Eurobike is the biggest event in the cycling industry, but year after year, it feels increasingly disconnected from the very thing it’s meant to celebrate. Join Petor Georgallou on a journey through exhaustion, alienation, rare moments of joy, and encounters both meaningful and absurd. Part show report, part existential diary, and part love letter to the weirdos who still make bikes worth caring about. If you’ve ever felt out of place in a space you were supposed to belong to, this one’s for you. Many thanks to Schwalbe for sponsoring our Eurobike coverage.

No Life on an Alien Planet

I slept terribly. The room was hot, didn’t have air conditioning, and there was some kind of party going on outside until the building work started in the morning. Frankfurt is an expensive city, but during the expos, hotels and restaurants hike their prices. I hadn’t booked breakfast, but I stopped by the breakfast bar anyway to see if I could just get a coffee.

The concierge, Irini — a fellow Cypriot living in diaspora, a “German Charlie” — more or less forced me into a refill, and then another, and then offered me a cigarette, which I declined.

“If you’re not going to smoke, then come outside and show me your bicycle.”

She poured me another cup of coffee, and we stood outside for a while speaking Greek in the Cypriot dialect — with German and English accents — talking about cigarettes and bicycles, then Frankfurt’s habitability, and inevitably, politics. I’d woken up in a bad mood. A solid day of conflict had bruised my enthusiasm, and sleep hadn’t replenished me, but five cups of terrible coffee and some normal human interaction perked me up enough. Enough to ride back in for more abuse and crappy e-bikes, but not enough to stop and show a ticket at the entrance.

Sunglasses, headphones, a fast bike, and faking a direction until the last second seem to be the only tickets that work reliably at Eurobike, so I used those — and got in without incident.

There was some kind of e-bike data management company down the hall that had employed Paul, who, at least a decade before starting Coffee Collective, was arguably one of London’s best baristas. I hadn’t seen him in at least ten years, but there he was at Eurobike, making coffee at a booth. We caught up over the best two flat whites I’ve ever had in Germany, let alone at Eurobike. Things were shaping up.

I spent the morning in the handmade area again. It felt safe. Like no one would try to sell me an electric town bike with “retro” motorcycle styling, or a delivery “bike” that’s actually an expensive, bad, and dorky car. The staff at the Messe were no less obstructive, but at least I was prepared — both pinging off excessive caffeine consumption and pre-warning anyone I took outside to shoot with that we would almost certainly be harassed, and that it was just part of the process.

I made a game of it. A guard would come over and start speaking to me in German and I’d respond in my terrible German:

“Es tut mir leid, ich spreche nur Latein.”
(I’m sorry, I only speak Latin.)

“Absurdities non intellego.”
(I don’t understand nonsense.)

“Caecilius in latrina est. Ubi est canis?”
(Caecilius is on the toilet. Where is the dog?)

After a few totally deadpan and inaccurate sentences of garbled Latin, they realized I wasn’t going anywhere and left me alone — until the shift changed.

“Entschuldigung.”

I was determined to stay positive, shoot nice bikes, and chat to nice people. For the most part, it worked.

There’s a press room full of free food at Eurobike, but it’s a long way from everything and I didn’t want to take an hour out of the day. So I paid 12 euros for a focaccia (aka a basic, underfilled sandwich), which I washed down with a phenomenal espresso and tonic from Paul at the weirdo tech stand before heading over to Hall 11.

The highlight of Hall 11 was a Chinese OEM making hubs, who had made miniature working rear hubs to give out to potential clients as samples. But by the time I reached them, the little hubs had run out. I wandered the hall, lonely as a cloud, trying hard to summon any emotion. Trying to think rationally about what was on show and its context.

Radoxx Rad Stems and Axles

Radoxx are essentially a small, series-production CNC factory based in Germany. They do both consultancy and contract production work in aluminum using 5-axis and 3-axis CNC machines, collaborating with premium German brands like Crossworx and Tune.

Their stand was modest and tucked away. Half of it was dedicated to a very nice-looking, super light, stiff, strong, and presumably expensive stem. The other half featured some super smart axles.

