The heat is unbearable, the thermometer is flirting with 40°C, and it feels like a storm is coming. After a week with my granddaughter—who requires constant attention and asks “But why?” roughly three times a minute—I finally have a rare moment: an hour. An hour just for me. A footbike Ride Through the Fields
I push my Kostka scooter out of the garage. Not the electric kind, with tiny wheels for hobbits, but the honest, fitness-grade Trip Max. This one doesn’t forgive laziness—it rewards you with freedom. Our rides follow strict rules: no headphones, no timers, no performance apps (well, mostly). Just me, her, and the roads I’ve known for decades.
Within a few hundred meters, I feel my mind clearing. The wind in my hair pushes out the heat, the first drops of sweat appear, and so do the flies… I don’t mind them—yet. My body’s sweating, my brain switches off autopilot. And suddenly, I’m there. In the fields around Slovakia, where nothing monumental stands, but everything truly, authentically lives.
Wheat on the left, sugar beet on the right. I’d love to crumple a stalk in my hand, but ever since politicians began squeezing grain in front of cameras with “concerned and understanding” faces, I’ve developed a mild allergy. At least I know I’m holding wheat, not corn—which not everyone can say. Don’t disturb. We’re harvesting here.
Stravoholic
The Trip-Data Addict. On the dirt road to the airfield, I overtake a combine harvester. Not that I want to race him—but I really don’t want to breathe in the dust and chaff his monster-machine belches out in this heat.
Once upon a time, I’d have sprinted—not because I had to, but because someone passed me. Back in my performance-related days, I tracked everything: time, distance, speed, power. If someone overtook me, they were toast. Assuming I could catch them. Today? I just veer under some trees. There’s more shade there.
Solitude Heals
People today claim they don’t have time. But that’s not true. Everyone has the same amount. They just trade it away—voluntarily. For scrolling, whining, hating, lounging, binge-watching, social media, work, reports, endless meetings, careers, money… which they’ll eventually spend just trying to buy a bit of peace and happiness.
Being alone doesn’t mean being lonely. It means finally hearing your own thoughts. You listen to them, sort them, toss out the old, file the new. And maybe, finally, you ask yourself: “Why do I even do what I do?” I’m not chasing radical answers. Sometimes it’s enough just to know the question exists.
Seneca might say: “Don’t worry about what you can’t control.” In today’s world, he’d probably add: “Don’t waste time on newsfeeds and social media. Stay out of comment sections if you care about your mental health.”
Not All footbikes Are Created Equal
On the dirt path toward the roadside shrine of the Virgin Mary, I pass a neighbor—also on a scooter. He proudly announces it’s “an off-road electric one.” Says he wants to be part of the smart community. He’s clearly proud of that phrase. He carries it like a slogan on a business card. Shows me an app that tracks how many kilometers he’s “ridden” and how many calories he would have burned—had he actually pushed.
While he’s talking, mosquitoes land on my sweaty face. I offer them a salty delicacy—something like delicious electrolytes. I smile, say he’s got a point, and focus on the essentials. If I’m faster than those tiny bloodsuckers, they won’t bite. But really—what kind of community is built by people who don’t want to move, but buy machines to simulate movement? Scooter ghostrunners?
No offense taken. We part ways amicably. He’s got a battery; I (hopefully) have strength in my legs.
A Landscape without Filter
Winding through rapeseed paths, I reach the crossroads at the shrine of the Virgin Mary. There used to be a footpath here. Now it’s overgrown and invisible. But the statue still stands—humbly, as if waiting for someone to notice it again.
Golden wheat to the left, beet to the right. The grain waves in the wind like the hair of an old woman who knows beauty isn’t in a hairstyle, but in the story it tells.
Suddenly I stop. Just like that. I breathe in deeply. It’s not yoga. It’s a plain, honest sigh of happiness. A deer runs past behind me. A thrush sings to the left, something else chirps to the right. Thunder rumbles. It’s getting closer. Otherwise—silence. The kind of silence that roars. The world is alright.
A footbike Ride Through the Fields
Happiness costs nothing. Just your attention—and a willingness to ride a footbike through the countryside, just for the joy of it.
That evening I break no records, no segment goals. But my mind is clear. My knees pleasantly tired. And in my soul, a peace no app can measure.
So take a footbike, a bicycle, your feet—whatever. And go. Not for performance. But because you can.
And maybe—just maybe—you’ll meet yourself along the way. And smile back at the world.
