There are hardly any mountain bikers in this country who haven't already had to answer the question about "their" bike size. 29 inch, 27.5 inch or still 26 inch? The rational wheel diameter has become an emotionally charged topic. Specialist magazines are jam-packed with bike size tests, online platforms are full of comments on this topic, and public discussion forums are usually packed to the rafters. Even women, who otherwise don't give a damn about technology, are interested in the differences between the various diameters. How does a simple wheel size manage to arouse so much interest?

The question of wheel size sometimes takes on almost sectarian traits. Traditionalists, in particular, are lambasting the new bikes as if they were the work of the devil. They have nothing good to say about 29-inch mountain bikes, saying that everything about the new technology, from its agility to its looks, is terrible. There are Facebook groups for opponents of 29-inch mountain bikes, and at the 2013 World Cup final in Hafjell, spectators even held a self-painted board with the words "29ers are gay" up to the cameras - which the "protesters" certainly didn't mean in a positive way. How does a simple bike size manage to motivate someone to denounce others?

Some hotheads seem to forget what mountain biking is really about because of the heated discussion: the experience on the single trail, the downhill track or the pump track. Why would anyone let the joy of mountain biking be spoiled because of the "wrong" wheel size? Differences between 26, 27.5 and 29 inch wheels are noticeable on the chassis, but are usually marginal. Thomas Frischknecht once summed up the discussion about wheel sizes in a nutshell. It's like having a wife, he said at a panel event. You don't have to constantly think that someone else might be better, but rather be happy with what you have. This also applies to the sizes of mountain bikes. In New German, that means in a nutshell: Shut up and ride - regardless of the bike size.