If there’s one activity that awakens a strange kind of cultural pride in me, it’s cycling, and I mean cycling in Paris specifically. Under the leadership of Mayor Anne Hidalgo, the city aims to grow into nothing less than the world’s cycling capital. That’s how she really said it, Paris as la capitale global du vélo.
I am delighted, of course. When I whiz down the hill of Montmartre on my Amsterdam granny bike, or get absorbed in the grandeur of Paris with the traffic flow around Place de la Concorde, I feel both free and at home – a pleasant combination. The more space for the bike, the better.
At the same time, there is the mild hubris. You want to become a cycling capital? Fine, just look at me. How I pilot my bicycle through the anarchy of the Parisian traffic with Dutch dexterity. Don’t be pretentious about it, that agility is in our genes (forward, and in the cycling diploma).
Complete books have been written about the Parisienne, with titles such as Always a Parisian, aimed at achieving the mixture of mystery and style that Parisian women would be innate in. Red lipstick and ballet flats go a long way, as does smoking a cigarette slowly on the terrace.
On my bike in Paris I feel like the ultimate counterpart of that Parisienne. Neither mysterious nor stylish, with a shopping crate on the front and in a raincoat that can be zipped out into a poncho just in case. But as I pass many a city bus, I can see in my mind the passengers watching me jealously – she goes faster, can just pass a red light, stays fit and gets outside too. Hollandaise in the best sense of the word.
My friend is more nuanced about that. I don’t think it is so much an advertisement for Dutch cycling culture, but more of an opportunistic danger on the road. Don’t worry, I yell as I cross the road in front of the accelerating cars. I wave, glance in windshields and nod-smile thanks in advance. In short, I communicate!
This is necessary in Paris, where the cycle paths are wonderfully laid out. Mayor Hidalgo has accelerated its transformation into a cycling capital in two years, aided by the pandemic. During the first lockdowns, she had tens of kilometers of temporary bicycle paths built as an alternative to full public transport. After her re-election, they were declared permanent and expanded.
The ‘corona slopes’ are strips of asphalt, trimmed with concrete blocks and yellow plastic posts, which sometimes makes Paris seem like a permanent construction site. Other pieces simply have a bicycle symbol painted on the bus lane. Or has a bicycle section been painted, but you have to cross the road halfway through the carriageway to continue the path to the left of the carriageway. Sometimes the bike path just ends abruptly. If you followed well-defined cycle paths, you would in any case cycle against poles, lampposts and concrete blocks. There is room, but you have to claim it – mild hubris is also a survival strategy. Especially on the green painted bike path in my neighborhood. It is the only green strip in the area and is therefore also used as such: to hang out in groups.
This week I had once again contentedly squeezed my way through a traffic jam and squeezed between two bumpers and a bus when an angry cop pulled me off the bike. Did I want a 135 euro fine? Been a little too agile, I immediately thought. But she didn’t seem impressed at all. They were my ears. I had no idea that you are not allowed to wear it on a bicycle in France. I escaped unscathed, but promptly cycled with the flow so well that I ended up at the final destination half an hour late.