On any given week in Amsterdam, I spend at least seven or eight hours on a bike.  About four to five of these hours are for leisure, out on my prized race bike, a brand new beetle green Cannondale. Road cycling is a hobby I have long been interested in. I finally picked up the hobby last summer with the help of my local triathlon club. The other two or three are spent commuting on my city bike. These quick rides, whether it’s an eight-minute journey to my gym/co-working space in the morning, twelve to Dutch class on Monday evenings, or nine to my friend’s house for dinner, often bring me as much joy as my long weekend ones. From my saddle, I am the prima in the daily ballet of city life.

Growing up on various rural American military bases and suburban subdivisions, my relationship with cycling wasn’t always so ingrained. When I was sixteen, my parents helped me buy my first car solely to help run errands. At first, I was excited by the freedom. I had a tenuous sense of liberation. After a year or so, I realized that their gift to me was more beneficial to them. With my driving in the mix, there was no more ferrying us to school at the crack of dawn through 25 minutes of traffic and red light and no more three-hour round-trip drives to basketball games in the middle of nowhere on Thursday nights. 

Golden, Colorado

When I entered college at seventeen, tired of the responsibility of the driver’s seat, I acquired a student transit pass. Within my first week in Colorado, I figured out how to take regional transit into Denver. There, I wandered down an empty city street to spend my hard-earned summer job and graduation money on the nicest used bike I could find. The bike I bought home with me on the light rail was by far the most expensive thing I had ever bought. The entire way home I imagined all the adventures it could take me on.

As freshman year rolled by, my bike saw daylight only once. The petite, hilly campus didn’t warrant a bike, and the surrounding areas were better explored by car. When I moved into a sorority house from the dorms, I brought my bike out of storage and locked it at the back entrance. A few months later, I noticed the bike rack empty again. The most expensive thing I owned, gone! I had barely even ridden it!

Minneapolis, MN

I put my cycling dreams on hold, vowing that I would pursue them again after I’d graduated, gotten a job, and moved to a real city with painted green bike lanes. My opportunity to get on two wheels again came when I moved to Minneapolis in the summer of my twenty-first year. I found myself leaving another used bike store, this time with a modest, dull gold city bike with slimmer tires than my first.

The Midtown Greenway, once a railroad corridor, now a multi-use path, became my route to work. As summer gave way to fall, I frequented the on-road bike lanes and leafy scenic trails, reducing my car usage by almost 60%. Fall slowly turned to winter. Each morning I burst with pride as I figured out how to layer my clothes and fit my belongings into my bike bags to shower at the office after a sweaty 30-minute ride. I reveled in the quiet, dark mornings, never tiring of the murals along the walls of the below-grade trails and the smell of fresh sourdough from a nearby industrial bakery.

My daily rides were sanctuaries I clung to, the rare moments I could breathe fresh air and immerse myself in my community. These treasured respites were all the more precious when set against the backdrop of grueling 10-plus-hour shifts in a stuffy office. All was going well in my cycling world; until the snow came. 

The first day the streets iced over that December I thought, “How bad could it be?” On that pitch-black Northern winter morning, it took me less than a block to find out. My bike slipped right out from under me, ripping my pants down the middle, and immediately adding splashes of black and blue on the entirety of my upper right thigh. I walked my bike back into my apartment with my tail between my legs. I would have to drive to work. 

After braving the weather in Minneapolis for less than a year, I quit my job and ran back to the Mile High City, aimless and wandering. I ended up in my parent’s basement in the sprawled Denver suburbs, a community not conducive to getting anywhere by bike, foot, or anything other than a car. So, while I revamped my career and bank account, my bike collected dust in their garage for over a year.

Denver, Colorado

After moving out and into the heart of Denver, I  was finally able to get around for most of my daily chores by bike or foot– except for work. There was an unfortunate imbalance. Although the drive was a quick 14 minutes, it took about an hour to cover the 10 miles by bike.

Cycling to work wouldn’t be an everyday possibility, but I was determined to try it out at least twice a week until winter came. Once again, I stuffed my bike bags with all the things I would need to give myself a bird bath (no shower at this office!) and change. At five-thirty in the morning, I began my journey along the waters flowing from the mountains, and out into the sleepy suburbs past skyscrapers, an enormous (American) football stadium, and roller coasters from the city’s theme park.

This continued for a few months when the paths’ conditions allowed until I got a new job based out of Washington D.C. I was excited to get back to a city with better bike infrastructure. I was leaving my car in Colorado!

