Netherlands to Belgium bike ride, day 1-2

(First in a three part series, because this got long)

Spend some time reading the literature of cycling and alternative transportation devotees, and you will quickly gain the impression that the Netherlands are some sort of Shangri-La for two wheels. Time after time, bicycling advocates in the US will say “if only we could be like Amsterdam” - when we’re not trying to be Copenhagen or Paris or Bogota instead. Not for nothing is this a well-worn trope—I remember visiting Amsterdam a few years ago and being greeted with a practical sea of bicycles parked just outside the train station. The Dutch do like their velocipedes, quite a lot.

Amsterdam train station. The upper ledge in the middle of the picture was completely full of bikes.

And then when the Dutch (or the tourists) get stoned, they throw the bikes into the canals. Thus completing the circle of life.

So, given my status as “the bike guy” at Caltech (that’s what running a bike co-op does for you), when one of my fellow let’s-move-our-labs-to-Switzerland-expats, Robb, asked me if I’d be interested in doing a bike tour from Amsterdam to Brussels over a long weekend, I knew the answer had to be yes. I had never actually ridden around there, and now I too could properly experience this utopia of cycling.

The trip was to go as follows: on Wednesday night (October 9^th) we would fly up to the Netherlands, get ourselves settled, and get some rest. The next morning, we’d buy ourselves some nice bikes for the ride, load up on provisions, and do a pleasant 40-mile warm up trip down to Delft. Friday would be our push day, 100 miles down the Dutch coast, until we reached the Belgian border and made our way over to Ghent. This was to again be followed by another 40-mile light day down to Brussels, at which point we would get some well-deserved beer, rest, and further beer. Finally, Sunday we could take a high-speed train back to Zurich, by way of Paris.

A bit of Google Maps for you.

Plans made, plane tickets purchased, and clothing/tools/gifts of Switzerland for our hosts packed (at an ungodly hour of the night beforehand), we were ready. Wednesday rolled around and our trip began.

…in a way that portended much of the trip.

We had set a time to head down to the train station in order to catch a train to the Basel airport, home of cheap EasyJet flights. Finishing up my work for the day on Wednesday, I looked at the clock, only to realize that time was running short for the train. I broke into a swift jog to reach the train station, reached the ticket machines and, after a moment of flustered button pressing, purchased my ticket and found Robb. We arrived at the platform with a couple of minutes to spare, but, as we started walking to the open train door, suddenly Robb spoke up: “Hey, Paul…do you think I’m going to need my passport?”

A moment passed while I processed this question.

“Um, you think?”

“Yeah, I don’t have it on me.”

“Well, shit.”

Decision time. We would be travelling entirely in the Schengen area so passports technically wouldn’t be required - but they’d certainly want some form of ID for the airplane, yes? Would there be any border issues we’d have to worry about? Would Robb’s driver’s license work?

No, best not to risk it. We had a bit of slack time, and we knew there were a couple of later trains we could take if necessary. Robb took off running back to his house with an “I’ll be back in five”, and I was left to hold the bags and scan the signboard for possible trains. Five minutes passed, and then ten. The next train to Basel pulled up and then left with a rumble. I watched as the station clock slowly ticked towards when the next train to Basel would arrive, and the train information on the signboard cascaded through. Twenty minutes in, I shuffled off to the platform for the next train to Basel in the hopes that Robb would arrive soon.

Robb reappeared twenty-five minutes after he took off, his face slightly flushed and dripping sweat. No luck on the passport, but he had his Swiss residency card with him. It would have to do. We hopped onto the train and made our way up to Basel, thankful we had budgeted some extra time to get over. The airline fortunately accepted Robb’s card and we boarded our plane.

We touched down in Schipol and took a train to Haarlem (we ended up having better luck finding a place to stay there instead of Amsterdam). We reached the city just as a cold drizzle began to fall. It led to a sense of urgency to find our place for the night, but we were in high spirits nonetheless. Our navigation around the city was a bit haphazard, but we eventually made our way to the house.

For our first night, I had found some folks through a website called WarmShowers, a sort of CouchSurfing-for-cyclists. Our hosts for the night were Hans and Addie; an older, retired couple who were locals, had gone on all sorts of long bike tours through the years, and were former Greenpeace activists. Our evening conversation with them was a bit awkward—partially due to the language barrier,  but largely because it just seemed like we were just operating on different planes of existence—but the two of them were still perfectly gracious and helped us route out the first legs of our journey. We finally went to bed, eagerly anticipating the day to come.

We awoke the next day to a bright, sunny morning. The cold air had a slight bite, but just enough that some good riding would make us feel nice and comfortable. The feeling of promise grew and we went back to the train-station area to purchase our trusty steeds for trip.

