When I was about 8 years old, my mom and dad took me to Rocky Springs to teach me how to ride my bike. For those of you who've never been to Rocky Springs before, let me set the scene for you. Rocky Springs is a stop off the Natchez Trace. It is compromised of a main road that leads directly to the edge of the once small town, sitting on top of a hill overlooking the road and smaller roads that turn off to picnic areas and camp grounds. It's densely forested up to the road bed (that sets slightly elevated) and is a favorite for day hikers and many a boy scout troop.
Now, if I were to teach my child to ride a bike, I think I would find a field (particularly if that child were as uncoordinated as I) where it would be impossible to hit anything except for that fence post way off in the distance. This however, was not what my parents thought, no indeed "let's pick the forest so Lindsay has plenty of targets to choose from." Alright, I'm not really being fair, the goal of the trip was to teach me to ride downhill, for I'd already mastered the no training wheels concept, so in that case Rocky Springs was alright I suppose.
My experience of the whole bike riding thing was not a pleasant one, however. It went accordingly, Mom rather enthusiastically set me on my bike (helmetted, knee padded, and elbow padded,) while Dad stationed himself at the bottom of the hill. Then she let go, I started rolling, it got too fast and fwop! over I went either on the pavement to my left or the shrubbery on my right. Mom and Dad met in the middle. Dad picked up the bike Mom picked up me, set me back on the cursed contraption and pushed me down the hill once more, perhaps I made it at least 20 feet that time I'm not sure but sure enough, over I go once more. I can honestly say that this is the only time in my life that I actually hated my parents. I'm sure I went home that evening plotting to runaway before the week was out, but I could ride my bike downhill by golly.
One of the most popular ways to get around Europe is by bike, but biking here is nothing like like in America. Nearly every town has an extensive set of bike paths that line the main road. Sometimes they're completely isolated into a little road by themselves. The rules are much like driving a car. You ride on the right side of the rode and in order to turn around or do anything in the opposite direction you must cross the street. This isn't as challenging as it seems considering that a car will go out of its way to give you the right of way. I had a vehicle back all the way up his driveway because my lane crossed in front, and he didn't have time to turn out before I passed. The bikes even have their own little system of crosswalks and stop lights that tell you when to go or not, like a pedestrian. When we arrived we were each assigned a bike out of the Baylor bike shed.
This is my travel companion, henceforth referred to as MaryBelle.
After all of the hard work Mom and Dad invested in my magnificent bike riding skills, I haven't been on a bike since I was twelve. You can imagine the amusing time we had two weeks ago when one of my friends suggested we bike to Belgium. I thought I was going to have permanent grid patterns across my palm from gripping the handlebars so hard, but the important things was that I didn't crash... completely. And since this morning was one of only two Tuesdays that I didn't have class I decided to take MaryBelle out for a ride instead of sitting in my room doing work all day. Armed with only a map and a vague idea of the path I was searching far, I was feeling particularly adventurous.
What do you think Holland looks like?
What do you think Holland looks like?
I finally found my bike path off the main road that let me to the countryside with fields of wheat, strawberries and another plant that I couldn't identify.
Out here were the small towns where the people just lived, no international students scurrying about chattering in different languages, no tourists. In one house a family was gathered around the dining table, the windows were open and on the top floor a duvet and pillow peaked over the windowsill to air in the summer sun. Cows munched lazily on the grass and men worked in the small fields, though for professional or personal gain I couldn't tell.
I think the best part about it was that I was by myself. I don't think I've been by myself since I arrived in Holland, and as many of you know this factor if vital to my sanity and happiness. After a week various kinds of stress: planning trips, figuring out who's going, what they want to see and making sure it all actually happens, and other things, this bike ride was good for the soul. Sometimes you need to get away from the unnecessary noise: people talking, keyboards clicking, and chairs rattling, and go to a place where the only sound is the rustle of the wind through the trees and the lapping of the water against the AlbertKanaal.
Pictures.
