Jordan - In the city of bikes: the story of the Amsterdam cyclist

For Ferris,

and in memory of my mom

A note on the usage of some place-names (streets, canals, etc.) in Amsterdam that have not been translated from the Dutch in the text. Among some of the place-names that the reader will encounter:

straat : street

gracht : canal

plein : square

steeg : alley

weg : way

dijk : dike

Also, throughout this book, the name Holland is used interchangeably with the Netherlands, as is Hollanders for Dutch/Netherlanders. Since the provinces of North and South Holland (home to the nations three most populous cities: Amsterdam, Rotterdam and The Hague) comprise only two of the Netherlands twelve provinces, many citizens of the non-Holland provinces rightly take offense at the term Holland being used to denote the entire nation. Ive chosen to use the term liberally, partly because so many Dutch people already refer to the nation as Holland, partly because many quotations from Dutch sources in the book use the term to describe the nation and partly because of any chauvinism I myself may possess as a resident of North Holland.

Contents

W elkom in Amsterdam, the flight attendant said upon our landing. From the airport, a 20-minute train trip brought me to Central Station. Then, with my duffel bag slung over my left shoulder, I stepped onto the streets of continental Europe for the very first time. Two minutes laterand two blocks away on SpuistraatI was busy gaping at 17th-century, gable-roofed buildings that leaned so severely they appeared ready to spill into the street, when suddenly a bike bell rang out: Brringg! Brringg!

Though I clearly heard the bell, I didnt react to it. Why should I? I was walking on the sidewalk.

Then, from behind, a bicycle slammed into me. Under the weight of my duffel bag, I stumbled a few steps forward before righting myself. I turned and saw a young brunette cyclist in a short skirt. She looked awfully cute. She also looked mighty pissedat me. She scowled, then muttered Klootzak! and sped off.

Huh? Why was she upset? She was the one riding carelessly on the sidewalk. I was the injured party here!

I was still pondering this ignoble welcome to Amsterdam when I heard the frantic ringing of another bike bell: Brringg! Brringg! Brringg!

I turned around. A sneering cyclist was barreling right toward me. Ack! My body clenched; I braced for a second collision. Fortunately, this time, no bike struck me. The sneerer had managed to skillfully swerve around me. As I watched him pedal on, I thought, This sidewalk is a dangerous place to walk! Then it dawned on me, this was no simple pedestrian sidewalk; it was a separated-from-the-street bike path . I had no idea such a thing even existed. A smile came over my face. This was brilliant! How civilized !

Seconds before a third cyclist could target me, I stepped off the asphalt path onto the brick-lined sidewalk and watched one bike after another zoom by. A window washer cycled by with a 15-foot ladder dangling over his shoulder as casually as if it was a purse. Another cyclist passed with a dining room table somehow perched behind him. Several young couples rode by on single bikes, the men pedaling and the womensidesaddle on the rear rackslounging languidly as if kicking back on recliners.

THE YEAR WAS 2002 and at the age of 35, I was already a bike nut who had lived and cycled in cities all over America. Just two years before, Id convinced my sweetheart, Amy Joy, to move with me to Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, telling her it was where I wanted to live for the rest of my life. Id been lured there by the cheap housing prices and funky old neighborhoods, but Id failed to consider one aspect of Pittsburgh living: cycling.

Soon after arriving in Pittsburgh, I began working as a dishwasher at a local caf. It was autumn, and I regularly saw other people on bikes in traffic, jostling with cars. They werent great in number but were numerous enough to help me believe I could comfortably settle forever in Pittsburgh. But as winter dawned, my daily 30-minute commutes to work grew chillier, more challenging and increasingly more lonely. I saw fewer and fewer fellow cyclists until, finally, several days passed during which I saw none. I grew despondent and, at the same time, became even more determined to spot other bikers.

Then, early one December morning, while riding to work, I saw them: in the snow, weaving back and forth across each other, lay two bicycle-tire tracks . My heart began thumping. Somewhere up ahead, just out of view, someone else was cycling. I wasnt alone after all!

As I sped to catch up to them, my hope for Pittsburgh surged. For minutes, I raced in the mystery cyclists tracks across the shuttered Nabisco factory parking lot and through some alleyways. Remarkable! He or she was following my same route! Who could it be? A coworker? If so, then we could commute together. Maybe we could even...

Suddenly, mid-fantasy, I stopped pedaling.

My bike slowed to a halt.

My chin dropped.

Ugh .

Could I have been any more foolish? These werent the tracks of someone up ahead. They were my tracksthe ones Id made while riding home from work the night before.

I then questioned how I could possibly spend the rest of my life in a place inhospitable to cyclists. Hope for Pittsburgh ebbed.

Months later, Amy Joy and I left Pittsburgh for good and arrived back in Portland, Oregonthe place where we had met and the city widely praised as Americas cycling capital. Early on my first morning back in town, while sitting on the front steps of our rental at NE 20th and Couch, I was pleased to watch a cyclist ride past. A minute later, another whizzed by. Soon they were zipping by from all directions. In a 30-minute span, I counted 19 people on bikes. Nineteen! After having searched in vain for evidence of fellow cycling life in Pittsburgh, I was now so elated I rushed inside to tell Amy Joy.

Nineteen cyclists! I said, shaking her awake.

Huh?

I just counted 19 cyclists in the past half hour!

Oh, she responded before falling back to sleep.

Now, while standing in the middle of Amsterdam, I recalled that event from just one year earlier. And I had to laugh. Portland? Nineteen in 30 minutes? Ha! I was now seeing 19 cyclists just about every seconds .

AS I TRUDGED along the streets of Amsterdam that buzzed with bike traffic, I couldnt take my eyes off the bikers. Later, I would find a passage from a 1933 guidebook to Amsterdam that perfectly described the type of captivation a newcomer like me was experiencing:

between going from one place to the next may be profitably filled in by making first-hand studies of the noble art of trick bicycle-riding. Those who are not absolutely perfect, get killed off very young. The survivors thereupon develop a perfection in the difficult technique of balancing which will fill your soul with deep envy. Sit you down on the Leidse Plein or on the Rembrandt Plein and let the show pass by you while you are supposed to be writing postal cards to the dear family in Ithaca, NY. You wont write many, for you will be forever clutching your companions hand and shouting, Look at that girl carrying a potted palm on her shoulders! or again, Look at that family with five kids tucked away between the frame! All very harmless and pleasant and the cost, again, is negligible.

Thats exactly how I felt, except, I had no companion with me whose hand I could clutch to share my amazement. Amy Joy wouldnt be joining me in Amsterdam until a month and a half later.