After dropping Les & Helen off at their hotel in the Jordaan neighborhood, I pedaled over to my friend Mark’s house to catch up on the latest and ‘watch him eat and fix his toilet’ (sounds like an insider’s joke, but it’s actually true).
His house is basically one big social hub, many people walking in and out, for all sorts of reason, but mainly because someone did someone else a favor. Many of them are expats (and a lot of them American) who, at some point in their lives decided to stick around Amsterdam for a bit longer, to say the least. Although I don’t see them often enough, I always feel at home and at ease and we always have great conversations. This is my segway.
Mark’s house mate Amy came home from celebrating her birthday with her friend Amy Joy. Amy Joy runs a bicycle shop in the north of Amsterdam. She overheard Mark and I discussing this blog and what I’m planning for the coming weeks, and of course she was all ears. She loved it and would check it out (hi, Amy Joy!).
Anyhoo, ‘the other’ Amy handed me the June (Amsterdam) edition of the Fietsersbond’s (Cyclists Union) monthly magazine called ‘OEK’, which is an acronym for ‘Op Eigen Kracht’, which translates into ‘On Its/Your Own Strength’. I quickly scanned the articles and recognized many of the topics I have posted about on Amsterdamize, figuring my ramblings are at least resembling a solid, main stream and established cycle brain trust.
Then I saw a column at the back of the magazine, titled ‘Bakfiets’. Deciding to read it later, I asked Amy if I could take it home. “Sure, of course, I finished it already.” Before putting it back on the table, for a split second my eyes saw a familiar name. Right below the column. The author was Pete Jordan. Also known as Dishwasher Pete (of David Letterman fame). ALSO known as Amy Joy’s husband…
This is my town. I love it.
“Bakfiets” - Pete Jordan
Within an hour’s time, during an afternoon in Amsterdam, I can spot at least three very pregnant cyclists. In my home country—the United States—one could spend years searching without ever locating a single pregnant cyclist. An important factor in my wife’s and my decision to immigrate to Amsterdam, was because we wanted to become parents. Yet transporting children solely on bikes in the U.S. is too dangerous. So it was with great glee when my wife Amy Joy became pregnant. Cycling alongside her and her growing belly through the streets of Amsterdam was a treat. And when it finally came time, she even cycled to the hospital to give birth.
In the months afterwards, it was wonderful to cycle a few times with the infant boy strapped to my chest. Even better was when he graduated to his own little seat behind the handlebars, his ears so close to my lips. I gave him detailed guided tours of the city. We sang together. Eventually, as he grew, he became brazen enough to call out to cyclists in front of us on a bike path, “Toot! Toot! A bike is coming!” But his growth had a drawback—the seat’s fifteen kilo weight limit.
“We have to put a rear child’s seat on your bike,” Amy Joy said. A rear seat? But he’d be so far away with nothing to look at but my back! Wasn’t there some way to stave off moving him from the front seat? Couldn’t the boy skip some meals? Couldn’t he ride laps around the playground on his tricycle to sweat out the kilos? Nevertheless, despite all my fretting, the boy grew. A rear seat became unavoidable. My heart broke the first time we went for a ride with him sitting behind me.
Him: [Mutters something.]
Me: “What did you say?”
Him: “…brown…”
Me: “What?!”
Him: “…KITTY!…”I pulled over. “Sorry,” I said, “but I can’t hear you. What did you say?”
“I asked if you saw that brown kitty cat back there.”
“Oh,” I said, looking back and seeing no cat. “No, I didn’t see him.”
Stupid rear seat, I thought.
Amy Joy’s solution for my frustration: purchase a bakfiets. I was skeptical though. Sure, he’d be back up front again, but I was leery of the unwanted status symbol some place on bakfietsen. I didn’t want to clunk around town in an S.U.V. on two wheels.
But when Amy Joy brought the bakfiets home, she showed me how much our boy enjoyed his new ride. Status symbol or not, he was ecstatic—a prince being chauffeured in his very own chariot. A smile stretched from ear to ear across his face.
Father & son talking while waiting for the green light.
On our first ride together on the bakfiets, while passing through Vondelpark, a jogger in shorts ran by us. “Papa, what is that guy doing?”
“He forgot to put on his pants,” I replied, repeating one of my late-father’s favorite corny jokes, “and now he’s running home to get them.”
“Oh,” the boy said, “he forgot his pants.” Then he laughed. And I laughed too.
WHAT TO DO NOW?