I think I can do anything
reflections on imposter syndrome at work, and riding my bike to get better
I recently read a short but impactful article by fellow substacker Allie Allis of Reading Red. ‘You’re not actually “just a girl”’ opens with the devastating line:
I don’t know when I stopped being a girl and became a woman, but I think it had something to do with realizing that nobody was coming to save me.
Allie speaks about the weird crossing of the line from girlhood to womanhood, and realising that the “i’m just a girl excuse” for getting away with everything becomes less and less attractive until you realise how embarrassing feeling that way was in the first place. It’s not a big grand statement of femininity, more a creeping realisation that the liminal space between girlhood and womanhood has finally been traversed and you’re now in charge of your own life. No man is coming to sweep you off your feet and you can’t call your parents to fix it any more. And with that realisation comes power. Girlhood, that palatable state which keeps us infantilised, makes way for womanhood, a concept that terrifies the patriarchy and is so powerful that laws have to be passed to make us stay in our lanes (which we of course won’t). And both Allie and I aren’t having it. We’re women now. The girls are gone. Long live the women.
I myself have been guilty of this, until later into my twenties than I’m comfortable thinking about. This was especially pertinent at work; I fully accepted that I was just a bit crap at everything, on the basis of absolutely nothing and hidden behind a veil of girlishness that is so humiliating to reflect on. It probably didn’t help that my job didn’t require any formal training and was just experience based, and that I fell into it accidentally at 24 with no background in the industry (actually, it was cycling that got me the job, as the person who interviewed me was also into riding bikes - this matters later). I built my professional identity in being a bit rubbish but friendly and reliable enough to not be fired. This was particularly easy in the male dominated environment where I found myself, and I kept this up for an agonisingly long time, probably up until after COVID. The pandemic meant I lost my job (well, I was freelance; they stopped calling me). My work was like my family over here in the Netherlands, and at some point I accepted that I’d probably never go back. It was quite devastating, really. I remember crying a lot. Then one day, after working three weeks in a dreadful cafe job, my phone screen lit up during a university tutorial from my old boss Martijn, the one who loves cycling: “shall we have a chat soon?” I quit my shitty cafe job and ran back to my real family. I was home again. And I wasn’t going to take it or my place in it for granted.
Something had switched in my mind and I decided to stop doing myself so dirty. I started thinking about what I was good at and what I wasn’t good at. Why was I there? What did they see in me? Was being friendly and reliable my “thing”? Whilst I finished my masters I tried to figure out how to anchor myself in more permanently, without having to learn sound engineering. I had a few false starts. I tried tour managing and that was, it turns out, not for me. I did festival work. I freelanced and film and music festivals. I networked and talked and allowed myself to have ambition, even though there was no specific goal. It took a few years and then one day popped up a job that was perfect, where I already worked. I applied and I got it. I found my place, and I didn’t even have to change buildings. Being friendly and reliable was my superpower now, and I know I’m so much more. I still love it.
This was a really long winded way of getting to the actual point here, which was to tell you all about the mammoth bike ride I did on Saturday.
I came to cycling in 2013. I visited my local velodrome for a try-out session, spotted a boy I liked, fell in love with him, started working there, joined a cycling club, did a spot of racing, and became fully ingratiated with the local scene with minimal talent - which is fine, by the way. I’m not doing myself dirty here: despite being slow on the bike, off it I was an excellent coach, the only one who was actually good with small children and teenage girls, thanks to my total lack of competitive spirit which meant I focused on fun rather than results. This competitive spirit meant I never truly fitted in with the other people in my orbit, especially in my cycling club which has reliably churned out Team GB riders for the last few decades. But that’s also what I loved about it. There was space for people who’d go on to ride the Tour de France, and also dads with pacemakers and people like me who just wanted to make friends at a snail’s pace. I’d probably do it differently now and join a slightly less old-fashioned club, but at the time it made sense at the time. I was happy.
