quiet little “holy shit” when the light hits just right and you realize you have no idea where you are — and that’s exactly the point.

I want that back. Not the inexperience. The mindset.

I want to ask dumb questions. Take the weird road. Get muddy. Get it wrong.

I want to feel that wild joy again — the kind that only comes when nothing is planned and everything is possible.

Stumbling on Purpose

We don’t talk enough about the value of not knowing what you’re doing. Of stumbling. Of starting over. Of doing something just because it pulls you in — not for content, not for a plan, not for progress.

That’s the kind of energy I want to hold onto.

That’s what Chris reminded me of. And for that, I’m grateful.

Tomorrow, We Ride

Tomorrow, we’re riding a route we’ve never done before — heading into a part of the region we haven’t really explored. The temperature’s climbing. Spring’s cracking its knuckles. We might get slammed with 55 km/h headwinds.

But we’re trying not to give a fuck. And maybe that’s part of the beginner mindset, too.

The days are stretching out. The light’s turning gold again. And we’re ready to see what’s out there.

There will be photos. But not rushed ones.

“Tomorrow, I want to leave the house with an explorer’s mind, not a cyclist’s checklist.”

I want to take my time with the camera. Frame things with care. Notice the little stuff. Let the road surprise me again.

Packed and Present

I’m packing the saddle bag again — the Arschrakete, as they lovingly call it in Germany. The “ass rocket.” It sticks out under the saddle like a little booster, stuffed with snacks and layers and everything you need to turn a ride into a full day out.

There’ll be something good to eat. Maybe cake. Maybe something warm. Because this isn’t about performance. It’s about presence.

It’s about making a day of it — not just ticking off another ride. It’s about feeling like we’re back at the beginning. Where everything was worth stopping for.

There will be words. There will be stories. All of it.

Because sometimes, the most radical thing you can do…
is not know what the fuck you’re doing.