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Zwift - Group Ride: Team Crazy A Saturday Dance on Makuri Pretzel in Makuri Islands

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Zwift - Group Ride: Team Crazy A Festive Pretzel on The Uber Pretzel in Watopia

This Saturday the Crazy A’s returned to Zwift like festive zombies crawling out of a sugar coma, legs full of marzipan, minds fogged by family small talk, and bellies still sloshing with trifle and custard. It was the first post‑Christmas gathering, with the chat channel sounding like a support group for people who had seen too many relatives and not enough intervals.   

Captain Christoph, benevolent tyrant of suffering, appeared like a digital drill sergeant. This was not just any ride; this was the third Pretzel of the week! Watopia’s Mega Pretzel? Done. Uber Pretzel? Obliterated. Clearly, reason had left the building days ago. Christoph pinged the group with the enthusiasm of someone who had absolutely not just eaten an entire box of chocolates and decided, “Yes, now is a great time to schedule four hours of pain.” …which sounded cute until everyone realized the dessert was 156 km long with 1,250 meters of climbing.  

There were no KOMs on the menu tonight, much to Max’s absolute despair. His KOM crown collection—normally replenished weekly—sat untouched, gathering metaphorical dust. He stared at the route profile like a Shakespearean hero robbed of his rightful throne. “No KOMs?… then what is the point to any of this?”  

The universe, however, had decided this would be a night for sprinters. Rowy rolled up to the first green banner in a state that could only be described as “mechanically cursed.” His cleats were determined to escape at every opportunity. Each time he stood up to sprint, there was a 50/50 chance he’d suddenly be pedaling one‑legged, looking like he’d just slipped on a banana peel in a cartoon. And yet, somehow, this chaos merchant kept nailing sprint segments. One unclip and reclip after another. People in chat started calculating what would happen if he actually installed proper cleats from Santa days ago.  

Jokes jerseys were more of a hostile takeover. The route itself had been rebranded “Jokes Island.” collecting green jerseys until it looked like she’d accidentally raided the Zwift wardrobe.  

Meanwhile, Bernd locked onto the average speed number like it was a heartbeat monitor, and anything under 40 km/h meant cardiac arrest. While others chased sprints, fiddled with cleats, or quietly dissolved into sweat, he became the group’s relentless metronome, dragging the pace back up every time it dared to slip. In his mind, this ride was not just a festive Pretzel but a sacred mission at an average speed above 40 km/h, preserved at all costs, as though his entire Zwift career—and possibly his soul—depended on it.   

As the hours wore on, Antoine quietly vaporized yet another six headbands, each one sacrificed to the growing humidity of his pain cave, with an endless hunger for one more! The only thing more intense than his sweat rate was wrestling over whether Jokes days effort had been at 70% or 90% of threshold before settling, vaguely, somewhere around the 80% range in an exhausted truce.

In the end, the group crossed the line not as mere riders, but as survivors of a festive, high‑velocity odyssey. Trainers spun down. Fans clicked off. Screens dimmed with Christmas calories slightly avenged as they signed off with “ride ons” and promises of “never again” one thing was certain: for a bunch of post‑Christmas cake casualties, they had turned Makuri Pretzel into yet another outrageous chapter in the legend of the Crazy A’s. 

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Zwift - Group Ride: Team Crazy A Saturday Dance on Makuri Pretzel in Makuri Islands

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Zwift - Group Ride: Team Crazy A Saturday Dance on Makuri Pretzel in Makuri Islands

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Zwift - Group Ride: Team Crazy A Festive Pretzel on The Uber Pretzel in Watopia

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