CITY
OF BIKES
Maybe
it was a mistake to go to Amsterdam. But how could I have possibly known
that it would turn me into such a bitter man? Transform me into an unrecognisable
caricature of my former carefree, fun-loving self? My mother wouldn't
even recognise me now, if she could get close enough despite the restraining
order.
This is how it
happened
Not long ago my wife and I decided to slip out of the country for
a spell. It was a dark and stormy night, milder than most. We travelled
by Eurostar, pressured by the marketing but also because of the fact
that it's a train and therefore we wouldn't be flying, since I have
a thing about flying over about ten feet and planes often cruise much
higher.
We stopped in Bruges
first. It was picturesque but not as picturesque as everyone says. We
struggled to understand. We left Belgium. We came to Amsterdam.
The first thing
we noticed was the trams. Then the canals, dirty as the Thames but without
those red boats that say "This is an official London sightseeing boat",
which was a relief. Then we saw the bikes. My God, the bikes.
How can I describe
them? Should I even try? Well, why not. They were just normal bikes,
after all. A bit clunky-looking. Fat and heavy, but not in a judgmental
way. After all, they weren't meant for racing. They were meant for lumbering
over cobblestones and kerbs and dumbstruck pedestrian tourists and tram
tracks and probably along the bottoms of canals, should the need arise.
And they. Were.
Everywhere. Even the city aquarium had one in a display tank, dangling
like bait above a couple of uninterested fish, and graphically proving,
to me at least, that the saying "A woman needs a man like a fish needs
a bicycle" really means something, at least to fish.
And so the seed
of my bitterness took root.
You see, I hadn't
brought my own bike.
Don't ask me why.
There is no intelligible
answer, not then, not now, not ever.
It was the first
time my wife and I were visiting Amsterdam as a tax unit, though I'd
stopped in years ago, a junior partner of Young, Bewildered & Broke.
We'd wanted to travel light, just a few steamer trunks and my favourite
basin and fittings, and we were only staying for a few nights, in a
nice hotel with bathrobes and everything, then on to somewhere else.
You must understand, we just couldn't be expected to have known what
it would be like staying in a city of bikes... without a bike.
Don't tell me I
could have rented one. It's not the same. Surely you see this? Surely
you sympathise? I might as well go to the red light district and, well....
It would have felt different but not good, awkward but not exciting,
and somehow I just knew I wouldn't enjoy myself. Not to mention the
diseases you can catch from foreign bicycle seats. No, I needed the
familiarity of my own.
And so I became
a voyeur.
The cyclists weren't
enjoying themselves. They weren't NOT enjoying themselves. They weren't
riding to get fit or to prove a point. They were just riding, from A
to B and then perhaps on to C, as if it was the most natural thing in
the world to be doing, as if they could just ride like that without
the least bit of fear in their eyes. They didn't even seem to be afraid
of the trams, which certainly had me jumping out of my skin once or
twice.
No helmets. No special
cycling clothes. When it rained they carried umbrellas. They had good
balance. They carried children. You know, the same as adults, but smaller,
not fully formed, open to suggestion, open to what was in front of their
eyes: everybody cycles. It must be OK to cycle.
Forgive the melodrama.
I'm overwrought. Shaken and stirred, like a Bond drink gone wrong, and
yes, now, finally, embittered. You see, the worst part wasn't being
a frustrated observer. Oh, no. It was realising I had a return ticket
back to the trenches, when I hadn't even realised there's a war on.
Cycling
Today, November 1998
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