This is a continuation of last week's 'Pedalling to Cologne'. However, I hope it works as a stand-alone piece too. I've never made the journey, not yet anyway. Although, the idea of biking along the Rhein has been rattling in my mind for a while. If I'm honest, writing this has just made me more determined to find the time to do it. Since moving to The Netherlands, I've met a couple of hardcore bikers. This story is a nod to their hard work and long miles.
Before I started pedalling, I never considered I'd make it this far. But here I am, standing on the banks of the Waal, within striking distance of the German border.
The grass is damp, and the sky is growing darker, descending into night with every minute. An orange fringe hangs on the horizon; it's a neighbour peering over a fence. A couple of barges trundle along the river, they’re exhausted giants heading to bed. I’ve found a beautiful spot among the tall grass. A recently trampled square. Perhaps it was a fisherman's office before the sun started to fall. It’s quiet - hidden from the bike lane behind and obscured from the water in front. I'm sure it's illegal to camp here. But that’s the case with every piece of land in this flat country. I’ll take my chances. A tub of cold fried rice waits in my bag, and I devour it with my hands. My stomach growls. More please! But the Tupperware is empty, and my collection of oat bars is finished.
The patter of rain on polyester wakes me before the sun has a chance. Then, the yawn of a barge opens my eyes; one of the giants is rejuvenated. I sit up, listening for life, wondering if anyone else is here already. My stomach rumbles.
I’m still alone in my little camp by the river. Even the ferry isn’t here. The sky is not quite pale blue, and frost has whitened the scraggly grass on the bank. My skin is crawling with goosebumps. I’ve never been so eager to start pedalling. The sky, the grass, and my shivering body are desperate for the sun. Then, I hear the motor of the ferry echo across the water. On the opposite bank, a heron takes flight, drifting into Germany. The ferry is the first thing to break the peace, but I’m glad to hear it and even gladder to see its uniform of white and blue. The captain waves from his bridge, and I return it. People are always kinder in the less built-up parts of the world. My neighbours would contest that. So maybe people aren’t kinder - there are just more people in our cities and therefore more variables. Quiet mornings, soothing rivers, and nesting birds don't throw you into a bad mood as alarm clocks, crowded trains, and piss-scented alleys do.
As the ferry pulls up to the dock, a couple of bikers arrive, blowing clouds of smoke with every turn of their wheel.
“Morning,” they come to a stop beside me. Like the man yesterday, they’re kitted out. Lycra hugs their legs, and Snoods hug their necks. Their bikes look like they are pulled out of a magazine; bespoke bags fit in the negative space of their lightweight frames, and their handlebars offer a concoction of different positions.
“Been here long?” one asks, and I notice through the snood, helmet and waterproofs that it’s a woman.
“Not too long,” I lie. Who knows, these two might be police.
“Where are you heading,” the man replies.
“Cologne.”
“On that?” they ask, fractionally out of sync.
“Yep. She’s nothing to look at, but she’ll do the job.” I suddenly remember everything I forgot to pack: a puncture repair kit, oil, a wrench, and backup lights. If she breaks, I’m in for a long walk.
The ferry comes to a stop and lowers its metal tongue. We’re the only three making the crossing. It’s calm and cold. Three barges sleep in the reflective water, resting for a day of trundling.
“Good luck with your trip,” the woman says before the tongue lowers onto the dock.
“You too.” They ride off, puffing their way into the distance.
I follow, turning and waving at the captain as I disembark. There’s a town waiting for us, and I snake my way through its empty streets until I find a supermarket. The orange bike paths alone tell me I’m not in Germany, but I’m close. Aldi doesn’t open for another hour, so I cut my losses and pedal across the border. Another town will come along soon enough, and the pedalling goes a long way - defrosting my body, metre by metre. Within a few minutes, the orange lanes stop, and a tree-lined road greets me into a new country.
‘Made it,” I say between pedals. However, that’s not entirely true. I have a long way to go. By my crude estimates, I’ve got about one hundred and fifty left. If yesterday is anything to go by, that’s an entire day of hard work. I’m not sure I have it in me. For now, though, I feel good; I’m warm and loose. All I need is some food - a coffee would be great too. But I quickly fall into the flow, forgetting about both. My desires burst like tires rolling over a road littered with pins. Pop, pop, hiss. My legs continue to pump, the trees continue to pass, and shade-by-shade, the sky brightens. But none of it registers in any meaningful way. I’m in my own head, taking thoughts out of boxes, ideas from their draws and pulling memories from the filing cabinet.
I remember learning to ride a bike. It was spring or autumn - a season when the trees in our neighbourhood were in transition. My guess is spring. I probably got a bike for my birthday. The air was colder than it should have been, which was lucky. For some reason, I always hurt myself more when it was hot out; I still do. I can feel my dad’s hand on my shoulder, guiding me forward, pushing. My grip is tight on the handlebars, and I’m jerking them back and forth to keep an illusion of balance. Then, the illusion shatters, throwing me to the floor.
“You’ve got to keep pedalling,” Dad picks me up and pats the top of my helmet. “One more try?”
“Okay.”
“Pedal, pedal, pedal,” he says, pushing me forward until his hand is no longer in contact with my back. My arms keep jerking: I’m swaying left, right, then back again. But eventually, my legs get the message, and everything becomes simple.
Another village comes into view, but I keep moving. Besides, an hour hasn’t passed yet - the shops here will be shut too. My legs pump, trees pass, and the sky crawls from dawn today. I pull another memory from the cabinet.
She smells like the sea and sunbaked sand. Her hair is wavy with salt, and her skin is pink. We’ve been out all day, falling in and out of sleep under our new parasol. Every half hour, we walk into the waves, dip our shoulders below the surface and return. For lunch, we eat underwhelming chips and fried fish on paper plates. I think it's going well. We have been dating for a couple of weeks, but this is the first time we’ve spent the entire day together.
We bike back to the city and end up at mine. There was probably a conversation about that, but I can’t remember it. We have sex in the shower - that I remember fondly. For dinner, we order pizza and split a bottle of cheap wine. It's the perfect summer day.
But as I’ve learnt, perfection doesn’t exist in our world. It has no place. We went to bed early; the sky was fading and sunburnt.
In the morning, she was gone. No note, no text, nor a thing of hers to come back and collect. That was the last time I saw her and the last time I had someone to sleep next to. I had opportunities. Later in the summer, when the terraces were heaving, barely holding themselves back from the road. I met a friend of a friend. Our conversations were easy. After four glasses of wine and an unwanted cigarette, they were effortless. We could tell the other was there for the taking. But I slipped away without a word. I preferred the smell of the sea and sunbaked sand to stale smoke and booze.
I look up and see the sun pinned to the top of the sky. The morning has come and gone. A town is waiting on the horizon, or is it a city? A flow of cars, mostly Volkswagens, hums along the road. Beyond the empty fields, a warehouse. My stomach rumbles. Remember me. Suddenly, I feel weak. Now I’m the one trundling. Up ahead, Moers. There will be plenty of places to stop once I’m there.
Love, Luke