Submitted by Erin Wille
I thought moving from Boulder, Colorado to the Netherlands would be a seamless transition from one big cycling community to another. I’d join a women’s club, meet tons of friends and be a happy expat. What I came to realize some months into the move was that not all bike communities are created equally.
I hail from a sports enthusiasts’ Mecca where recreational cyclists line roads for fitness and fun. Coffee shops play Tour de France race video on the big screen and people discuss optimal color combinations for their cars and rough racks. No one flinches at smooth legged men in skin-tight ‘costumes’ and clicky medal shoes.
And while the population of bikes is triple that of its inhabitants in Holland, getting to work is the ultimate goal, not getting up Flagstaff Mountain. When I tell Dutch people I ride a road bike they seem confused.
‘You mean a race bike? You race your bike like Lance?’
‘Well yes, but no. I don’t race,’ I say, shuffling my feet a little, which is where I usually lose them. Most of the road cyclists here have gray hair, if any, and are male. Or they ride with Lance. And while I love the sight of an impeccably dressed Dutch woman cruising through town on a rickety old townie with three small kids hanging from all sides, it’s just not quite what I had pictured as my cycling community.
After three months of listening to me complain about feeling out of place and lonely in my new life abroad, my boyfriend made me an offer he knew I wouldn’t refuse.
‘We’re signed up for the Maratona. The hotel is booked, meals are arranged, and our schedules are clear,’ he stated proudly.
‘Now you’re speaking my language!’ I jumped out of my chair so quickly it would have given Mark Cavendish a startle.
The Maratona dles Dolomites is the most celebrated gran fondo bicycle ride in the world. The event attracts 10,000 cyclists from forty-five countries and covers seven mountain passes through the Italian Alps.
Initially I was a bit nervous. I hadn’t clocked too many miles in the past six months thanks to the distraction of an international move. And, as a new lowlander, I had surely de-acclimated to altitude riding. But as we pulled into the charming ski town of Corvara, the doubt was quickly replaced by excitement. I gawked out the window bursting with anticipation. Cyclists everywhere bustled around in their logo-clad Lycra. Lines of shiny road bikes leaned against terraces and cafes for miles. Looking at breathtaking mountain backdrop, I yearn to be on my bike. Famed cyclist Mario Cipollini posed for photos with fans in the street ten feet from us.
‘Wahoo!’, I thought. There, look, finally cyclists like me! It was like coming home. For the first time since arriving in Europe, I was within my comfort zone.
Adrenaline pulsed through me on the morning of the ride. A slight chill filled the early morning air as I made my way to the starting line. Thousands of other cyclists filed tightly into place around me. The sun slowly appeared over the mountains while two helicopters swirled above our heads with cameramen dangling out. An announcer’s voice boomed impassioned cheers in Italian over the loudspeaker. Men and women hurriedly disappeared behind bushes to empty their bladders one last time.
I scanned the crowd, reading names and countries listed on the race numbers pinned to everyone’s backs. Mostly Italians, but at least fifteen other nationalities were within reach, gathered here together with one goal in mind. We were strangers each with our own sets of language barriers and cultural differences, but the energy in the air was clear, I was amongst friends. Our unspoken bond was our passion for cycling.
I rode that day with a giant smile plastered across my face. I pushed myself to go faster, to pass as many people as possible. I was swept up in the excitement of it all. Spectators hollered along course.
‘Brava, Brava! Great job, almost done!’ Only later that evening would my aching muscles remind me how under-trained I really was.
On the final pass, the Falzarego, I found myself battling it out with a middle-aged Italian named Alessandro. It had been made obvious by that point that Italian men did not appreciate a woman passing them by. Alessandro and I yoyo-ed back and forth for miles, I passed him with a burst of energy, only to quickly be overtaken again. It went on and on. Upon sighting the peak, I patiently crept up behind him until just the right moment – putting in a final effort, I surged just as we crested the hill. He casually rode by me, smirking, as I gasped for air in triumph.
‘Di nuovo?’ he nodded in the direction of the actual final climb, about a 300-meter wall straight up into space. I laughed with wide eyes, shaking my head.
‘No no, I’m done.’
I rolled across the finish line about an hour later, the sun blazing overhead. Celebration and stories filled the rest of the day and evening. The next morning we packed our dirty bikes and tired legs into the car and headed north. Nine hours later, the sun moved out and the rain drizzled down around us. The landscape flattened but I was still on cloud nine. We were home again in the Netherlands. Still an outsider, a foreigner, but always a cyclist.
