End of Week 37: Night Ride Begins

Late, I’m already an hour late. Even with this acknowledgment my pace remained placid, unruffled by my mistaken sense of the hour and time still needed to travel to the celebrations. They started too early anyways. Arriving late to an event that started too early, I thought before grabbing my oversized tassel keychain, in a distorted sense, will result in an on time appearance. Somewhere on the right side of my brain this knotted up in a satisfying bow of resolution, so I clattered down the stairs, passing other apartment doors with residents who for certain could hear my rush out onto the street. While unlocking my bike, the advice of a colleague still sat in my left ear, the one that happened to face the required direction to receive those wise words, as I shuffled through my purse, checking to make sure my oversized tassel keychain was restored to its rightful compartment before departing.

“Don’t make the same mistake that I made.”

We all make these, mistakes, some we share and others we withhold either in fear of embarrassment or swayed feelings that others too should experience this stubble of circumstance. My complete greenness to the upcoming events, Queen’s Night to then Queen’s Day, invited the enthusiasts to submit their brief sound bite from their one, or was it two, Queen’s Days, as the seasoned, anyone with five plus Queen’s Days, shrugged with shrouded apathy toward the entire hullabaloo – some even old enough to still use that word in their everyday vernacular. Every email or spoken token I took to heart as my last crowded celebration, New Year’s Eve in Museumplein, started with a pick pocketed IPhone and visit to the seemingly unoccupied police station; my stolen IPhone was probably the least of their concerns that night. I kept complete attention this time around, enacting almost a little too much caution as a result of my previous fumble…

The black luggage lock clicked on contact, locking my purse shut by holding together the two interlinked hardware pieces, this little security device an addition that remained inconspicuously on the chain of my purse for such events. Leading my bike around to head in the right direction, or should I say my right direction, not a second thought passed over how a different route would actually be the most efficient option. Google Maps recommended taking the roads past Museumplein, along the Singelgracht, to then cut over on Rozengracht, a path that would not only be quicker, but also smoother with designated biking lanes under blooming trees, absent of pedestrians or impatient cars. My right direction however, up Ferdinand Bolstraat and then Vijzelgracht with a final left turn onto the Prinsengracht, resulted in a fifteen-minute bumpy ride down narrow roads along the canal, cobblestones lined up like crooked teeth that chattered city bike barley held together by rusty frames. A jostle with cars and taxis, especially on Queen’s Night, inevitability lingered.