Fun with bikes in Europe
Many articles have been written about the fun and all around enjoyment of riding a bike in Europe. There have been countless innocent trees sacrificed in the disseminating of near nirvana-like descriptions of the joys of pushing a fifty pound mechanical marvel about the idyllic country side. Gallons of ink have been pressed into service to try and capture on paper the transcendence that is bicycling in Europe. However, this isn’t one of those articles.
I met him innocently enough, I was the innocent one. I was in need of a “fiets” that is a bike. My greenie buster took me to the local bike store and helped me pick out a shinny black one speed that was lovingly referred to as a “ompa fiets” or grandpa bicycle. I got the ever so stylish canvas saddle bags and a tire pump that fit nicely along the frame. The tire pump lasted a grand total of three minutes after I walked away from the bike the first time. The saddle bags lasted for the duration and served well as bookmobile, grocery bag and suitcase. Having been taken from the mountains of Wyoming and placed on the tidal flats of Holland, I promptly christened the noble steed that would ride me to more baptisms that Orson Hyde in England, “Festus”.
After the realization that I wasn’t in Kansas any more or Wyoming for that matter, I felt it prudent to make Festus as unappealing as possible so as to discourage the friends of whoever felt that I didn’t need my pump anymore from making away with anything else that might be loose on my bike, like the peddles. Festus served me well and managed to not be stolen so I would like to think that my cunning strategy worked. Another theory may be that no one was tall enough to reach the peddles and also sit on the seat at the same time or at least no one of a nefarious mind. The original seat lasted but a short time. I came into possession of a bike seat that was perhaps designed by either a deranged monk or an evil anti-Mormon determined to lessen the future generations of Mormons by such a seat design. It had a large spring of approximately two inches in diameter in the front and two wires slinking back to the clamp that held it to the bike. There was a “seat” that was perhaps five inches wide that was intended to support a much wider “seat” that I was blessed with. The whole “system” was covered on the top with a thick slab of leather. My original seat, bike that is, was just fine but for some reason this other seat was placed into service. At certain times, such as when my feet slipped off a peddle, I leaned toward the evil anti-Mormon theory as well as leaning toward my handle bars.
There was a saying there in the low countries among the seekers of truth seekers; “there are two kinds of missionaries, those that have had wrecks on their bikes and those that are going to have a wreck on their bike.” I was a member of the latter for but a short time. I must point out that this was the early 80’s and the notion that missionaries needed to wear bike helmets was not even thought of at least not by me.
The occasion of my first meeting with the pavement was after a district meeting. We were biking back to our apartment from the church and I was riding along side of an elder from another companionship. For some reason that my mature mind can not recall now I had the urge to grab the handlebar of the elder riding beside me. Not wanting to let a fine opportunity to cause mayhem go to waste he grabbed my handlebar. We proceeded down the bike path in this rather precarious manner for a short distance until my rather slow and inexperienced brain decided that this wasn’t the safest of ways to travel. I gently and politely lifted my hand from his handlebar. Elder Van Rij perhaps not having as fine a sense of peril as I decided that he would pull himself ahead of me by pulling on my handlebar. This was something I had not anticipated. Physics being what it is and gravity having at times a nasty habit of being constant determined to teach us both a lesson in action/reaction that I will have to get Alzheimer’s before I forget. The result of him pushing off of my handlebar caused my front tire to turn at right angles to the bike path. This not being the normal state for a wheel on motion, it decided to try going end over end. The net effect of the wheel trying to go end over end gave the whole bike the idea of trying to do a summersault as well. I figured that since my bike was attempting to summersault I might as well join it. The result of all this physics being that I found myself resting on the bricks watching my bike try to fly. They should make tanks out of the material that they make missionary suits with; the enemy could never get a shell through a foot of Swedish Knit.
On another occasion that manages to seep to the forefront of my gray matter, I was relaxing for a bit with three other Elders and we were at a small park. There was a small concrete area that resembled a giant tin plate that was punched in the middle then set into the ground much like a shallow funnel. This I suppose was the municipalities idea of a skate park circa late 70’s Europe. Well this particular piece of doggie bathroom had a nice tall hedge of bushes not far from the cement Chinese hat sunk upside down into the near mud that is Dutch soil. The four of us were happily spinning and swerving about the aforementioned hard spot when it so happened that two of us through a series of bobs and weaves found ourselves vectored toward each other. Being the faster reacting or slower witted of the two, I put Festus into evasive maneuvers. These maneuvers proved successful in avoiding certain death by head on but also put me into the path of the on coming hedge. I entered the hedge at a respectable rate and sunk in to the back wheels while getting a right good whipping from the individual branches of said hedge. I must have been somewhat unsavory that day because after running the gauntlet of sharp pointy twigs the hedge spit me out like Muslim eating a ham sandwich. The net result being that I found myself fully clear of the hedge. Now having just gotten a rather rude slap in the face by some Dutch shrubbery I must not have been firing on all my reaction cylinders because I just hung there for a moment as if I were a picture of a missionary on a bike. Then as if I suddenly found myself trapped in a silly slapstick comedy I slowly fell over onto the wet green and brown goo that passes as lawn in a country that would gladly export water and dog doo to whoever would be willing to pay shipping.