I can’t be the only person who’s lost or forgotten an axle when packing a bike in a car or for a flight. It’s the worst — QRs used to come in essentially three lengths: front, road, and MTB. Any local bike shop could usually help. But axles are not so standard. If you’re missing one, most shops won’t have the correct length, diameter, and thread pitch available over the counter.

Enter the Radoxx adjustable axle — pretty much the best use case for such a product. It’s a universal axle made universal by being adjustable in length and diameter, and it’s also suitable for towing trailers. I assume it could work with setups like a Tailfin arch or a turbo trainer too.

Bike shops would only need to stock one axle — strong enough for almost everything, and not much heavier than a regular one. Plus, it fits multiple bikes. If you have a pair and change bikes, they’ll likely fit the next one.

Wow. Remember when parts were almost universal?

Extending the useful life of a product is far more sustainable than making it “recyclable” or using recycled materials. It doesn’t exclude those ideas either — but it does consider the environmental costs of manufacturing, packaging, and transport.

I hope this is what the future looks like: simple and ubiquitous.

Bad Air

I realize that I’m weird in the cycling industry, and I work — and have worked — within a fairly niche part of it. But I can appreciate normal stuff. I can get excited about a lot of things on a lot of different levels — especially when excitement isn’t limited to positivity.

However, floating around with a camera in hand, the more I walked and the more I saw, the heavier the camera became. It got so heavy that nothing I saw could motivate me to lift it to eye level and push the button. There was almost nothing there for me — just a crushing apathy.

I felt like an alien. Like I’d been dropped into an atmosphere that wasn’t quite rich enough — that was slowly killing me. The camera was very heavy. By this point, it must have weighed at least 50 kilograms.

Maybe I looked like an alien too, because uniformed Chinese sales representatives, sitting at low, brightly lit tables, were staring at me as I poured with sweat — arching my back, pushing with both legs, and pulling on the camera strap with all my strength — trying to make it back outside before the stifling air and lower-than-average-quality everything killed me.

Gasping for anything even mediocre, I reached the test track outside, where two women with a little chest freezer on wheels were handing out ice creams. Strangely, they were free. I took two and sat on a bench facing a wall to eat them.

They gave me nothing.

As a well-fed and slightly overweight Brit, I suppose I have several weeks’ worth of energy stored in my body already — although accessing that stored energy can be really tricky. Sometimes a bit of sugar or a gallon of coffee lazily gets me over the line. But when nothing else is working, I can gaslight myself into having energy — either by getting excited about something like finding figs, catching a fish, or an idea — or by moving my body excessively to remind it what its purpose in life is.

Forcing my body to let a bit of energy go, just so I can even conceptualize joy — even if it feels false.

Walking past the Super Cycles booth, I stopped to look at a 20” wheel cargo bike with a kids’ seat on the back. This was my life mode, and it looked like a fun kind of bike. Even better — there was a little one strapped to the side of it. Balance cargo bikes are something to get excited about.

Even better still — the guys on the stand wouldn’t let me take the little bike to shoot because they were halfway through abandoning their booth to head to a cargo bike race. So I asked if I could borrow a bike to race on. They agreed. I picked up the little balance bike and ran after them to the start.

We were early — there was no need to run — and there was a lengthy, surprisingly bureaucratic registration process that ended in a financial transaction. I waited around for the race to start, ate two more ice creams, and planned six ways to cheat like Dick Dastardly from Hanna-Barbera’s Wacky Races.

No one explained anything, but there was a pile of items on a pallet, which I assumed I’d have to pick up. So I stole a roll of gaffer tape from the registration desk to tape everything to myself and the bike.

I was turning it around.

Nerves are a great way to access energy — and waiting at a start line is a great way to become nervous.

The first lap was wobbly, but the course was so tight — and I cut a few corners — so by the end of it, I wasn’t far behind the other riders. On the second lap, picking things up was a little harder than expected. I’d put all my eggs in one basket with the tape, so when it broke, I was in a bit of a pickle.

