...and then, it was chocolate Europe: 2021-02-01 18:00 (UTC)

There are many types of chocolate.

The readers of the website already have extensive knowledge of, and have known for a long time what a chocolate is not — for instance it's not when the first wheel of the motorcycle launches into the air, but when a 100 km/h road suddenly decelerates to 60 km/h and turns into cobblestone in the corner.

Kaunertal was not chocolate. In similar circumstances the whole body and mind work exclusively on the solution, you won't realize to do anything other else.

Further browsing of pasttime memories recalls this story, which easily could be the so far chocolate-most. No video or picture was taken, since the camera wasn't on the bike at this time, and this story would neither be visually particularly spectacular.

I was on a smaller trip to Bratislava, and had the two-nights accommodation on the streets of Petřin. This so far would sound as an easy story, the Slovak Buda side, the view must be great to the river and the city. The bike was basically equipped with full luggage, all in the back, the backpack on my back. It hardly was overpacked, yet the light but vertically expanding clothes bag on the first floor offered a good chance of swinging.

Realizing the whole situation hit me just like Noah's inundation, only the heavenly plumber forgot to notify me.

What happened was, although I envisioned the light hills of Buda, yet the accommodation came into view on a brutal 30 degrees slope street, not much having highway quality but at least also had a slight curve too. Such street, where even by walking you look up with your neck stretching back. Such street, where you arrive after a not demanding, yet 4 hours of ride. And oh yes, obviously the accommodation was around the topper part. I stopped about one or two house down away, with such thoughts of park down the bike and ring the bell — but this never happened. After putting down the stand and leaning the bike with its both full dry and wet weight on it, the only thing happened was: …KKKKKKRRRRKKKRR……KKRRRRKKKRRRRR……KKKKRRRRRRKKKKRRRR…. It wasn't my daily prayer to Cthulhu, but for people who don't speak motorcycle language it means in English that the bike clawing-clinging slid backwards on the asphalt.

What can one do now? The story isn't coming from yesterday but bicycle and motorcycle engineers get my huge respect for inventing two brakes: my fixed left leg fully held the bike, but to lift my right leg even for a second from the ground and dance over the brake pedal — it was an immensely instable issue - so the bike was held back only with the front brake.

Which was all nice and great — but a stalemate.

All bikers (by self, safety-training, car driver similarities) know how to start on a slope:

One can do all the above with the front brake too — but this wasn't the time to play.

This was the plan. In practice, the slope made the bike so instable, that the lightest move made it swaying here-and-there and slid backwards. And the main purpose of the biker boots, everybody already knows that quite well — including their minimal mountain climber skills too. Happiness in disguise, the accommodation had its gate already open this time, so I was relieved that from here I only need to shoot the bike through the gate to the flat parking spot.

Which was yet farther than the bridge, as I had two possibilities:

I remained with Plan Batman, although still had to stabilise the not-so-stable situation. Meaning on the busy street with the front brake, with the rear view mirrors, with very cautious body and head moves along with frozen into a geometrically perfect triangle, I rolled back to a lower point — where finally found a free spot on the other side of the road and I could align the rear wheel to the curb to stop the descension.

The story turns into an easy pleasure ride from here, of course with evening tales like How to do a very tight uphill turn back on a 30 degrees slope with luggage, but without stopping, choking, falling over? — but I took also this challenge upon first attempt, so I finally made through the gate where I recalled to breath again.

The moral of the story
Cold hands, cold pulse, cold head.

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