I bought a bicycle.
It only took me about 3 weeks, which, given that I live in what seems like the bicycle capital of the Western world, is a fairly absurd amount of time. After spending several days nearly being run down by angrily-bell-ringing locals (apparently riding a two-wheeler gives you unlimited license to ignore any traffic laws, road usage conventions or elements of human decency here), I finally got tired of hoofing it through town or waiting for the abysmal in-city public transportation that Amsterdam has to offer and decided I needed wheels.
While full of rental shops, this city is not entirely conducive to foreigners buying a decent, affordable second-hand bike. I had budgeted about €100 on one of the dull black monstrosities most of the locals ride around, only to embark on an odyssey of hilarious frustration.
Starting from the premise that most shops here close around 18:00, thus putting any necessities out of reach of most working stiffs (especially those who spend their weekends visiting their girlfriends elsewhere), it rapidly became clear that the Dutch are at the same time the most- and least-entrepreneurial people in existence. While the locals seem highly commerce-oriented, the sales process appears to consist of the following:
Step 1: quote your innocently smiling prospective customer an improbable price.
Step 2: challenge your still innocently smiling prospective customer to take it or leave it.
Step 3: sniff and turn away, because god forbid a shopkeeper would actually want to sell anything. Welcome to the welfare state, where all are motivated to work.
…that is, if they’re open in the first place.
Elements of this became painfully clear when I was laughed at by not one, not two, but three drunk and stoned bicycle store owners when I had the unspeakable chutzpah to inquire as to whether they might sell me a bicycle. Inconceivable!
So, I embarked on my quest by asking a friend what to do.
Friend: “Go find a bicycle shop. They’re everywhere.”
In a city teeming with bikes, the first idea that came to mind was to look for a bicycle shop. Bupkis. Nada. I finally found one behind the main station. See above re. stoned owner. And thus, the fun began.
Stoned owner (laughing): “Go to Waterlooplein, or come back tomorrow.”
Stoned owner at Waterlooplein (laughing): “No we don’t have any bikes to sell (the shop was full of them.) Go outside of town” (which is impractical, given that I don’t have a bike on which to go outside of town.)
Another friend: “What are you doing going to shops? They will rip you off. Buy one from a junkie. Most of the bikes in Amsterdam are stolen anyway.” I don’t particularly like junkies.
Co-workers (the next day): “Don’t go to junkies. If they police catch you with a stolen bike, they will execute you on the spot. Or worse, give you a stern talking to. Go on Marktplaats” (hint to Marktplaats operators: it’s not entirely conducive to commerce with non-Dutch-speakers, even those making an honest effort to understand the language, to wrap your page in loads of scripts that make it impossible to run through Google translate.) Did that. Aside from being full of dodgy-looking bicycle shops, no replies.
Kindly (yes!) Shop Assistant (while Karin was trying on some clothes): “Don’t bother with Marktplaats! Go to Praxis. They’re the biggest hardware store. Oh, and you can also buy mosquito repellent there.”
Praxis Shop Assistant: “No, of course we don’t sell bicycles. Go to Gamma. They’re the biggest hardware store.”
Gamma Shop Assistant: “No, of course we don’t sell bicycles. We have a contract with the government that forbids us from doing so.”
Finally, I found a rental shop willing to sell me a decent second-hand bike for about €180. And it is just what I wanted; it was love at first sight, if it’s possible to feel emotionally about a solid pig-iron monstrosity with the elegance of a Soviet locomotive.
With the additional baggage carrier, this thing is an unstoppable black behemoth. It’s of the type the Dutch call a “granny bike”, although I’d be hard-perssed to see how anyone’s grandma would have an easy time pedaling a 300-kilo beast (one gear, backpedal brakes), flat country or not.
Ladies’ bike notwithstanding, this thing is about as manly as it gets. I need not even fear the jihadist impulses of third worlder Amsterdam cab drivers on a mission to take out as many infidels as they can, as an impact with my bike would be likely to cleave even the stoutest of Mercedes trucks in half. I could probably ride this thing through solid brick walls without a scratch.
After a bit of kerfaffling about with a front baggage carrier kit and some Ikea tools, I added an additional 50 kilos of brute stopping power to the front, although I have no idea how I will ever muster up the sheer power to propel this leviathan forward if I ever have the stupid idea to try and carry cargo with it. Nonetheless, it adds a certain bullish je-ne-sais-quoi to the industrial aesthetics of my ride.
My theory is that they designed these things in the 1950s out of fear of another German road trip through the Low Countries; if you bury a few bikes like mine halfway in the ground, they will stop a tank. Which is ironic, given as how it feels as though it’s built from reclaimed panzers abandoned by the hun in ’45.
I love my bike. Amsterdam really is a lovely place when you’re not constantly dodging speeding psychopaths — now I get to be one of them. Whee!
I give it about two weeks before some junkie son of a bitch steals it.
