I’m not really the fanatic type. Well, at least not for very long at the beginning. Then all of a sudden I want to learn to play the piano or study medicine. My mind races with enthusiasm. But after five minutes, the idea dies a quiet death. Even though it did feel serious for just a moment.
I’ve made a little more progress with cycling, though. I have a road bike, matching shoes, a real women’s saddle (for which I went to a store and sat on a kind of measuring stick with my sit bones), a helmet, and even a bag with a spare tire inside. In the Achterhoek, I’d regularly go for a bike ride. Always the same route (that’s the runner in me, I guess), always 20 km, and it always took me 54 minutes. Not exactly a record-breaking performance, but the feeling on the way back was great. I’d done something—exercised—without even realizing it, and I could treat myself to a glass of wine and a piece of chocolate again.
That same bike came with me when I moved to Berlin. Just now, as I walked downstairs and looked for my cycling shoes in the garage, I lovingly brushed some dust off the saddle with my index finger.
Of course you can ride a bike here.
Of course, there are road cyclists here too, doing laps, looking the part, and probably covering distances farther than I’ve ever cycled. You have to let go of the idea of red, safe bike paths—you’ll get plenty of cobblestones and a bumpy ride, but it’s not impossible.
I actually came up with the plan last September. I asked my good friend (and pro cyclist) Marijn de Vries on Twitter if she knew how I could find some good bike routes here. In no time at all, thanks to her 10,000 followers, I had a dozen tips for great routes. I could find them online right away and set out immediately.
I could have. But I didn’t.
Two kids.
A freelance lifestyle.
An unpredictable and ever-changing schedule.
Five colds in three months.
I could come up with a whole bunch of excuses, but in the end, only one matters: I’m just not dedicated enough. A book on the couch is fine too, let’s say.
What I do have, though, is an exorbitantly expensive membership at a luxury gym in the neighborhood. With its own pool, spa, sauna—you name it. So I go there far too rarely. Why? Just read those six lines above one more time.
But when I got a reminder on my phone today that my cycling buddy Marijn would be on the Radio 1 show *Kunststof*, that tiny little bit of enthusiasm popped up again, and I had a great idea.
You can listen to an hour-long radio show while sitting quietly on the couch. Or while walking around your house, gathering up the dirty laundry and tidying up. But you can also do that on a bike.
I thought it was a bit too late to go outside. (Another excuse, of course.) But I was definitely up for indoor cycling. (Marijn thinks it’s a disgrace, because that’s really the very last thing you want to do as a cyclist. Indoor cycling. She sees her Tacx as a necessary evil—for when it’s really too cold or wet to ride in the Netherlands—and when I once asked her advice on which one to buy so I could ride at home while my baby slept upstairs, she was quick to talk me out of the idea. She succeeded, by the way—I still don’t have a Tacx).
And so I took my place on the spin bike at my gym, just five minutes from here. Next to a wiry little guy with a bald head and muscular, slender legs. The road cyclist type—that much was clear to me. Joost Prinsen’s girlfriend, Marijn, announced herself in my ear; I was deeply impressed and decided to try clipping my cycling shoes into the pedals.
It didn’t work.
The guy next to me gestured for me to take out my earplugs. “You don’t have SPD,” he said. SPD? That’s the German PvdA, but this was about something else entirely. I looked at the soles of my shoes, and it really did say SPD. But it turned out there were cleats on them, and those don’t fit into a spin bike. Long story short: there I was with my cool cycling shoes.
So I just clipped into the pedals (embarrassing) and started pedaling. I added a little resistance now and then. But not too intensely—after all, I also wanted to listen to my girlfriend. Meanwhile, the guy next to me was analyzing what I was doing. When I stood up, he gestured again. “Try to keep your butt still. And your upper body still. Right now your bike is wobbling, and that’s costing you time.”
I wasn’t concerned about time.
I wasn’t worried about my form.
But since those kinds of things are all important to my friend Marijn (after all, her book is on my shelf, and I follow almost all of her races, even from afar), I just decided to give it my best shot. So that during our conversation, I could get a feel for how it’s supposed to be. To be a truly die-hard pro cyclist.
Of course, that’s not possible.
After all, I’m not fanatical enough. I’m sitting here, safe indoors, pedaling along at a leisurely pace (though I am sweating) on my little bike. 650 km away from her.
But still. I owe it to her to try to put myself in her shoes. Even if it’s just an attempt. As I listen to her, I realize that the cycling shorts with the chamois—which are slowly getting soaked with my amateur sweat—belong to her. One of her first pairs, bought even before she received the uniforms from her team(s). And so she gave them to me as a gift. Because by then, her closet was bursting at the seams with padded shorts.
On tonight’s broadcast, she announced that she’ll be writing a weekly column in Trouw. As the successor to DE MART, who’s stepping down after 35 years.
I think I’ll go ask for an autograph. On my/her cycling shorts. With a white marker on black.
And I wish I were as fanatical as she is every now and then. Just for a moment.
But when I get off my bike, I think: This is good enough. That was a nice hour. So I’ll just skip the fanaticism.
Off home quickly. Another glass of wine. And a piece of chocolate.