Washington, D.C., DC

In February 2020, my mom and I loaded my beloved bike into a rented box truck and drove it through the cornfields of Iowa and the mountains of West Virginia to the US Capitol. One month later, I found the move I had long been awaiting was not particularly well-timed. I barely had time to figure out which grocery store in my neighborhood I preferred, let alone make any friends before the pandemic shut the city down. So for the next year, I took advantage of the one place I was allowed to go– outside. And boy, was I glad I had my bike. 

With it, I explored the marshlands and grand, granite plaza of Teddy Roosevelt Island. I cruised down the Chesapeake & Ohio Canal Trail, now a 185-mile natural respite for cyclists and runners, but which once carried coal from the mountains down to port. I discovered Rock Creek Park, where the National Park Service had shut down the main roads for residents to enjoy the urban oasis of dense forests and streams.

I also explored the urban side of my city– tracking down interesting murals, public transportation landmarks, and a few ‘boundary stones,’ ancient relics of the District’s first survey. I spent many fall evenings splayed out with my bike and a good book surrounded by monumental Smithsonian museums on the great yard of the National Mall.

In February 2021, I was working from home when I received the most exciting news most could imagine at the time. Someone hadn’t shown up for their vaccine, and I was on the waitlist. Could I come to the hospital right now? I squealed with joy after hanging up the phone, shot my boss a “found a vaccine, see you later sucker” text, snagged my helmet off its wall hook, and dashed out the door to unlock my bike.

But when I reached the spot in the fence where I had locked my bike the previous night, all I found was a broken wrought-iron post. My bike, my most prized possession, had been ridden off into the night by a very determined thief. Again. I was devastated. I collapsed onto the neighbor’s patio chair, tears falling down my face. The cold, concrete street corner had plenty of passersby even though it was the middle of a workday. Most were wearing sweatpants, walking their dogs, and grocery shopping, but it was more likely than not that they were White House aids or CNN correspondents. The thought of a potential legislator seeing me have a meltdown over losing my bike made me cry even harder.

I decided to put on my big-girl pants – I called my best friend and got her to calm me down and tell me what to do. We (she) decided I’d need to find an e-scooter, stat. Despite the setback, I made it to the hospital just in time to get my jab. Afterward, still reeling from the loss of my bike, I found solace in a small, jam-packed bike shop that taught skills to at-risk youth. I narrowly made my way out of the maze of stacked milk crates full of bike bells and saddles with a new-to-me bright blue hybrid. It was sturdy, strong, and soon covered in transit and city-memorabilia-related stickers to make it my own.

Philadelphia , PA

The month after I acquired my new best friend, I loaded it into an oversized SUV for my next journey to Philadelphia. I explored more by bike in Philadelphia in a short four months than most residents probably do in their lifetimes. The main throughway going north up the cherry-blossom-lined Schuylkill River was still closed to encourage outdoor activity during COVID lockdowns, and I took advantage of the car-less riverside every weekend. I cruised by the colossal set of “Rocky” stairs at the Art Museum and I watched crew races on the docks of seventeenth-century stone building rowing clubs. I made it up to Wissahickon State Park one day, where I accidentally found myself testing the true limits of my “thick” tires on mountain biking trails. My outings were well-timed with the spring season; tulips, hydrangeas, daffodils, and roses were abundant and the weather was fresh.

My best memories of these places are the two times I brought others with me for the ride. My sister and a good friend visited my new favorite city in the few months I was a resident and I took them up along the Schuylkill, hoping they’d fall in love with the sights as much as I had. In retrospect, taking non-cyclists on a 25-mile ride on my roommate’s very nice road bike in a city where drivers are not known for their patience wasn’t my most well-thought-out idea. Both had sore butts the next day, but now have fond memories of exploring Philly on two wheels.

My bike was not only for adventures in Philly– it was also a practical transportation mode for the compact, grid-planned city. Although I lived within walking distance from a chain supermarket, my loyalty to Trader Joe’s meant that groceries were a weekly trip by bike. I rode over every Sunday with a meticulously planned shopping list that ensured my two back-rack bags were perfectly packed. Not a yogurt container too large or an almond milk carton too squished. It was also my ride to dates, which was often met with apprehension and confusion. In a culture where nobody cycled, men couldn’t comprehend my need to find a good spot to lock up my bike (or why I had one in the first place).

While in Philly, I finally splurged on an accessory all the stylish American city cyclists were starting to wear: an expensive “minimalist” helmet with my monogram stickered on the side in gold letters. Other than looking cool as hell, my favorite part was the one-inch hole in the helmet covered by a magnetic piece you could pop out and secure to your bike when locking it up. No more carrying my helmet around bars and stores like a dweeb!

