Baschi doesn't make Monday any better

There are days when everything is shit. After a perfect weekend with friends, I sit on Monday with muscle soreness in the VW van on my way to my dry-stone walls. I'm sure that Christof, the top athlete, rode the entire distance backwards on his unicycle after our farewell. I, on the other hand, am a wreck and Baschi's whining at 7:30 am doesn't make the day any better. Since I'm not really good at biking yet and the sense of balance apparently decreases with old sacks, an occasional fall in the green is part of it. Usually, my bike doesn't tip downhill, where I would land gently in fragrant alpine herbs after a 30-centimeter fall, but downhill, where I would be impaled by fir branches after a 10-meter free fall. Luckily, Christof not only has it in his calves, but in case of emergency he could also put my dislocated jaw back in its proper position as a dentist. My dear fellow bikers ride high steps with a grin on their face, take a selfie and clap their hands with joy, while I almost shit my pants.

Of course, I know that no master ever fell from the sky and that patience, perseverance and sweat are an unbeatable combination for success. As an expert in dry stone wall courses, I preach to my disciples like a messiah that they should not compare themselves to others, not let themselves be stressed and simply enjoy the day. After all, tangerines are not tomatoes and motorically impaired over-40s are not artistic gymnasts in their twenties. I no longer feel completely like a DAU (Dümmster anzunehmender User - dumbest assumable user) of bike trails and I am even a little proud to have defied this path of a thousand possible deaths.

After wild adventures in Canada and on the bike, cruel everyday life has caught up with me again. But after writing down these words, this day doesn't smell quite as bad anymore. And yet: Monday remains Monday and Baschi is a crybaby.