I’m Jaime Pintado people also call me Jimbo. I’m from Murcia, in the southeast of Spain, and I grew up partly in Madrid. For the last years I’ve moved around quite a lot—Italy, France, Switzerland—always with bikes at the centre.

Before I officially moved to Copenhagen last November, I spent almost two years living on the road: working remotely, travelling, and always riding. Now Copenhagen is home, but as we speak I’m sitting in Annecy, which feels like this urban mix between Chamonix and Girona—working from a café and getting ready to ride later.

My work life has pretty much always revolved around bikes. I studied engineering, and while I was doing that, I got into cargo bikes. At the time I was also doing furniture projects in steel, small constructions and painting, so moving from furniture and objects into bikes felt like a very organic, natural step.

I started building cargo bikes first, these long, utilitarian machines. Then I realised it was even more fun to build more “normal” bikes: two wheels, same size, custom geometry, custom paint, all the details. I was doing full custom builds: geo, tubing, finishes.

At some point I pulled the plug on that period. I had this image of a global brand in my head, and I knew that my little custom project wasn’t ready to live up to that dream yet. So I put Safi on hold for about five years to go and learn.

Those five years I spent working for several companies in the cycling industry, sometimes in product development, sometimes in sales, sometimes in marketing. The idea was very simple: I wanted to understand the broad picture of modern cycling, the people I wanted to speak to, the type of products I believed in, and the culture I wanted to be part of.

Now, based in Copenhagen, I feel I’ve finally found the right people and the right moment to relaunch Safi in a way that feels honest. The nicest part is that I don’t talk about Safi as “me” anymore. We’re a small team now, which is something I always wanted.

My background in cycling has been very ultra-distance-focused, gravel, mountain bike, long adventures, ultra races. For a long time my mindset was: everything depends on your gear and your mindset.

It can be freezing, pitch dark, you can be at 4000 metres in Kyrgyzstan if you’re well equipped and your head is in the right place, you’re actually fine. That’s the mindset that got me through a lot of trips.

Living in Switzerland gave me an early education in cold, but it was also more bright and less wet than Copenhagen. When I officially moved to Denmark, people were testing me a bit - like, “Let’s see how the Spanish guy handles a real Danish winter.” I always felt I would find my way.

This past winter I measured every single millimetre of my life. I was working a lot, trying to keep and build fitness, planning things for the next year, and constantly thinking about how to be efficient: how to fit everything in without burning out.

On the days where the weather really was crap, it became less about romance and more about discipline. I use a shared basement in our building - there’s no electricity, it’s dusty, with spider webs and old clothes hanging from the pipes. Honestly, it’s a bit miserable. I’ve got an old trainer that’s around ten years old, and the cogs are always jumping. It’s far from a fancy Zwift pain cave.

But that room has become part of my story. It’s the place I go when the outside is just too grim. The beauty still happens outside on real rides, but without those basement sessions, the rest of my life doesn’t feel balanced.

I try to lock my training early in the morning. It’s not just preparation for races; it’s a tool for well-being. When I wake up early, scratch those hours from the morning, and get my training done, it feels like borrowed time, like I’m slightly ahead of the rest of the world.

I don’t want to overuse the word meditation, but those winter morning sessions when you’re not touching your phone, not skipping songs, just riding or running in the dark are as close as I get. It’s a state of being completely present in the effort.

When I ride at 2pm in the sun, it’s a different pleasure. Still beautiful, but it gives me something else more social, more easy. The winter mornings are about stability and mental health as much as fitness.

I try to stay sensitive to where I actually find joy in what I do. I’ve had very strict periods: locked into a plan, preparing for something, hitting every interval, watching every detail. I enjoyed being that focused, but I also realized the beauty of my life is in its richness: the people, the spontaneous plans, the unexpected detours.

I’ve reached a point where I’m happier being around 80% in shape with less obsession, instead of pushing myself to 95% all the time. When I get too fixated, I become unbalanced. So now I mix bikes, running, and some weights in a relatively flexible way.

In terms of culture, Denmark—especially Copenhagen—might be the place where I see the most people riding seriously and hard. There are dedicated cyclists everywhere, but in Copenhagen when people ride, they really ride. The level in the “beginner” race categories is insanely high; you have to train a lot just to be there.

