Biking Belgian Style

After almost two years of living in Benelux, I am one step closer to being like the locals — thanks to the kindness of my neighbours, I finally have a bicycle.

As a child in Canada, I had various bicycles (my favourite, at eight-years-old, was a pink and white number with a white wicker basket and rainbow streamers on the handlebars). I rode back and forth to friends houses, to the beach or the store. My bike gave me a sense of freedom.

Once I turned 16 and got my driver’s licence, the bike started to get pretty dusty sitting neglected at the back of the garage. Even so, when I moved to Halifax for university, the bike came too. I thought that without a car, I may revert back to pedal power. It never happened.

Few people cycle as a form of commuting in Halifax — it’s very hilly, the ice and snow in winter make cycling impossible and there are no bike paths. But mostly, people are just too addicted to their cars. If they do cycle, it’s for exercise rather than to get from point A to B, (and more often people will drive their cars to a gym where they can sit on a stationary bike rather than cycling out in the elements).

In my 10 years of living in Halifax, my poor bike was probably used less than half a dozen times. I sold it before we moved to Europe and I hope someone is enjoying it as I once enjoyed cycling as a child.

Since I moved here and stopped driving, I’ve often thought of how convenient that old bike would be. I could pedal to the store or the train station, or just get out and sightsee with my camera.

Bicycles are ubiquitous in this part of Europe and the two-wheeled experience here is very different from Eastern Canada.

Take clothing for example — in Halifax, the few times I did bike, I put on specific clothes for cycling (track pants and a T-shirt usually) and I always wore sneakers. I remember the first time I saw a man biking in Amsterdam in a three-piece suit and carrying a briefcase — I was astonished. Then there are the young women in skirts and high-heals and the older ladies with stockings and dresses — this just isn’t something you see on the streets in Eastern Canada.

Here, the bicycle almost becomes and extension of its rider. Children here seem to pedal before they even walk, perhaps because they are riding strapped onto their parents’ bikes as soon as the come out of the womb.

Belgium also has those who bike for sport — and boy do they take it seriously. Every Sunday, packs of iron-legged men and women swoosh past my house, covered in multi-coloured spandex, their cycling gear costing more than a small car. Roads are closed regularly for cycling events and those at the top of their game have hoards of fans.

I admit I’m a little nervous to get on my bike. For my inaugural ride I want to take it someplace deserted so the locals won’t chuckle at my wobbly start. After 10 years, I’m worried I won’t be able to handle the bike as I once did.

I doubt I’ll be peddling in high heels anytime soon, but hopefully with a bit of practice I can regain some of that sense of freedom my childhood bike gave me. Besides, they say that once you learn how to cycle you never really forget — it’s as easy as falling off a bike.