The sensate pleasure of cycling

The expat-car went back to the lease company a month ago: I armed myself with a discount pass for the train and a strippenkart for the bus and braced myself. So far, though, things have gone swimmingly. The office is three blocks from the apartment and shops (winkels) fill the neighborhood, so I usually walk (still a novelty) to the loft for work, stroll to the stores, putter over to the PT.

Life (in summer) is good.

This week, I borrowed a bike to pedal over to Il Fiore for some exercise (ironically, to do the exercise bike), and found myself completely captivated within five minutes. I passed the club, continued along the river out of town, and nearly on to Eijsden. It's a wonderful evening ride; the sunset glints off the river, the town dwindles off into farms, and the traffic gives way to cattle. Regions of warm air alternate with cool, enveloping smells appear and disappear: the air has much more texture than when walking or boating.

I haven't got the full Dutch style yet: riders are either "upright and nonchalant" or "hunched over and sweaty". There's no way that I'm doing the super-suit, glasses, and helmet, opting instead for a comfortable jeans and t-shirt combo, one hand on the steering, one ready for the bell.

The biggest hazard is not cars: if you can read Dutch street markings, the bike lanes are a mirror image, and cars really do yield to cyclists. Rather, it's the motorbikes that sneak up, pull around, cut in, roar onward. A momentary distraction, occasionally unnerving.

I could get used to this; at the moment, I'm alternating nights out and am starting to hunt the classifieds for a used set of wheels. It's hard to believe that I let three years pass before I picked up the habit.