Ride Like a Rookie, Suffer Like You Mean It - 99km of wind, waffles (well, toast), and beginner shit done on purpose
We flipped the route, braved 55km/h winds, and rode 99km with zero expectations. No donuts, no regrets—just chaos, clarity, and a sunset worth riding for.
First thing the wind did was shove us sideways before we hit the second corner. That’s the kind of ride this was. And we brought it on ourselves.
“Beginner-friendly” my ass.
In case you missed it, we recently wrote about going back to the part where you don’t know shit. About embracing the unknown. About getting out there, even when you’re unsure, unfit, or just unmotivated. Noble idea, right?
Well, here’s the problem: when you say it out loud—especially on the internet—you kinda have to follow through.
We didn’t set out to prove anything with the ride itself—just to embrace that beginner mindset we talked about in the last post. You know, all that romantic and wide-eyed talk about starting over. But if we hadn’t put those words out there, we probably would've stayed in bed the moment we saw that wind forecast. Or at least picked a shorter route. In the past two years, that would’ve been the move. And I know exactly why.
But we did. And honestly? I’m fucking glad we did.
This ride reminded me how much shifts when you let go of the expectations you’ve unconsciously built over time. When you stop optimizing and start paying attention again. It wasn’t just the ride—it was the mindset. And for better or worse, that decision set the tone for everything that followed.
Here’s the full route on Komoot, if you want to see what we got ourselves into:
The Slow-Motion Morning Meltdown
Jana’s Whoop buzzed her out of bed. Plan: drink coffee, pack food, get dressed, roll out. Reality: existential wardrobe crises, brake noises that made us question all mechanical choices, and the classic "fuck it, I’m going back to bed" fake-out. We lubed the chains that morning—didn't clean them first. Sprayed down the brakes too, half-assed, just enough to stop the eeeekk. Beginner mindset, right? Commit to the bit. But by 10:00 we were finally out the door—where a wind gust promptly shoved us a meter sideways before we hit the second corner.
Super start. Super idea. Fucking nailed it.
Left: Boarding the first ferry, still optimistic, still upright. Middle: Crossing the Elbe, chasing tailwind and confidence. Right: Jana vs. construction dust—ride’s barely started, eyes already crying.
We caught the ferry to Finkenwerder on the damn minute, which felt like a karmic gift. (8 minutes later and we’d probably have turned around.) We'd flipped the route the night before, knowing we’d catch tailwind early and avoid a brutal, exposed headwind stretch at the very end when we’d be totally gassed. That part worked. From the ferry up until the Sperrwerk, we were cruising. No complaints. Just enough momentum to trick us into thinking we were smarter than the weather.
First stop: Sperrwerk Estemündung. Breakfast. Not because we forgot to eat at home, but because the plan was to leave early and eat on the road. You know, romantic sunrise picnic style. We did have some toast with us, and that’s what we ate there—standing around in the wind, trying to convince ourselves this was still a good idea. It wasn’t freezing, maybe 10 or 12 degrees, but the wind made it feel colder than it was. That kind of chill that sneaks under your jacket and makes everything feel a bit more miserable than it should. Nothing says 'great decision-making' like chewing stiff bread while wondering what the hell we’re doing with our lives.
Left: Wind shelter and a moment of questioning all our life choices. Jana digging for toast like it's buried treasure. Right: Found it. Finally time for breakfast.
Left: Nature’s brushstrokes—reeds dancing in the wind, blurred but bold. Right: The Elbe exposed. Low tide carving quiet patterns into the riverbed. Stillness before the surge.
Left: Windmills turning like they don’t give a damn. Right: This one did. Stopped. Looked. Let us scratch its forehead. Such beautiful creatures.
There was something freeing in not having it all figured out. No pre-ride checklist. No strategy. Just us, the bikes, and an idea. And somehow, even in that mess, it worked.
Left: Around kilometer twenty, the wind kicked up and the orchards opened up. Dust in the teeth, sidewind in the chest, and nowhere to hide. Right: “Kinda surreal like this,” Jana said. Rows of bare trees, silent and skeletal. “We have to come back when it’s in bloom.” We will.
Into the Trees, Out of Our Heads
Something shifted when we left Dollern and turned into the woods. One minute we were next to a train station and noisy roads, and the next we were deep in it—trees, a lake, silence. Jana said the transition hit her hard. The kind of scene-change that reminds you why the hell you're doing this in the first place.
Left: We dipped into the woods and everything softened. Light, wind, thoughts. Right: Just the shimmer of water and the crunch of leaves. Silence that felt like a reward.
Riding into the wind. No cars, no tractors — just the raw power of sidewinds whipping up dust from the dry ground, pushing it ahead of us like a curtain we had to pass through.
South of the Feerner Moor, we had a short flowy section that felt like breathing again. Still cold, still a push—but softer. Like a little grace in the grind.
The path ahead looked familiar, but somehow it didn’t feel the same. Maybe that’s the beginner lens, reappearing. That moment where you stop narrating and just notice. The sound of tires over soft ground. The way light slants through branches. The quiet between words.
But then came the fields.
And the wind.
And the soul-sucking.
Left: A low-angle look at wind turbines looming over tightly wrapped crop tunnels — an industrial countryside kind of symmetry. Right: Quiet gravel in the woods. After hours of sidewinds and open landscapes, the trees felt like shelter.
Final Boss: Wind
From halfway on, it got ridiculous. The Karoo said 36 km/h average wind. The weather report said gusts up to 55. It felt worse. Jana said it reminded her of riding in Denmark, except back then the bags weighed her bike down enough to not get launched sideways. Not today.