Another incident that didn’t actually happen to me but I witnessed personally or else it was told to me so vividly that I have convinced myself that I witnessed it personally, was watching an Elder nearly become road kill. It all started out innocently enough, we were going to the grocery store for some chow. This particular establishment was at placed on the map in such a way that it was situated along the road where another road intersected it. That is to say it was at a “T” intersection and was at the top of said “T” where the two lines meet. OK, enough with the geography lesson. Elder, lets call him Andersen, because that was his name, was biking along on what would be the lower left of the T cross bar when he decided to turn to get to the store. He forgot to mention this to the little car that was following him just to his left. He executed a beautiful left turn directly in front of a native and his trusty little European sedan. I do recall seeing Elder Andersen on the hood of this poor little automobile still clutching his bike in a death grip looking for all the world like some stuffed display in Dr. Murrow’s trophy room. The occupant of this little tin golf cart after getting a close up view of the back of Elder Andersen’s head decided that the best course of action at that point would be to apply firm pressure to the braking system peddle. Elder Andersen now having suddenly gained lateral motion instead of his intended forward motion continued on down the road for some distance without the cushion of the hood to shield him from the quaint cobblestone road he was just then skipping down on his side. Once friction caught up to everyone I saw Elder Andersen some fifteen feet ahead of the hapless vehicle still holding his bike as if he would suddenly come across a vertical surface and simply ride away. I started rehearsing in my head as I stopped my bike and went over to Elder Andersen just what I would tell the mission president and his next of kin when he jumped up and after a quick trial of his legs walked his bike to his original destination. The somewhat shaken driver got out and after finding out that his former hood ornament would be ok went to examining his car hood. He found a scrape and a slight dent where the handlebar tried to exact revenge. There was no lasting damage to the elder but the frame to his bike was bent into the beginnings of a cool lightning bolt shape. This caused his bike to go down the road in a manner that closely resembled the way a bulldog might follow his master. So far as I know he road his bike that way for the rest of his mission.
Festus served me well and faithfully those sixteen months I was “in country”. He served as transport for me as well as all my earthly possessions on transfer day. He also moved groceries, books, luggage, and the contents of an apartment; including a bed, mattress and all. He was my constant companion when outdoors, waiting patiently for me to get done tracting, teaching, sleeping, shopping, or going to church. Festus the grandpa bicycle will live on in my memory of hundreds of rainy, dark, cold, hot, damp, happy, lonely, mad, tired, frustrating, silly, scary, dangerous, interesting, historic, and boring miles. All that survives of the gallant steed is his bell and the medallion that was riveted to his front end. I followed the time honored tradition of the Dutch people and on the eve of my going home I rode him out one last time to a bridge and threw him into a canal. OK, maybe it’s not a Dutch tradition except for the bike thieves and only after they got to whatever nefarious location they ride their ill-gotten bicycles.
This has to be my longest post yet but I know how to post stuff I wrote elsewhere now.
5 comments:
Absolutely love your story! You need to write a book and publish it! You have a real knack for it! I laughed so hard I cried.
You are a treasure! Please write your history and keep a journal!
In Korea we were not allowed to ride bikes after too many "memories" were created by former Missionaries. We had the joys of walking, public transportation, or "Stunt Car Driver" wanabies disguised as Taxi Cabs. At least my trafic experiences prepared me for commuting in Salt Lake traffic. But maybe the flash backs finally got bad enough I had to move away from there to a more civilized and respectful class of driver? Unfortunately too many in the Idaho Falls area can trace their roots to Salt Lake and like to do their impersonations on too often an occation. Luckily the trafffic isn't as bad and there are more escape routes available when these performances take place.
Spuddy
I remember my bike. We were out in the country so we were allowed a bike. The city was way to hazardous for missionaries on bikes.
I had a CAR the whole time. Yippy!
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