Project 'krosfiets'

And then I knew what I was doing. And why.
















Your first bicycle. Not just a toy, but the first feeling of freedom. The street all in a sudden has an end, after which there's more street. More street that has an end too, but then there's lanes, squares, bridges, fields, and rivers to follow. And finally, if you're not living in Switzerland, the sea.

Of course you have to master the art of cycling first. Keeping your balance is a problem. Humiliating side wheels keep you going, together with the tight grip of a caring parent in your collar.

But in most people's life there's that magic moment where the snarling plastic-on-stone sound seizes, and the silent air-filled tires are the only thing between you and the tarmac. Balance. And speed. More and more of it. That's the moment when you come to the conclusion that you want something else than the 'Loeki' you're sitting on (Dutch toy bicycle for small small kids). You want a 'krosfiets' (Dutch for BMX). This is misspelled on purpose, 'cause that's how I pronounced it when I was young. The proper spelling would be 'crossfiets', but as a child double-s's and k/c mistakes all disappear in phonetics.

For my fifth birthday (may my parents correct me if I'm wrong), I asked a krosfiets. My father took me to a store - I believe it was somewhere close to Eindhoven, my birthplace - where there were at least two stories full of shiny BMX's. I couldn't believe my eyes. This must be heaven, I thought. It blinded me, row after row. Different models, different colours. Every type in all sizes, from small to big. I chose one in sky blue metallic with yellow foam patches for protection. The purchase, the bike, the smell of the store; these are some of my oldest memories. That birthday I was the proudest monkey on the rock that was my street.

Later my father put gears on what was a single speed. I guess an early attempt to get me into racing. The boys of my neighbourhood frowned upon this oddity. A BMX was supposed to be single speed. That's how they knew their cycles. I liked the one-of-a-kindness of my bike, although in the beginning I found it hard to counter the stares. But once you realise how alleviating gears can be (especially in a windy place like the Netherlands), you don't want to go back.

The bike was stolen, long after I had stopped riding it.

Now the project. As I have shown you on this blog, I have been portraying many young riders that crossed my path. I didn't know why I felt the urge to photograph them, I just did. I was taken in with the confident way in which they approached me. "Look strange cyclist, I've got a bike too. And a pretty cool one, don't you think?" All of them beamed that sense of freedom. Something that I understand all too well, now I'm on this journey. Unconsciously it reminded me also of myself as a young boy with my azure bike. So on that moment of clarity a few days back (it came after I had portrayed the biker of Abarkuh, underneath the title) I decided, I'll make this into something more than just the odd photograph of a cyclist.

So will anything change with this intention? I don't think so. Normally my fellow cyclebeasts come to me, instead of I to them, and I would have taken the picture anyway. But by the time the last river leads me to the sea, they may add up to an interesting collection. Faces of freedom, often in places where freedom is not a given.











(Pictures: the cyclebeast on both pictures was standing at a bus stop with his mother. When he saw me making the picture, he came towards me, and posed with his bike. As if he knew. First caged, then free.)