The day after the postal service delivered my bougie customized helmet, I also received a highly anticipated piece of mail to my online inbox. My grant application to study urban spatial structures passed the final round, and I had received funding to move to the Netherlands for a year. The land of canals, tulips, windmills, and, of course, bicycles! All of this excitement, and the only thing I could think was “shit, they don’t wear helmets there. I’ll look like a dweeb if I bring this”.

I made the most out of my final days in Philadelphia, spending the summer evenings on my bike. I often cycled over to Rittenhouse Park, where history waltzes with modernity amidst grand oak trees and French cafes. Artists set up their easels, musicians their instruments, and millennials their picnics. Young parents set their toddlers loose in the center ceramic-tiled fountain, and older gentlemen sit puzzling over the crossword. I fondly remember the bench in the middle of the park’s path where I propped up my bike to take it all in one last time.

Amsterdam, The Netherlands

In August 2021, I moved to Amsterdam; it’s hard to encapsulate how my residence here has transformed my relationship with cycling. The crowded highways of bike lanes, with their own traffic lights, signals, and norms, can be overwhelming for most expats at first. But for me, who had been trying to survive aggressive drivers on streets in the U.S., it is much easier to get around in a city where the bike is king.

Since my expatriation to the Netherlands, I have delved into the sport of road cycling and invested way too much money into way too much lycra. During the first half of 2023, I pushed myself too hard– falling into old habits of overachievement and anxiety, which spilled into my cycling training. I was starting and ending my day on my bike trainer and forcing myself outside to do sprint intervals when my body was telling me otherwise. I finally got to a point where I could barely get around town on my city bike without wanting to collapse at my destination.

Worried about my mental health, I took advantage of my company’s remote-work policy to recharge during the summer at home, staying with friends and family throughout the country. I was so burnt out that my intense triathlete workout schedule was reduced to morning walks with my mom and her dog for weeks. During the last days of my visit to the States, I hadn’t been on a bike for almost three months with mixed feelings about getting back on the saddle.

The day before I flew back to Amsterdam, I was given a much-needed gift to re-spark my passion for cycling (and life in general). Not what I expected from a last-minute Tinder date, but for twelve hours on a cool summer day I was given a generous two-wheel tour on a borrowed bike to all of the best parks, bike paths, ice cream shops, and hot dog stands that West Chicago has to offer. A much-needed reminder that I started cycling to enjoy the people and the world around me– my bike is a tool for the journey, not the journey itself.

Like the car is to Americans, bikes are to the Dutch.

Since returning to Amsterdam, I have taken a step back to reassess and redefine my relationship with cycling. I am showing myself grace by adjusting rides when I get too tired, and taking recovery days instead of pushing through head colds. I am taking more side streets on my commutes to find hidden corners, and cycling headphone-less to listen to the movement and flow of the city.

 I have done the same 35km morning ride with friends almost every week for four months this year, still finding joy in the small villages and ports we pass each time. We roll through forests onto dikes, passing songbirds fluttering around marigold-covered fences and rusting silos. Riding into the rising sun through the small town of Haarlemmerliede, locals bustle about getting ready for work. Children pedal in groups to primary school with lunch boxes, and backpacks hanging carelessly from their handlebars. Exiting the village, we encounter pastoral scenes of cows and sheep. Aromas of banana bread often drift from cottages’ open kitchen windows. Our journey finishes with the scenery shifting from historic wooden windmills to modern steel turbines and silent electric trains speeding alongside us toward the city.

I still laugh when I see babies strapped to the front of their parent’s bike, slumped over, passed out, but still bobbing and bouncing around from the bumps of the brick and cobblestone. I am still impressed by the travelers dragging their suitcases behind them while pedaling, and the folks cycling across town with full-length floor lamps under their arms. Like the car is to Americans, bikes are to the Dutch.

Cycling has been a journey of discovery, challenge, and joy. It has shaped my life in ways I could never have imagined, and I am grateful for every pedal stroke. From the suburban sprawl of America to the bike lanes of Amsterdam, a bike has been my constant companion, a vehicle for exploration, and a source of endless amusement.

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About the author

_{Blog writer Peyton moved to the Netherlands in 2021 to pursue a master in Spatial & Urban Economics at the VU. Since then, she’s continued her work in the built environment industry– she was previously in Washington, D.C. supporting policy work on climate resilience and urban sustainability. As a former military brat with no real hometown back in the U.S., she decided to give the Netherlands a go at becoming her new home. In her free time, Peyton enjoys hanging out with her triathlon club (but cycling is her favourite), reading, writing, learning Dutch, and spending time enjoying good food and company with friends. She is also an urban enthusiast– passionate about understanding the vibrant ballet of life on city streets and the heartbeats of community identity. Peyton will be writing blogs every other month.}