June 8, 2021

It must have been 2017. Me and my then girlfriend had the idea to ride across the Netherlands to her parents place. A beautiful farm turned home near the German border. We both had never seriously ridden a bike. Sure, my single speed was my main form of transportation, yet I had never really set down on a race bike. Nor had I ever really considered picking up one.

So I asked a colleague to lend me one. What ensued were 4 days of agony. We had underestimated the distances. Or had we overestimated our legs? Either, or, my ass hurt 20 kilometers into the first day. 10 K’s later, my back was killing me too. My legs felt as if made of led, and they got heavier with each day passing. Most days we started out chit-chatting and having a grand old time, but ended the day in silence wanting to be at our next stop already.

Yet those 4 days, however hard it was, sparked something in me. It woke up a love for cycling that I didn’t knew I had. The mundane and endless kilometres next to a canal, the exciting nature in natural parks, the town centres with names I’d never heard of.

A week after we’ve gotten home, I bought my first race bike, and I’ve ridden it ever since. Each time I get on a bike now, it’s like a little adventure. One that is around the corner, and it powered by nothing but my own legs. Wether going for a quick coffee ride, or a grand tour trough Italy.

Or even, an epic journey across the globe.