The wind didn’t just push us around—it drained us. Like it had fangs. It felt personal. It felt like getting yelled at by a sky that just woke up angry.
Left: Mid-ride pause. Bike down. Legs fried. Everything still. Middle: Through the KOOs. Not just a trick shot—this is how the ride felt. Filtered, fogged, a little off-color. Like vision softened by effort and wind and 47 kilometers of second-guessing. Right: No bike. No movement. Just lines, light, and presence. Didn’t need more.
Left: That moment you pause, not from fatigue, but because the forest insists you look up. Right: A canopy of branches, tangled and bare, reaching into the sky like they’ve got stories to tell.
Left: Fluffy cattails catching the last light like nature’s own lanterns. Middle: Pick a path, any path—Frankenmoor or Bargstedt, the legs will complain either way. Right: The bike waits, half-hidden, plotting its next ambush on our quads.
We’d already checked a cemetery a few kilometers earlier—no water there either. Somewhere around Nottensdorf (we think), we confirmed the shitty truth: cemetery taps don’t work until April. New plan: beg for water. Shoutout to the kind guy at the volunteer fire station who filled our bottles. I thanked him with a shit pun: “You put out fires, and thirst. Hero.”
Left: One of many old farmhouses we rolled past—timeless, symmetrical, and still somehow cozy in the brisk wind. Right: Crossing one of countless little bridges—just us, the creek, and that late winter light wrapping everything in gold.
We limped through Buxtehude. Then hit a 5km gravel stretch by the railway. We’d ridden it once before, in summer, and it was stunning—golden, calm, almost too perfect. Yesterday? A wall of air. It felt like we were standing still, legs like flood-wet sandbags, hearts full of doubt. Jana said her tank was empty too.
I popped a caffeine gel out of desperation. Didn't help much, but placebo is better than nothing. Jana was in the same pit. And just when Karoo said we’d turn out of the wind… the surface turned to grass and mud.
I said something out loud then. Something like: "A year ago, we wouldn’t have even left the house today." And it was true. But I’m also glad we didn’t stay in. This was hard. It cracked something open. And I needed that.
This was also the kind of effort that makes you see the edges of yourself. Not in a dramatic, “this is too much” way—but in the micro-decisions: Do I shift down now? Do I coast a second longer? Do I say anything at all?
Left: Legs like sandbags. Not quite shaky—just the kind of heavy that makes every pedal stroke feel like a dare. Right: One of my favorite gels, usually. Today? A morale boost wrapped in foil. Didn't do much, but I’ll still buy it again. Hope tastes minty, I guess.
Swamp Dreams & Donut Disappointments
Later, we crossed a construction site—some kind of bridge-to-nowhere situation—and eventually found our way back toward Finkenwerder. We thought it’d be poetic to ride the Süderelbe section we skipped that morning. It wasn’t. It was a swamp. We ended up pushing our bikes along a ditch, wondering who the hell plans this stuff (us, obviously).
Left: Fading legs, fading light. We were 80-something kilometers in and fully cooked—but still rolling. Middle: We saw the 'No Entry' signs. And ignored them. Straight through the construction site, dust, fences, whatever. We were too tired to give a shit. Right: End of day. End of ride. Just enough light left to remember why we do this in the first place.
At Rüschpark, waiting on the ferry to Teufelsbrück, Jana found a grate to crouch behind, using it as a windbreak. Her legs were goosebumps. The sun dropped low. Cold crept in. She didn’t say much. Neither did I.
Left: Not talking. Just sitting. The legs needed rest, but the brain needed silence. Middle: Waiting for the ferry like it was the final boss. Across the water: warmth, home, maybe donuts. (Spoiler: no donuts.) Right: Salt rings, dust crust, and socks that used to be white. These legs earned their miles today.
But that light.
The harbor turned orange and gold. The kind of gold that doesn’t ask for your attention—it demands it. One of those rare moments where the ride stops punching you and just lets you look. I took a photo of it, of course. But also—there could have been more. I used to stop more, back when we started riding together. Back when it wasn’t about making it home before dark or rationing energy for the return leg. Even then, I was already ten years into being a pro photographer—but on those early rides, I let myself shoot freely. Not because it was the perfect frame. Just because it felt like something. Somewhere along the way, as the routes got longer, I stopped pausing for those moments. Not because I didn’t see them. I just didn’t stop. I didn’t let myself. And that’s what I want back—the time, the space, the beginner head that says: 'This is worth it. You can stop for this.'
We rolled the last few kilometers home in the cold. I had one last genius idea: donuts.
Brammibal’s was closed. Of course it was.
Getting the bikes up the stairs felt like a final test.
We passed, barely.
Takeaway?
Don’t let your ego plan your ride.
Don’t trust the wind.
Pet the damn horses.
And maybe next time… eat breakfast before you leave.
We said we’d ride like beginners. That didn’t mean easy. That didn’t mean pretty.
It meant letting the ride happen, even when it sucked.
It meant asking dumb questions like "Why are my brakes screaming?" and "What the actual fuck are we doing this to ourselves for?"
It meant not knowing.
And maybe that’s what kept us moving: not trying to control it all. Not riding through the wind, but riding with it, even when it knocked us sideways.
We didn’t get the donuts. But we got the story.
And next time? I’ll bring the camera. And I’ll stop. Even if we’re late. Even if it breaks the rhythm. Because that’s the point.
Want to see where this all went down? Check the full route on Komoot
Thanks for riding along.
Until the next one,
—Björn