For myself, I wanted to get a newly built touring bicycle. Over the past many years of bike ownership, I’ve owned three used stinkers, bikes whose bottom brackets were pitted (and with some strange-sized thread so that it was near-impossible to find a replacement) or whose rims were of questionable shape or who were so simply made of compressed failure and rust that I took a perverse joy in stripping them down for parts. I have some fond memories of them (when they DID work): bringing one to Burning Man (and lavishing far too much care on it given the circumstances), or riding my first fixie in the most hipster clothing I could scrounge to the most hipster coffeeshop in Pasadena, and trying to keep them running has taught me much of what I know in bicycle repair and has made me wise in what to look for in a used bike. But these are memories to be made for people who are not going to be riding long distances with minimal preparation time. Plus, this was an investment for the rest of my time in Europe—I really didn't want to have to break out my tools the moment I got home.

Robb, on the other hand, had other ideas. He had already shipped his own touring bike to Switzerland, and was in the market for a used road bike. I also think the romance of riding an old vintage bike across the Low Countries spoke greatly to him. While I made my own purchase, he wandered over to another store to find something that more fit his specifications, and I arrived a bit later to make my official assessments on the quality of the bikes he was looking at.

Purchasing my bike. Photo by Robb.

The two of us with our new acquisitions. Photo by Robb (well, someone using Robb's camera).

Bikes purchased, lunch eaten, and sunscreen slathered on, we were finally ready to take our show on the road.

The optimism of the morning continued through the afternoon, as we wound our way down to Delft. Within a mere five miles of riding, we were already out of Haarlem finding ourselves among fields of flowers, cattle, canals, and windmills. Our riding was light—this was a warm-up day of 40 miles, and we were simply glad to take in all the sights and confirm that the Dutch country-side stereotypes were indeed quite true.

Robb riding though the countryside.

Something that was less stereotypical about the Dutch countryside--algae. Lots of it.

Riding the bikeways, we quickly developed our impressions. First and foremost, we found the routes to be extensive and helpful; with numerous signs and maps to point you in the right direction should you ever get confused (Zoedermeer being an odd exception). The bike lanes are generally set apart from traffic, but were often made out of brick (even when the roads were blacktop) making riding across them a bit more vibrationally textured for our hands and crotches; we were often tempted to switch back to the roads for the better quality surface, only to be admonished by drivers to get back onto our own lanes. Also, while we generally didn’t have to deal with cars, we did have to share the bike paths with mopeds, who had the distressing habit of suddenly appearing behind you in a loud roar, wanting to pass by on the narrow pathway.

On the bike lane. The Marmite(TM) bike jersey is the ultimate fashion accessory. Photo by Robb.

But if there’s one thing I’ll remember about cycling in the Netherlands, it’s that the cars gave us a level of respect and caution I’ve never seen elsewhere. I later learned that the Dutch legal system generally regards cars as being at fault for any accident with cyclists or pedestrians, so the matter was not simply a matter of the bicycle holding such a sacred place in the Dutch heart. But when compared to my experiences riding in Houston and Los Angeles and worse (much, much worse) it was a refreshing change. If given a magic wand to make one change that would make cycling safer in the United States, this would be it.

As the sun began to flirt with the horizon and the warmth of the day left in disgust, we finally made it to our destination for the night. Robb had a friend from Caltech (Tom) who had moved to Delft after he finished his masters, and Tom kindly offered to let us crash on his couch for the night. A shower, dinner, and a few beers later, and we were ready to tuck in for the night in preparation for the following day.

Friday was to be our death-march, a full 100 miles from Delft down to Ghent in Belgium. Before this trip, I had never actually been on any multi-day tours, and I was not entirely sure what to expect. I’ve managed about 85 miles in a day before, biking from Hampton (Virginia) up to Williamsburg via Yorktown and back again, but all of my longer rides would then be followed by a good few days rest as my legs repaired themselves from abuse I put them through. Worse yet, in between moving out of California, spending all summer working in hot and muggy Florida, and then moving to Switzerland, I had been rather lax in my cycling routine, and so was a bit out of shape. Out of either some sense of gumption or bravado or foolhardiness I was willing to give it a go, but with the hope that should my legs fail me, we could take a train the rest of the way.

But looking at the map with Tom, we realized we couldn’t just arbitrarily decide when we had enough cycling for the day. This section of our ride would hug the coast through sparsely populated Zeeland, and there was only one point near the middle (appropriately enough, at Middelburg) where we could catch a train, 65 miles in. This was doable, but still a bit of a push. Hopefully it would be as nice as the day before.

(Continued in part 2...)