I managed to get everything together somehow, but hadn’t realized the plastic bottles were full — so I rode around the corner and emptied one, hoping to make it through by cutting corners and bouncing off barriers.

I must have fallen off a dozen times by the time my bike and I were swept up by a guy on a yellow Ten:07 Unicorn, who rode me around to the finish.

It was a lot of fun — and it was the power-up I needed to get through the rest of the day.

Urban Mobility

Eurobike is flawed on a number of levels, but perhaps its most glaring flaw is its total lack of identity.

From an outsider’s perspective — someone who has nothing to do with cycling and is trying to understand it without genuinely engaging — “cyclists” are split into arbitrary categories that ignore their flexibility or humanity.

There are “e-bikers” and “analog” (or worse, “acoustic”) cyclists — or, as rational language dictates, “cyclists” and “motorcyclists.”

Within the “cyclist” camp are made-up factions like “roadies,” “mountain bikers,” “gravel dads,” and “commuters” — labels that suggest a person’s entire identity is bound to a single, unshakable practice. One they can’t diverge from for any reason and must be catered to accordingly.

Under “motorcyclists,” you’ll find “cargo bikes,” a category that encompasses delivery riders, people replacing cars, parents hauling children or groceries — as well as older adults or those with specific needs, Monster Energy–swilling mountain bike louts who hate cycling but aren’t allowed on motorcycle trails, and, most critically, an ocean of hectic, venture capital–led nonsense.

That last group seems to make up about 90% of the sector — tolerated by the cycling industry solely because it brings financial growth.

Eurobike has slowly and quietly transitioned from a bike show into an “urban mobility” show, trying to be all things to all people.

At a surface level, it works. There’s something for everyone.

But as the worst part of the worst part of urban mobility has grown to dominate the show, it’s been taken for granted that cycling and urban mobility must be natural bedfellows.

There’s a sliver of overlap in the Venn diagram — for sure — but as a cyclist, I increasingly feel that Eurobike’s version of “urban mobility” is more at odds with cycling than even a car or boat show would be.

Cars and boats propose entirely different modes of transport — alternatives that cyclists could also enjoy, while still riding bikes.

Eco-mobility, on the other hand, often ignores the most important components of cycling: joy, movement, and fitness. Instead, it aims to minimize exertion and reduce travel time.

Many of the most excruciatingly boring people I’ve ever met are urban planners — and I’m sure they love talking about urban mobility.

Back in the handmade area, I found a great example of someone who actually understands the brief: Dr. of Mechanical Engineering, Simon Walch at Reset.

Simon was paralyzed from L7 down after a motorcycle accident. Since then, he’s developed two adaptive trikes — the Ranger and the Scout.

The Ranger was especially interesting because it’s designed as a pure shred sled — a machine built for and, not just mobility. A tool for making joy, not merely surviving.

With help from his business partner Thomas, Simon has built something he needs to have a good time — rather than just enduring the drudgery of existence. And in that way, the design shows a great deal of empathy for people who need joy to feel, not just to survive.

A lot of the focus of e-mobility is on increasing comfort, decreasing exertion, and selling utopias — all of which undermine the rewards of cost-effectiveness, sustainability, physicality, interaction with the world, autonomy, community, and fun that cycling offers.

Eurobike’s identity crisis, at best, stems from an eagerness to please in unfeasible ways — and at worst, from a lack of understanding of what cycling actually is, and how people interact with it.

Big Wheels, Bad Vibes

The last bike I shot before leaving that day was the 32” wheeled “Project Big Ben,” designed by Faction Bike Studio and displayed on the Maxxis stand. There were whispers of 32” all over. It’s not like 36” — it’s kind of sensible. Big, but not spectacular. Less weight than a 36” but also less of the benefit of a very big wheel. Still, more than 29”. It doesn’t look like a novelty the way a 36” does. I must have walked past it 30 times without noticing that the wheels were significantly larger than 29”.

The frame was kind of amazing, on a concept-car level. The front triangle was made from round aluminum tubes, glued into additively manufactured lugs, with a machined rear end. It was subtly textural — novel in the landscape of additive-manufactured bikes — and supposedly very strong.

