Last summer, I soaked up Amsterdam for a few days during my oh-so-cliché summer-before-starting-college Euro Trip. I already know what you’re thinking, but believe me: what tickled my fancy most was not the vendors of sexual fantasy nor the urbane denizens of those “coffee shops”, but rather something much more wholesome: the bicycles.
Like most American children reared in the suburbs, I began to ride a bicycle at a tender young age. I rode it to my friends’ houses around the neighborhood, or sometimes to abandoned lots in the Florida swamp for Indiana Jones-style adventures. Those days were fun, but when I was about 12 we moved from the swampy suburbs to the concrete jungle of the city, which lacked any place my mother deemed safe for bike riding. Those were dark times.
When I was 16, I once again acquired a bicycle and began frequenting a long, wide, unbroken sidewalk that runs along the shore of a bay near my house. Aside from the soundtrack provided by my iPod, a ragtag group of local exercisers who shared the sidewalk along the bay enhanced my bike-riding experiences.
The cast of characters changed depending on the time of day. Early morning brought the go-getters, the before-work types ready to conquer the world. Around 10:00 a.m. the soccer-MILFs came out, working to keep their buns tight after dropping the kids at school. High noon was usually dead, and then things started to pick up after 3:00 p.m., when the local high school’s track and cross country runners emerged en masse and clogged the sidewalk. And just as the sun set, the sidewalk would become populated by a combination of the standard workout types and a few strangers in a strange land—people too ashamed to go out in the daylight, soggy-waisted individuals for whom exercise was a new activity, etc. Unsightly, yes, but I commended them for getting out and improving their bodies.
Out of this motley crew, there are a few people I distinctly remember. One man, whom I have lovingly named “Hamptons,” is a fixture on the sidewalk. His name is apt—he always sports short-shorts, a white polo shirt, and gold-rimmed aviator sunglasses, circa 1986. Towering over the sidewalk on his rollerblades, he and his pompadour are visible from hundreds of yards away. His cheesy garb has become familiar to me, welcoming in its own detached sort of way.
Within a few weeks of arriving at Georgetown, I purchased yet another bicycle. Biking here is a bit different from doing it in flat, sunny Florida. Riding a bike is much more practical in D.C.; in my experience I’ve actually found a bike to be a quicker means of transit than the Metro.
Most importantly, there is something invigorating about biking, a sense of self-sufficiency in it that I find liberating. It’s nice not to have to rely on cars, buses, and trains, to be able to just go when you want, and not have to wait on anyone or anything else. Even though there are usually many people around me when I ride, the relative speed of the bicycle creates a sense of going solo, as if I am in my own world, or at least in my own bubble. I find it therapeutic to be shut out from the world while still being right in the thick of it.
Back to Amsterdam. If I moved there, I’d ride my bike every day: to work, to the grocery store, and maybe even to the vendors of sexual fantasy. Having something so simple and perplexingly pleasing as a part of my daily routine is something I look forward to in my post-university years. Wherever I go, there will be a new “Hamptons” to share the path with and to bring a sly grin to my face. Even if I don’t end up in Amsterdam, I plan on riding until my legs no longer work.
And for the sake of preserving my sacred bicycling bubble, there will be no biker gangs for me. I ride solo.
DC is probably even better for biking than Amsterdam (not so much water). I use mine the same way I used a car in Houston. Unless you’re heading out of NW it is definately the fastest means of transportation avaliable to. Glad to hear somebody else just loves bikes!