Gravelondo. A legendary meeting for Tricity's bike enthusiasts. Unspoken rules, rituals, customs. No one really knows who organizes them. They appear out of nowhere. Snow or rain, they fly like moths to a flame. And they fiercely fight for honor and glory. The toughest riders, with faces marked by tens of thousands of kilometers. In their tired eyes, passion still burns; in their red ears, the wind's whistle and truck roars echo forever.
In autumn and winter, every Saturday morning, while most normal people turn over in bed, they dutifully gather in the middle of the forest. Amidst the grayness, the colorful outfits of the brave stand out. There are usually dozens of them, forming small groups, chatting, with the only interruption being the loud clicking of clipless pedals.
Who are these people? Where do they come from? We'll introduce you to a few of the brave ones who started it all.
The main figure of this secret circle is a generational cyclist is Michal B. A wonder child of two pedals, always the strongest, always instilling fear in the peloton. His emaciated body, worn from years of abusing a strychnine and coffee mix, is clad in women's-sized cycling gear with logos of long-gone sponsors. Disqualified from the Pro Tour, he seeks solace in amateur leagues. His stone face never shows any emotions.
Łukasz Z. A talented athlete with a baby face who squandered his professional career. The sad tale of this lost man was written by technology. Addicted to writing very long texts, he is always late for all starts. A man of a massive build, struggling with obesity for years, a direct result of overdosing on intravenous vitamin C infusions. Daily, he steals car rims.
Szymon K. An aging cyclist clinging to the last chance given by modern chemistry. Always late because his Saturday mornings start with counting the money he made selling stolen bikes to friends. The truth is, the only wheels that interest him are gold coins.
Tomasz C. A mature man with a boyish face, just out of high school. A man who, under the guise of running a shipping company, smuggles prostitutes to Arab countries. Despite his extensive cycling experience, he often crashes or ends up in a ditch. When he feels the rivals are pulling away, he stages scenes of losing his water bottle, using it as an excuse for others to wait for him. No one ever waits.
Bartosz P. An intriguing character, a man of unknown origin, though his accent suggests Francophone countries. Definitely the strongest rider. When not hungover, he can even outpace the leader. It is known that he currently works for a company producing animal feed supplements, so one can only guess what 'medicines' he gives his friends.
They usually start off calmly. The atmosphere in the peloton might seem idyllic to an outsider. The men, like cooks in the Gromada hotel canteen, serve each other jokes. There are boasts about who trains less or who hasn't been on a bike longer. The riders often pride themselves on who has a bigger hangover.
But usually, after just a few dozen minutes, the pace picks up.
Because Michal B. makes it a point of honor to drop the entire group of his 'students,' soon half the peloton is frothing at the mouth. Bloody discharges from the ears usually start in the second hour. Those who can't keep up the pace fall by the roadside, writhing in convulsions. As training usually takes place in autumn and winter, in low temperatures, their suffering doesn't last long.
The few who make it to the end fight for first place at the imaginary finish line. The men tense like garden hoses that can never be coiled properly in the cold.
It's at this point, a few hundred meters from the finish, that the pace usually becomes frantic. The combined power that could run a small upholstery workshop seems uncontrollable. Carbon frames bend and creak, power meters show four-digit readings.
The effort is so immense that for a moment the cyclists lose their sense of place and time. Despite the complete silence, they think they hear the cheers of fans. Despite everyone not caring about this race, the old geezers who manage to reach the front are already counting how they'll spend the winnings.
But soon after, reality hits, and the cyclists, with their heads down, disperse in silence. With the awareness of hopelessness and lack of prospects in professional sports. But it doesn't matter, they come back again next week, and the whole story repeats itself.
That's what Gravelondo is like.