The day had become super bright outside, so we wheeled it into the mouth of a multistory parking garage to shoot, so that the differently processed sections of raw aluminum wouldn’t blow out in the harsh sunlight.

A couple of shots in, a car pulled up fast and slammed on the brakes. We moved to the side to make space for it to pass, but the driver was flailing wildly from inside, gesturing for us to move further — so we did. He got out and started shouting:

“You’re not allowed here! You have to leave!”

Really? Where are we not allowed? I can’t see any signs.

“You are not allowed in the parking garage unless you’re in a car. You have to leave.”

Yeah, whatever. We’re going to take some photos now, and when we’re done, we’ll leave. You can pass if you want, or you can sit there and wait — but I’m taking these photos now.

He sat back in the car, started the engine, and revved at us. I signaled for him to pass, but he just sat there. So we set up and started shooting again.

I’d crouched down to get low, and as the Maxxis man was repositioning the drive-side crank arm, the man in the car floored the accelerator and drove at us. We both jumped out of the way. He slammed the brakes, stopping the car exactly where the bike had been.

The Maxxis guy was terrified. I was too angry to be scared.

Eurobike is not safe — not because of the bikes, but because of the authoritarianism and poor management style of the venue, who are also part owners of the show.

We exchanged words — none of them kind — and most not worth repeating. He drove on, up into the garage. We took the photos and walked the bike back into the hall.

The Maxxis guy seemed shocked. I wish I was shocked. But three solid days into this kind of conflict — this was just how Eurobike is to me. Stressful and bad.

I complained to the organizers on the basis that I shouldn’t be physically threatened — much less with a car used as a weapon — under any circumstances, while trying to do my job. They were pretty shocked too and suggested I report the incident at the police station (which, yes, is inside the Messe because the venue is so big it has its own police station).

But I didn’t. I’d endured three days of varying degrees of abuse. I was just angry, exhausted, and ready to leave. It’s just bikes. Unless it’s really fun, it’s not worth risking physical harm.

I struggled to see how reporting anything would work in my favor. It’s not my duty to be the litmus test of how far security guards can go in asserting themselves on Messe visitors. It didn’t seem incidental — it seemed systemic.

They were all rude, aggressive, and overly eager to pretend they had authority — without putting in the effort to make the venue actually secure. So I decided it would be a greater cruelty not to report it.

Last of The Summer Wine

While trying to capitalize on everything else, Eurobike seems to have failed to notice just how many amazing people attend for all sorts of reasons. Thankfully, the best ones self-organize and invite me along.

The annual Twotone / Crank! dinner at Africa Queen, a local Ethiopian restaurant, was, as always, a highlight. Each year, this growing invitation-only gathering fills the entire restaurant and somehow draws together all the disparate keepers of the flame in one spot. It’s relaxed, intimate — a great way to check in on what has value, and why.

I arrived late, as usual, to a whirlwind tour of who’s who from Jon Woodroof, before being ushered to a table and presented with a massive sharing platter of food. I’d been looking forward to it — and not just the food — for a while. Bregan and Jon made a short speech thanking attendees in a half-award-ceremony, half-wedding-toast kind of way.

Something about the evening felt apocalyptic — like a last supper bidding farewell to an old friend, or a celebration of a life at its end. It made me feel pompous, bloated, and disgusting for taking any part of it for granted.

It’s not anyone’s expectation that their career will include working with interesting and likable people. But after wandering the desert for a while, I found an oasis — one that reminded me just how good the water I drink every day really is.

Eurobike Potluck

After two solid days of “business,” Friday was open to the public. I’d shot nearly every bike in the handmade area, so I visited the hall that used to house just startups, but now also held a mess of “urban mobility” ventures, plus OEMs.

In many ways, it’s peak Eurobike. Or maybe Eurobike potluck — with pockets of poorly executed genius and well-executed madness.

I loved an absurdly light carbon folding bike. It was a forgivably shonky, almost rideable prototype — implementing all the old-hat “good ideas” at the same time. More of a physical sketch than a product. But it showed intent, and was clearly a fun project for the owner to build in his spare time.