I pigeonholed myself as big fat sprinter because being man 1 in the team sprint was the only race I ever did where I didn’t come dead fucking last. I didn’t find training fun and progress didn’t interest me. The other girls I rode with didn’t get it and sometimes wondered why I bothered. Looking back, they were kind of mean. I didn’t really get why I had to be good at something. But I did let it get to me, and started telling myself that I was severely limited in what I was capable of. When I picked cycling up again during the pandemic, I kept my rides modest. I didn’t like to stray too far. I had memories of bonking, hard, back in the UK (this isn’t anything rude: it’s bikespeak for being absolutely shit out of energy and physically unable to continue. It’s not fun). Now that I didn’t have the cushion of my clubmates to drag me home I was terrified of being stuck somewhere in North Holland with an empty tank and no motivation to get home. When I made some bike friends, I was embarrassed at how they’d slow down to accommodate me and cut down on distance for me. I knew it wasn’t challenging for them, and I didn’t feel like we were equals. And I just sort of accepted that it’s because that’s who I was as a cyclist - someone that others had to make compromises for, because I was just built rubbish. It put me off riding a lot, which is so stupid - the more you ride the better you ride.
Now imagine my surprise when, after a 65km ride on Friday with my boyfriend Alex and my bike bestie Chris, I felt very enthusiastic and energetic for another round on Saturday, by myself this time. I planned a route of about 80km on Komoot, with a contingency to shorten it by cutting off a big chunk and saving about 15km in case I felt tired. After much pleading with my ancient Garmin to please for the love of god just connect to my laptop, I finally loaded my ride up, packed my bits, and headed out into the scorching sunshine.
The tragedy of being a cyclist in Amsterdam West is that the best routes are out east and you have to make it through the city centre and all the cunts it contains just to leave. That’ll take up the first 9km of dodging tourists and waiting for idiots on fatbikes to crawl away from the lights in their giant gears that they’re permanently in (gear selection matters, guys!). Once I make it to Zeeburg I can breathe a little easy, which is saying something given that Zeeburg is where a part of my soul once died.
The tarmac on the Waterkeringpad is glistening in the heat and I overtake joggers and rollerskaters. The water on the Nieuwe Diep looks so refreshing but I must resist; I have two swimming spots on my route and I must exercise patience. I cross the canal at the Nesciobrug, which I refer to as the swirling vortex of terror even though it has just the one swirl in it, but let me have my fun. I trundle east, through what we call Sheep Shit Lane, a paved path dotted with fluffy little guys hiding from the heat and chomping on anything they can get their snouts on. On the outskirts of Muiden there’s a new housing developments of enormous “modern farmhouses” and huge gardens, and I wonder who on earth gets to live in them. I zoom past the old Muiden fortress and keep an eye out for dogs; almost a year ago, I drove out here to rescue a colleague who’d been knocked off his bike by a dog and taken him to hospital; it was the day before his 67th birthday and he had a hairline fracture in his hip. He was back on his feet in no time.
The lock at Muiden is letting some boats through and I finally take stock of myself a bit. The sun cream I slathered on is mixing nicely with sweat and I’ve caught dozens of tiny bugs on my legs and chest. I’d given up on my jersey being zipped up about ten minutes in, but politely zipped it back up as I eyed a posh looking cafe across the bridge. There was a table in the shade where I could prop my bike up while I drank my iced coffee and got chatting to the friendly couple at the next table. They had a gravel bike each and one of those little wheeled carts for kids attached to one of them. How brave, to take a one year old out on a proper bike ride. The couple - she is Austrian, he’s British - haven’t let their spirited daughter stop them from hitting the trails in Naarden on a Saturday afternoon. We talk about how triathletes are crap at cycling and the husband laughs about the terrible sunburn he got in his “triathlon leotard” he wore at the Amsterdam triathlon last weekend. I finish my iced coffee, they say their goodbyes, and I go on my merry way. 20km in is a bit early for a pitstop but how on earth am I supposed to continue without more caffeine in my veins?
I’ve done this ride out East a few times, thanks to my old cycling buddy Radu who made us a route called “Forest Grump” that goes past Muiden to Muiderpoort, Naarden, around the western edge of Bussum, through some lovely nature in eastern Hilversum complete with big shaggy Highland Cattle, through Ankeveen, Weesp, and then finally back into Amsterdam coming in from the South. I’d fiddled with the route a bit as I was absolutely not in the mood for the cobbles of Muiderpoort (I ride my tyres far, far harder than someone who weights 65kg needs to). I take the southern edge of the Naardertrekvaart and hit about 38kph on a smooth speedy road towards the Naardenbos, Confidence Man blasting through my earbuds. This route is way better. I’m going to take this way in future, the fields of cows and horses on route to Muiderpoort don’t need my attention.
