Belgians, Bicycles and Me

The first thing I ever noticed about Belgium was the bicycles. I was an American who had lived in the UK for a long while – but neither place was particularly overrun with bicycles, at least not in the city centers. But when I first woke up in a car that was entering Bruges (Don’t worry, I wasn’t the one driving), the first thing I saw was that we were surrounded by bicycles. It was kind of freaky.



Now that I live in Belgium of course, I’ve realized that bicycles aren’t just quaint things that the Belgians dangle to impress tourists; they are a national obsession. When Belgians aren’t riding bicycles they are watching them. Watching bike races. I just don’t get it. Surely cycling is just a means of transport? To me it’s like watching someone walk to the corner store or looking at them sitting on the bus –But no. My Belgian Husband will sit entranced for hours staring at other people burning up carbs. If there is a bike race happening he will actually rearrange his schedule to he can sit and watch it. Whole weekends have been sacrificed to it. You would think that would be a rather peaceful way to spend the afternoon – me playing with the cats or cooking tofu scramble while Wim watches several hundred sweaty men bicycling through the countryside, but the presumed peace is constantly punctuated with sudden high-decibel shouts of, ”Allez!!!!” or ”Godverdomme!! to which cats go flying in a panic and I splatter tofu on the wall.

But I tolerate these afternoons now, because by comparison being dragged along to see the action “live” is much worse. It involves being forced out of bed at some ungodly hour, shoved in a car, searching for parking, then trekking to some crowded roadside with hundreds of other fanatical men and their angry and bewildered wives and vying for a place close enough to the curb to see the cyclists when they speed by for all of 10 seconds ........then heading back to the car and talking about what fun it was.

So of course now that I’ve been living among the Belgians I am becoming indoctrinated into their ways. I have been forced to become more cognizant of cyclists and have even considered becoming one myself. The thing about Belgian cyclists though is that they look really cute and innocent from the vantage point of a car, but when you cross into their territory you see their vicious side. Make the mistake of not looking before you step into a bike lane and you will see them for the near-homicidal maniacs that they are. The minute they mount their bikes they see you as the enemy – some un-evolved creature that insists on placing its’ grotty little feet on the ground rather than ascending to the civility of using pedals. “Out of my way, Neanderthal!” their angry grimaces seem to say as they all but plow you down on the Hoogstraat.



Wim has been trying to get me to become One Of Them. But I have been resisting for a number of reasons: First, I am afraid of riding my bike in traffic amidst cars. I don’t like driving a car amidst cars, so take away the doors and the heater and the CD player and the fear factor goes up even further; Secondly, I am afraid of other bikers. They are insane and cruel and I’m sure they will single me out as a novice and devour me; And Finally, I am just too picky when it comes to bicycles.

I don’t like those sporty ones where you have to lean forward – they are awfully uncomfortable, and there never seems to be room to mount a basket, so that’s out. I don’t like regular bicycle seats, I like “banana seats” - like I had on my first bike in the 70’s - and where are you going to find those nowadays?




And most importantly, I like my bicycle seat to be nice and low. The way Belgians ride their bikes is super freaky because they like their bikes so high up that they quite literally cannot touch their feet to the ground.




It seems that when the first “Penny Farthing” bikes were invented they got the idea that you need to be uncomfortably high off the ground and they’ve thought that way ever since. Well that’s not for me. I like for my feet to be able to touch the ground. I don’t want to have to flounder about in a balancing act like some bloody circus unicyclist every time I stop at a traffic light. I don’t care whether it’s proper bicycle etiquette or not: I use my feet as breaks. If it was good enough for Fred Flintstone it’s good enough for me.



A little over a year ago, I bought a rather well-built pink bicycle in a small village for 10 Euros. Obviously for that price it required a bit of tweaking, but when it came to the seat everyone kept putting the thing too high. I kept insisting it be lowered, but Wim’s father kept saying, “Just try it”. And I would try it, wobble when I tried to turn a corner, fall off and go sailing headlong into a wall, but still no-one was convinced. I kept insisting the seat was too high and they kept insisting I just didn’t know how to ride a bicycle. So now, because I’ve bought a bicycle I am in a sort of a cold war with it. In theory I have a bicycle so it doesn’t make sense to get another one. So the pink bicycle sits in front of the house taunting me to ride it and I steadfastly refuse to ride a bicycle that requires scaffolding to mount it. Meanwhile the whole town goes whizzing past like demonical acrobats and I must resign myself to being stared by a bunch of high-riding Belgians who think I’m a freak..



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