A flat-pack modular kids’ bike — balance to pedal — kind of flew under the radar, but really stuck with me. It actually considers the experience of owning a bike as a child. Kids, like adults, have widely different approaches to learning. A bike designed to be assembled at home (not by a bike nerd parent), and converted from balance to pedals with just a couple of Allen keys, is a great idea. Not just for reduced warehousing or shipping costs, but because building a bike teaches kids that the bike is assembled, not just there. It creates a safe, stationary moment of connection with an adult — before the child falls off repeatedly.

The Worst

Imagine if a Roomba were a dustbin full of lithium batteries that followed you around using your phone signal.

I stared. I wasn’t sure what I was looking at.

I asked the man on the stand, “Tell me about this. What is this?”

His face lit up like I’d reached an epiphany. “It carries things for you! You just put your stuff inside, and it follows your mobile phone.”

Okay… like a backpack?

“Yes, like a backpack, but you don’t have to carry anything. It comes in three sizes. The biggest is 75L, and the smallest we have here is 25L.”

25L? That’s like a small backpack. But this thing is pretty big. Won’t it just fall over? Who’s it for?

“It’s for people who don’t want to carry things. We’ve been talking to DHL and Amazon.”

I was shell-shocked. He wasn’t relenting. His gaze was hungry, like a tumor. Why does it need a phone signal? If it’s for deliveries, shouldn’t it just drive itself? Why does someone need to walk in front of it?

“No, that’s different. What you’re talking about is different. This is so people don’t have to carry things.”

I couldn’t speak. My camera was gaining mass again — becoming too heavy. I squatted to take the weight off. Maybe if I stared at it long enough, I’d get it.

The man mirrored my squat. Stared back. We were locked in a squat-off.

After a few minutes of silence:

“So… what do you think?”

I stood up. He stood up.

I can’t think about this. I don’t want to think about this. I’m here because I like bicycles. This isn’t a bicycle. I don’t like this. I just like bicycles. Not this. I don’t want to think about this. Ever.

He was angry.

“You’ll see. In five years, these will be everywhere. Everybody will have one.”

Okay.

The booth next door had a pre-production prototype of a folding, injection-molded plastic box for bike racks — practical, not flimsy, with integrated lashing points. It was simple. Great for carrying a 25L backpack — for people who don’t like carrying stuff.

Auf Wiedersehen, Eurobike

That evening, Fahrstil magazine hosted its annual Trend Lounge. Each year, it’s a curated selection of bikes, with a tour by the enigmatic Gunar Freilauf. I didn’t understand a word of it. Three years ago, I told Dawid from Fahrstil that I liked Club-Mate. Each year since, he’s remembered — and greeted me at the Trend Lounge with one.

Good people travel in clouds. That’s why Fahrstil publishes stories by Erik Mathy. And why, even though Eurobike feels like my own personal hell — full of everything I love, in the worst possible way — the whole thing still has value.

It’s cadence. It’s connection. It’s a chance to spend time with faraway colleagues on somewhat level ground.

What started three years ago as half a dozen nerds on a bench outside a kiosk reached its ultimate form this year as Bike People — a business-free night of nerds and weirdos, organized by Brian Park. I invited a few of my favorites. Caught up with some old ones. Ate decent arancini. Dodged Flo from Fern’s attacks.

Conscious of ending on a high, I skipped the afterparties and packed to leave the next morning. Two days of Eurobike still remained, but it had been a rough one. So I stopped by to say goodbyes, picked up my gear, and drove on to Munich to attend Brother in the Wild with Ben from Milara Bike.

Accidentally, we’d taken one of the organizers’ backpacks — assuming it belonged to the other, since it had been next to our loaded little cargo bike.

You can take the weirdo out of the chaos — but you can’t take the chaos out of the weirdo.

Check out a selection of Beautiful Bicycles from the show in the gallery!

The Radavist thanks Schwalbe for sponsoring our Eurobike coverage and our independent Reportage!