Ask anyone stuck to roam these diluvially doomed lands what the heaviest thing they've ever hauled on a bike was and they will tell you a bardic tale of their heroism. The terminally Dutch pride themselves in their gross vehicular misconduct (me too!), the physicality of the feat being the primary pride-point. Moving stuff with a car? Pussy shit, boring, tired, whatever. Delicately balancing a full dining table set across your steering wheel? Stunning, brave, unbelievable, and in dire need of a song.

NL being a cycling country is probably in the top 5 internationally known facts about itself (alongside pot legality, windmills, holiday-tied blackface, and wafer-sandwiched caramel syrup), and as such it has cemented itself as a vehicle for people, people (plural), animals, stuff, thoughts, and politics; think of what you might use a car for and some 'Pieter' type guy has done it on a bike.

Provo was a Dutch 60s anarchist movement that lasted a staggering year or two. Aside from provocative, confusing demonstrations (i.e. handing out raisins) they made and presented various 'white plans'. The 'wittefietsenplan' was to create a collectivist system of bikes in Amsterdam, think: those stupid electric scooters but free and without locks.

It's hard to describe how you might arrive at a situation like this, but usually it starts at a point of self-overestimation. Taking myself as an example, I wished to visit the IKEA to acquire some means of storage, specifically the KUGGIS line of plastic tubs. In addition, a bathroom box called DRAGAN. I'm a pretty meticulous person so I took the time to research; how big are they, how much do they weigh, does my IKEA FRAKTA recycled polypropylene plat carrier bag accommodate them adequately, and perhaps most importantly, can I hang this bag on my steering wheel without veering into oncoming traffic?

The answer to this formula of questions was a resounding 'maybe', which is a yes to the manic optimist. I set out on my Koga e-bike, inherited from my sole living grandparent, and felt good about it all. Beaming even. Positively radiant. Soon I would have a solution to my storage-woes; the ability to stow away the bulk of my partner's keyboard obsession/my electronic component obsession/our ebb-and-flowing interest in textile arts.

The first challenge came in dreaming; I was biking in the wrong direction and soon found myself in an industrial zone.

In a country that is now ribbon-wrapped by bike lanes and bike-related infrastructure, these industrial zones stand defiantly against the accommodation of the cyclist class. This does not stop them however, which is probably why on my way I witnessed an ambulance and a cop car huddled around a totalled, now-abstract racing bike and its groaning, red-faced, 7-vinker, middle-aged wielder. I was fearing for my life, but this hunk of a man presumably biked as if the brick-red was being paved right in front of his wheels, until it was cruelly disrupted by an Opel Movano's (10m2) side body.

Self-importance and entitlement are core to the hobbyist racing cyclist's identity of course -- we all know this -- and examples of it are being shared with manchildic giddy enthusiasm on places like Reddit or whatever your source of seconds-long lizard brain-ticklage is.
This hatred can be a bit extreme though, where it starts to extend to your average Jane bike rider. This quite clearly comes out of countries that do not have the necessary infrastructure to support cycling. Here a bike is bound to the road's ditch, where the fact that it's slower than a passenger car means they should die painfully (obvious).
TL;DR more bike lanes and make racing bikes illegal.

So I inevitably made it to the IKEA, and there it was a quick run-through to get the things I wanted. Its labyrinthine qualities have been long-conquered by us, so no getting lost or getting charmed by various stuffed animals. The IKEA® Family™ checkout line made me feel like Mansa Musa and I started to notice how I was struggling with my IKEA FRAKTA recycled polypropylene plat carrier bag. It was heavy (turns out it was only 10 kilograms) and cumbersome, and arriving back at my bike worries started to seep in.

The IKEA FRAKTA recycled polypropylene plat carrier bag and its contents, next to my steed.

Eventually self-doubt won out and I walked the bike-walk of shame towards the nearby tram station, where I learned I would not be let on with my bike. I felt my inner entitled white woman stir, barely subdued like Guts conquering the Beast of Darkness. I bike-walk of shamed away from the tram stop like some fucking cuck. Curse this non-Mamdanian public transit network and may it be nationalized in my lifetime.

Here the NL resident finds herself stuck with an expensive e-bike a cumbersome load and roughly 3,5 kilometers away from home. That's perfectly walkable of course but... Can you hear that... A little voice in the back of the head... 'Tis lekker weer 'n das prima te fietsen, aansteller.

So here we jump onto the bike and engage in habitual calvinistic self-flagellation; the relentless thumping-against-the-knee of our burden, going slow and steady while the mother-and-child ahead of us inhibit our progress. The kid was even turned around to face me, like a hip highschool theatre teacher 1-2 years away from his big break onto the sex offender registry. His eyes bore into me and I'm pretty sure he was trying to use mind powers on me, which I'm sure about because I used to do the same thing. Kubrick stare and all.

Halfway through, panting and mad-eyed, I knew I had to turn my hat backwards. There was no question about it, it was as necessary as breathing. A backwards cap is a marker of power and confidence; a spiritual trepanation to expose a woman's most vulnerable point: her forehead. With fresh, crazed vigour I finished the ride and arrived home, wet and heaving like a fish out of water.

Me, just about right after my trek, aflush and full of smug, self-absorbed pride.

How I yearned for a song of praises, a tale spun by a jester, affirmation of what I believed to be a groundbreaking achievement. But in a nation of giants no one praises a dunk. Wherever I went and whoever I spoke to, all I got was a middling smile, a solemn nod, not even a "sjonge" or a "nou zeg". The wordless reactions clattered lukewarm against the hiss of my heat; I spun my hat back to face forwards.