The old fort city of Naarden lies nestled inside an eight pointed star shaped island connected by lanes, and I think that some day I should get off my bike and explore the old part of town some day. Not today though. I zig zag my way around as teenagers jump off the wooden bridges into the moat, the “no swimming” signs ignored as usual. I exit the fortress bit of Naarden, following the map until it spits me out onto the canal route I discovered yesterday. I have the map screen on my bike computer and I’m barely registering the difference. I’m shocked to already be around the 30km mark. Usually I’m thinking about making my way home by now. It feels so easy.
Something I’ve always enjoyed about cycling - from my miserable foundation year of art school where I’d bike around at night to pass the time to my solo rides now, over a decade later - is that approaching a familiar spot from a different direction and connecting the dots is such a satisfying feeling of eureka! I know where I am! Orienteering is cool! This time, I am approaching the Spaanderswoude Nature Reserve, a gorgeous woodland park paid for and maintained by the good tax paying folk of Het Gooi, from the road I usually exit from. How exciting! A new perspective!
This is the point where I take my earbuds out. This is a big deal for me. My anxious brain hates the quiet. I need to hear noise or my thoughts take over. Thoughts aren’t good, historically. But the woodlands deserve my full attention. It’s so quiet. The birds and singing and the trees creak. I get to the road out of the forest that leads to Ankeveen and I need to decide if I’m cutting off part of my route or not. I’m feeling pretty great. Why not keep going? My Clif bar is there if I need it, melting slowly into a chocolate and macadamia nutty blob in my jersey pocket, delicious regardless. I turn left instead of right and my Garmin begins to shriek at me that I’m off course. She’s so dramatic.
When I get to the next forest exit, by the village of Kortenhoef, I take a look at the Fietsknoop Map. This is the Netherlands so there’s a huge network of bike lanes throughout the whole country, with numbered waypoints - knooppunten (knoop = button, punt = point) - making getting from A to B so easy it makes me wonder why on earth I’m still using a bike computer. I study the map and realise that it won’t do me any harm to take a long-cut along the north side of a big lake called Wijde Blik which has a swimming spot on the dike. It turns out I’m not the only one, as I wait for cars with Polish and Slovakian plates to let each other past through the throngs of cars and people who had the same idea as me. It’s bloody packed. I make a note to come back on a weekday.
I’m about 45km in and know it’s time to stop and eat soon. I don’t feel that hungry but I know my face is covered with a thin layer of salt I’ve sweated out. I take stock of the route as I wait for a lock to let some boats through on the border between the provinces of North Holland and Utrecht. My next port of call is the swimming spot I love at Nederhorst den Berg, where I can sluice the sweat and sun cream and dead bugs and snot off myself. I can either take a longer route through Ankeveen and stop at a Dutch restaurant where I will probably eat a big portion of bitterballen with gusto, or I can try what looks like an American style diner in Nederhorst. I obviously opt for the latter. It was an amazing idea. The crispy chicken burger had cheese AND garlic butter in it. I put lots of tabasco and more salt than I usually would on my chips; I’m not organised enough to keep electrolyte tabs in the house, so I’m going for the old school method of mineral replenishing via salty food. It’s tastier that way.
Stuffed to the gills I drag myself ten minutes up the road to the swimming hole. My mirofibre towel and a bikini (by which I mean, I thong and a bralette that take up as little space as possible in my bag and on my body) just about squeeze into my pink frame bag, along with a deodorant and some sun cream. I splash around in the setting sun while an old chap does lengths and two teenage girls sneakily light some cigarettes on a giant inflatable donut. Their mother is telling them off. They deliberately drift further away, pretending not to hear. Isn’t life marvellous?
