On my regular route on my racing bike from Rotterdam to Zeeland, I pass a young cyclist just after the Haringvliet Bridge. At 65 years old, I want to assert myself and therefore do everything I can to stay ahead of her. A few kilometers further on she suddenly appears in front of me again in the village of Dinteloord. I ask where she comes from and she says: “You went straight ahead at the industrial estate and I turned right there.” “Is that shorter?” I ask. “No, that’s longer,” she says, gives me a wink and attacks.
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