Back on my bike for a life lesson

Center Parcs was never going to be the most obviously appealing holiday destination for me. I love visiting places with majestic mountains and quaint, cobbled villages; I like pottering around ancient churches and wandering through art galleries; reading novels and eating top-notch ice cream. I’m terribly unsporty and have a horror of artificial environments.

But, a holiday that the kids are pretty much guaranteed to love is, by that very definition, a successful holiday for the parents, too — so I agreed to try it.

On the first morning, we all set off from the cottage to go swimming, the others zooming off into the distance on their bikes and me following on foot.

Finding the pool was my first challenge, because my sense of direction is so bad that I’m capable of getting lost in my own house; but I studied the map carefully, and after half-an-hour or so of walking, I arrived, pleased with myself.

However, as I scanned the water searching for the rest of the family, I started to feel a bit fed up that I’d be constantly trailing far behind them wherever we went.

Then, all at once, I had a brave and scary idea: I would go to the bike hire shop on the site and find out if I could still ride. I would do it in secret, saying nothing to the others. That way, if the whole enterprise was an abject failure, no one would be any the wiser.

Walking into a bicycle shop in the Netherlands and telling them you’d like to hire a bike but you’re not sure if you remember how to ride one, has a similar effect to walking into your local kosher butcher and asking for a packet of pork chops. The man behind the counter stared at me like I was from an alien species, and a pretty sub-standard one at that — but he agreed to let me borrow one of his bikes to try it out.

The next problem was where to go for my grande épreuve, to minimise the humiliation if I had indeed forgotten how to ride. I wheeled the bike through the crowds of holiday makers until I came across a deserted utility yard, with plenty of space to cycle among the rubbish bins.

And, to my amazement, I could do it! After a few tentative circuits, I proudly rode back to our cottage and locked my bicycle up outside. Still I said nothing to anyone.

“How come there’s an extra bike here,” asked my husband some time later. “Oh, I decided to hire one,” I shrugged, as if it were no big deal.

The family were not fooled. “Mum can’t have a bike,” exclaimed my 12-year-old son. “That’s ridiculous! She’ll just ride it round and round in circles singing [adapts falsetto], ‘Oooohh, look at the lovely trees! La la la, what beautiful flowers!’”

“I’ll show him,” I thought, my eyes narrowed, and on the next swimming trip I got all geared up to demonstrate my rediscovered skills. I was surprised to see, though, that everyone headed the opposite way to the pool, compared to the route I had taken earlier.

Around 90 seconds later, we arrived. It turned out that I had previously walked in a gigantic circle, until I got back almost to where I had started.

It didn’t matter. For the rest of the week, I rode my bike everywhere — even making it out of the holiday park and all the way to the next village. Admittedly, I was better at coasting along than I was at either starting or stopping — a fact which caused one or two logistical difficulties — but I was proud of myself nevertheless.

So, even if there were no ancient churches and not an art gallery in sight; even if we ate yellow Calippos instead of local hand-crafted ice cream; and even if — it being the Netherlands — there was not a mountain to be seen, or even a small hillock, I still had proper and genuine fun.

And it was pleasing to realise that I had not forgotten my cycling skills after so many years.

It turns out it’s like… like…

If only I could find an appropriate simile to describe the situation.

@susanreuben