At this point I’m 55km in. I’d love to hit 80km. I think I’ve only gone that far once or twice, ever. Besides, I feel great. This is unheard of. I never feel this great. My route is supposed to navigate me back into Amsterdam via Driemond and Weesp, but I’m not in the mood for such a short route home. I’ve got at least two hours of daylight, a litre of water, and 60% phone battery left. Why am I rushing? It’s the solstice after all. At the western end of the time zone where I am, it gets dark close to 11pm. I decide to take a more scenic route out that will keep me on my toes as I chase the sunset home: north out of Nederhorst, back down to Nigtevecht, crossing the Rijnkanaal across the even twistier Liniebrug, west towards Abcoude, up to Ouderkerk aan de Amstel, then wiggling up the Amstel on the familiar route home back into the city. I can probably make it in time. I only have a back light so I don’t have much choice. Better get a move on.
I haven’t had my headphones in for hours now. The sun is casting a long shadow of myself on the road ahead. There are no cars, the occasional cyclist comes the other way and does the obligatory nod of acknowledgement. A few people walk their dogs. Nigtevecht and Abcoude have beautiful old town centres where people are sitting quietly in bars enjoying some wine, children run around up to no good, and on the waterways that surround the towns people are still in their boats and on paddleboards. It’s still very much warm enough to be in the water. The closer I get to Amsterdam the more familiar the route gets, and the more it runs past the motorway. It still feels so quiet, but I feel less isolated. Not that it’s every frightening, but it’s nice to feel like people are close by.
My Garmin says 82km as I snake up the Amstel back into the city. I feel so full of beans (it’s actually chicken). My average speed is excellent. There’s no wind. My feet have been hurting for a bit and my wrists are taking a lot of the bumps in the road. I usually wear mitts but I couldn’t find the left one. Ever since I crashed my bike on Vauxhall Bridge in 2012 and cut up both my hands I rarely venture out with naked hands. I’m uncharacteristically unbothered by this, even though I’m not far off blisters forming. I’ve ignored my sore bum for most of the day. It comes with the territory. We wear those silly shorts for a reason.
The Amstel is dotted with party boats blasting Believe by Cher and crowded with teenagers. It’s graduation season and every town I’ve been to has had backpacks slung over flagpoles, in the rather sweet Dutch tradition that school leavers partake in. I take the very steep-by-Dutch-standards path up to the Ringweg Zuid bike lane and think, god this neighbourhood is kicking. My friends used to live here and it was never this fun. Then I remember that it’s Amsterdam’s 750th birthday and people have been living it up on the highway all day. Everyone’s drunk as a skunk. I’m less worried about being stopped for not having bike lights.
My route back to my house takes me through the very posh and expensive neighbourhoods in the South that I have literally no reason to ever be in: Beatrixpark, Apollolaan, Olympiaplein, then finally into Amsterdam’s own Mayfair - Willemspark - where I can jump into Vondelpark. I go at five times the speed of everyone else. How am I still so perky? I finish off the last of my water and enjoy the home stretch down the Bilderdijkstraat, De Clercq, Willem de Zwigjer, until I finally find myself outside the door to the basement storage of my building where my bike lives when it’s not taking me on my rides. I stop my Garmin. 6 hours 57 minutes. 92.48km. When did I become this person?
Maybe I can stay being this person, forever?
Last week when I was in the UK I (respectfully) settled some scores with family members and let the little egg of anxiety I’d been roosting on finally crack. I felt different. I let go of something. I felt ten feet taller and 100kg lighter. I realised I didn’t need to wait around for someone to save me, because I could save myself now.
Somewhere deep in my mind, a digger began excavating the part of me that stopped me from believing I could do stuff. As the rocks cracked apart, beautiful gleaming gemstones fell out, diamonds and emeralds and rubies and sapphires, sparkling with the same magic I feel when I ride my bike in the glorious sunshine while I feel blisters beginning to form on my palms. They were in me the whole time, I just needed to know how to mine them. There’s no going back now.
I think I can do anything, actually.
Thank you, as always, for reading, if you made it this far. I love to share these little victories with someone, and I’m so happy it’s you.
Nice story, thx. The place you call Muiderpoort is named Muiderberg
What a gorgeous read; I could feel the freedom and beauty of flying around on my bike through your writing. Wish I was in the Netherlands !!