Weather plays a big role: it’s safe to ride outside, but it’s cold and often dark, so those who commit have a clear purpose. You don’t wake up at six and go out in the dark, rain, and wind “just to stay a bit healthy.” You do it because you have goals.

I compare that to, say, Australia, where many people turn into super-strong criterium racers quite quickly because it’s dangerous to ride outside, so they end up in the track or crit environment and get very fit very fast, for opposite reasons.

Denmark also has a strong family culture—people often have kids early and lock in that life. If you’re a parent and you ride, the bike becomes part of an efficient routine: you get your training done, then you’re back to the family.

I’ve moved from classic bikepacking into more of a travel-with-bikes mode. So instead of strapping everything onto the frame and disappearing for weeks, I’m often driving with bikes, working from different places, and riding from there.

But some things always come with me.

I have this tendency to travel with more than one bike, which is not very rational but very me. Right now I’m in an old car that I love, but it forces me to plan because it’s always on the edge of breaking down.

One recent essential is my big Leatherman. I’d wanted one for years, and now that I have it, I use it for everything: bikes, car, small repairs in apartments and Airbnbs. It makes me feel weirdly grown up—like, “Okay, I can actually deal with stuff now.”

Then there are the electric pumps. It sounds small, but they’ve really simplified travel—no more 10-minute battles with a hand pump in some hotel parking lot.

On the clothing side, I always bring two pairs of shoes: One fresh white pair for riding with people, taking photos, showing up to group rides. One old, dirty pair that I use when I ride alone, in the rain, in the mud.

The same mindset applies to helmets and jerseys: a clean kit and a workhorse kit.

Lights are huge for me. Good front and rear lights are what make winter early mornings and late evenings actually possible. Here in Annecy, for example, I’m planning a ride from 17:30 to 21:30. Just knowing I have strong, reliable lights means I don’t care if I roll in a bit later in the dark. That freedom is psychological as much as practical.

And, yes, coffee is essential. I won’t go deep into my setup because I don’t want to be another cliché, but having access to good coffee every day is part of my baseline comfort.

To me, Portal feels like the modern evolution of my younger self.

For years, I probably rode more kilometres in jeans than in bibs. I used to go on big trips—300, 400, 500 kilometres in jeans and sometimes sandals. It was very punk. My skin basically became its own chamois. I didn’t feel comfortable in tight Lycra; I wanted to be able to ride, then step into a bar, a concert, or a dinner and still feel like myself.

Portal takes that cross-discipline, cross-context idea and translates it into a cleaner, more considered, more contemporary language.

This winter I rode a lot in the Portal Tracker pants, a soft hip bag, and looser, more exploration-oriented layers. Those pieces almost forced me to shift mindset: instead of always being “on the rivet,” I’d go for rides where I stopped more, walked sections, explored, grabbed a coffee, took my time. It reminded me of my old bikepacking years, but in a more grown-up way.

What I really like is that with more or less the same outfit I can: Commute on a cargo bike, Run to the office, Go for a casual gravel ride, Or meet friends for a beer after.

Maybe I change shoes, a base layer, or add a shell, but the core stays the same. That’s a big difference from classic Lycra, which is almost impossible to integrate into city life without feeling like you’re in costume.

On the Safi side, I’m excited about growing slowly and correctly—adding more vendors who really get what we’re doing, refining the products, and building long-term relationships with riders.

I’m also very interested in collaboration. For example, doing something together with you plugging into what you’re doing with Institute of Sport and Grocery, just like the weekend you did with Portal and Polymer last year in the fall—events, rides, maybe joint projects that mix bikes, apparel, and culture.

Even simple things like a one‑night bikepacking trip out of Copenhagen when I’m back in October. To me, those shared experiences—small, focused, with the right people—are where the most interesting stories come from.

Personally, I’m excited to anchor myself in Copenhagen from October onwards. After years of living on the road, being properly based somewhere feels new. I want to be more present: as a riding buddy for friends, as part of the local scene, and as someone who continues to build Safi and other projects with intention, not just speed.