Slow Ride

And I did not take it easy...by midday angry at my bicycle for the first time.

This Sunday's idea was to get out of Emmen about where I left off yesterday, past Nieuw-Dordrecht over to Emmer-Compascum, then south to the bend in the border with Germany, west to Coevorden, south as far as I still had energy to do.

The train was late out of Naarden-Bussum, unusual.

I had time to wonder why the NS owns so many machines that look so much like they want to hurt you.
 

An couple of hours' ride out of station Emmen, past pleasant Klazienaveen, well into the godforsaken Schoonebeeker Veld--really a heide, heather, land that trees won't even grow on--my bike's drive train started to come apart. Most irritatingly, I had just had full service on the bike three weeks ago. It is four hours' walk to the nearest station, which is probably right back to Emmen and a long ride home, for just about nothing.

I pull off the bike trail, squat among the low heather and jackrabbits to see what's going on. First, the back wheel isn't set true. If I loosened the back bolts, I wasn't sure I could pull hard enough to straighten it, but I was pretty sure I wouldn't make it worse. I pull out the spanner (wrench to you Americans), and maybe lessen the skew angle by about half. Straightened the chain cover that the tech had snapped on crooked. I ride a bit, and it's better, but still not acceptable for long rides.

The drive mechanism is covered on this nice bike, which is good since I had pedaled through hundreds of kilometers of bad road--gravel, sand, sheep****, you name it, I rode through it. But in slits in the cover I could see the chain was dirty. I work a little more. I pedal a little more.

I'm not really seeing anything around me. The bike is making me nervous, and forecasts notwithstanding, the wind has turned west--dead against me. And west wind in coastal Europe, well it's been known for a long time:

Oh, western wind, when wilt thou blow,
That the small rain down may rain?

I ride through Nieuw-Schoonebeek and south of Nieuw-Amsterdam--the Dutch one, not the New York one--ducking the strengthening headwind, on a bumpy bike path, along a dreadful highway. The air smells of cows badly in need of showers. No no no--let's not invoke the rain gods. And I wonder why so many towns in the Drenthe area insist on being Nieuw-Something, particularly named after some other Dutch town. And inexplicably: Nieuw Moscou. Besides the Nieuws, there are the Tweedes (Seconds): Tweede Exloermond, Tweede Valthermond.

Maybe I'm just grouchy today. The bike squeaks and grinds along, louder and louder, kilometer after kilometer.

Across from station Coevorden stands this monument to teenage desire to escape hinterland boredom. Worshipping everything Amsterdammer, its excitement artificially generated a palm tree, cactus, on a peeling background of pink paint. And no doubt by music that threatens to derail trains. Dreadful.
 

I discover that Coevorden station has no WC. OK, now I am in a bona fide dark mood. More and more, the weather matches. But the border turns south, and ahead lies a station every few kilometers like a string of pearls, so at least now I can pedal on without real worry.

South out of Coevorden I had to pedal around a large and relatively new harbor--on a canal, I hasten to add. Lots of open land, and then...troop carriers and rocket launchers. No one around behind the high fences. "NATO" on signs and all the buildings.

I can't stand it. No one for kilometers in each direction. I stop and raise the level of the canal a little. Ripples spread in perfect circles, as if across glass. Some unseen birds nearly deafen me from the trees across. I never see even one bird. I find myself imagining it's a NATO psych ops test on me. Obviously losing perspective.
 

The next pearl is Gramsbergen, a delightful little place of unnecessarily, whimsically tight turns in its streets. I regret I will probably not see it again. And I have just missed the train out, which leaves about 30 minutes to pedal to the next town. I do.

Just as I find Hardenberg station, the light rain starts. There is a line of 15-20 Asians to the ticket machine, and they are making no progress. I pull out my PIN card, and they part like the Red Sea. I realize they don't know how to operate buy a ticket--as at very many Dutch rail stations, there is no ticket window, only the automats. So, with a flourish I run my finger to Naarden-Bussum, even though I know its code--1410--by heart, slowly punch in the digits, theatrically press the buttons in sequence, take my card back and show it, and my ticket pops into the bin. There breaks out tremendous loud chatter that I can't understand, I can't even identify the language. I push my bike up to the platform and look back down: when each one gets his ticket, there is general laughter, and the next one steps up timidly with his card. We all make the train, laughing, just as it begins to rain hard. We all find places, the whistle blows and the doors shut, and all the way to Zwolle it's a noisy, happy ride.

Did I say happy?