I waited at the edge of the bike lane outside Amsterdam Centraal with one foot on the pavement and one clipped over the pedal.

Bicycles streamed past without interruption.

Thousands of them.

They rode shoulder to shoulder, slipping between one another without slowing, signaling with a flick of the hand before merging into another current already moving just as fast.

I waited.

Back home I’d ridden everywhere. Three years in college without a car.

I thought that counted for something.

It didn’t.

When I finally found an opening, I pushed off, pedaled hard, and immediately realized I was the slow one.

Riders flowed around me from both sides with practiced ease, ringing bells only when I drifted into their path.

Every hesitation rippled backward through the line.

The guidebooks had warned tourists not to rent bicycles.

Now I understood why.

~

By the second day I stopped thinking of Amsterdam as a city with bicycle lanes. It felt more like a city built entirely out of bicycle traffic, with cars squeezed into whatever space remained.

The busiest cycle routes were wider than the roads beside them. Delivery vans waited. Cyclists didn’t.

Every bicycle looked the same—black frame, upright handlebars, basket on the front.

Mine came with two locks. The rental clerk insisted I use both.

“The wheel lock isn’t enough.” she said.

I tried. I really did.

But every railing, every signpost, and every bridge already held a dozen bicycles.

Eventually I gave up searching, clicked the lock through the rear wheel, and left the bike standing by itself like everyone else did.

In glanced back as I left.

It felt wrong every time.

~

Finding my black bike again, lost among the sea of those standing along the canals proved challenging every time.

Finding my way back through the city after proved no easier. Street names hid on building corners, written at angles I couldn’t read until I had already ridden past.

My map insisted I was on one street, looking for another.

I turned into what looked like the right one, and followed its curve between the buildings.

A minute later I rolled into Dam Square.

I stopped, unfolded the map again, and searched for the alley I’d just ridden through.

It wasn’t there.

Neither was any route that explained how I’d crossed a mile of Amsterdam without noticing.

I folded the map, slipped it back into my pocket, and started pedaling again.