“Those aren’t rain pants!” exclaimed Rob, our bike tour guide, in flawless English as he looked at the rain-sodden jeans below my $2 plastic poncho. It was my first full day of biking from Amsterdam to Brussels as part of a group of 20. Not only did the weather stink, but we had to stop four times to fix flat tires, and contend with the hordes participating in a national cancer fundraising ride.

Despite the crowds, thunder and lightning, we couldn’t stop pedaling for anything but flats, meals or bathroom breaks. We had to reach the city, almost 30 miles away, where our barge, which had left Amsterdam that morning, would dock. Otherwise, we’d be stranded.

This wasn’t what I’d envisioned when I’d sweet talked my husband into signing up for this seven-day bike and barge package from Van Gogh Tours. In my dreams, the sun was always shining as I glided by windmills in pastoral landscapes worthy of Jacob van Ruysdael, the seventeenth century Dutch painter. After eight years as a summer weekend cyclist, I’d astound myself by taking easily to logging more than 25 miles daily. Even at my slow average of 10 miles per hour, which had made me one of the slowest folks in my former bike club, I reckoned I should be able to kill off the riding in half a day, leaving the rest free for sightseeing. I should have known it was a fantasy, even though I’d improved my odds of success by choosing a ride through flat terrain in the Netherlands and Belgium.

Anyway, after Rob fixed the tires, we hit the bike path again, the miles passed in a watery blur of green fields, trees and cows with an occasional dab of sunshine. By the time we reached the twentieth century castle De Haar, we were well behind schedule. Not enough time for more than a restroom stop and a quick survey of the building’s exterior.

At Montfoort, the prettiest sight was the stand selling hot drinks, though I did spare a smile for the gated entrance to the city, a former castle town.

The last stop before our boat was in Ijsselstadt. Thanks to another flat tire, we were able to walk for twenty minutes, viewing an eighteenth century windmill from the outside. The town was closed up tight because it was Sunday. My husband found a plastic triton on the ground and clowned around for comic relief.

We just barely made the last ferry of the day to reach our barge, the Holland, docked in Vianen. A twenty-plus mile ride took us almost eight hours. A far cry from my estimate of less than three hours.

Luckily, we were a good-natured group of cyclists. Nobody complained. We’d assembled from the U.S., Canada, New Zealand and five European countries – Britain, Canada, Denmark, Germany, Italy and Spain. Everyone spoke at least a little English. I estimated the median age at 40ish, but our group included two boys, ages 8 and 11.

As we sat down to dinner at communal tables of five to six, we continued getting to know one another. Over the week, we’d share conversations about previous bicycling experiences, current affairs, and lighter matters, such as the differences between “jam” and “marmalade.” We reckoned that marmalade was reserved for jams made with oranges or other citrus. Juan said that in Spain, it’s all called marmelada.

Having been laid off a couple times, I was intrigued to learn that most Germans have employment contracts and that they must submit certificates from each previous employer when they apply for a new job. They’ve got contracts in Spain, too, but they aren’t valued much there because they’re measured in months instead of years. I was surprised that none of the four Germans on board seemed aware of George Bush’s shoulder rub of Chancellor Angela Merkel, even though it had been played up on the U.S. news.

Food was served family style at four large tables in a wood-paneled room with nautical blue cushions and curtains. A typical evening began with a small shrimp cocktail dressed with mayonnaise, salad with peas and feta, boeuf bourgignon with vegetables, and stewed cherries with mascarpone. Ellen, our skilled cook, graciously accommodated a range of special requests, mostly vegetarian. I’d noted my preference for a gluten-free diet, and was touched that she provided gluten-free bread at every breakfast, gave me a bowl of boeuf bourgignon cooked without flour and even baked fruit for me on nights that she made cookies or cake for the group. As an American, the one thing that I missed was ice. Nobody else seemed to care and I didn’t want to make a fuss by asking for it.

As luxurious as the meals were, our cabin was austere. Two bunk beds with room for only one person at a time to dress standing up. Plus a tiny bathroom with shower, which one woman described metaphorically as “two-and-a-half shoes wide.” The only natural light came from a small porthole high up in each room. But I didn’t care about the room’s drawbacks. I conked out quickly every night with my legs taut and my stomach happy.

The weather improved. While it often rained in the morning, after Day One, it didn’t last long. I was able to open my eyes to appreciate the lovely landscapes, which did approach my van Ruysdael fantasy. I was surprised to learn from Rob that the brown brick or whitewashed houses with thatched or tile roofs were mostly modern construction. He told me that thatched roofs are trendy, even though they’re costly. A thatched roof can run 30,000 euros (at about $1.25/1 euro) or more than four times what we paid for the roof on our 3-bedroom home. Many of the roofs were topped with filigree-like weather vanes in animal forms, for we were traveling in the countryside amidst orchards and the grazing lands of cows, sheep and goats.

It was delightful to ride on the well-developed network of bike trails, which often run separate from – or are well-marked along – auto roads. According to my Fodor’s guidebook, the Netherlands offers some 10,000 miles “of special lanes and pathways” for bikes. I learned the word fietspad for bike path and started watching for obstakalen – obstacles – on the paths and drempel – speed bumps – on the roads. The Dutch have round speed bumps that rise like low-slung volcanos in the middle of their roads.
Throughout the week, canals and rivers were our constant companions. Early in the ride, they were often punctuated with clusters of lily pads flowering in yellow, pink or white. Much of the vegetation was familiar to me from Massachusetts: the windblown tangles of dandelions, chicory and Queen Anne’s lace and the cultivated stands of roses, hollyhocks, sedum and sunflowers. The hydrangeas, though, were Dutch pink instead of New England blue.

The terrain was as flat as I’d hoped for. Nothing worse than a short, modest rise up to the top of a dike, where many little-traveled roads ran wide enough for one bike and one car. But I hadn’t counted on the headwinds that sometimes slowed my progress. Silly me. There had to be a reason – didn’t there – why the Netherlands was famous for its windmills? I saw several traditional windmills on my bike ride. However, I saw many more of the modern models, the two-armed kind in use in California that are proving so controversial as their introduction to Massachusetts is attempted.

While in the Netherlands, our paths didn’t cross many big name attractions, though I have warm memories of wandering the sights of Willemstad, now a pleasure yachting harbor, with couples from Germany and Denmark. The town’s star-shaped fortress dates back to the end of the 1500s, as does its Reformed church. We had a good laugh when I referred to the church as old. That’s not old in Denmark, said Lis. There, you’ve got to go back to the year 1000 to be considered old.

The sightseeing quotient picked up in Belgium, where we got a free morning in Antwerp. I particularly enjoyed the Rubens House, where the seventeenth century Flemish artist Peter Paul Rubens lived from 1616 to 1640. Rubens was that rare exception to the stereotype of the starving artist. He was a successful businessman who bought an existing Flemish house, then built an Italianate addition that was just one expression of the influence that Italy had on him. In the house I saw a portrait of the young lady whom he made his second wife when she was 16 and he was in his 50s. I believe they had four children together.

The last stop was Brussels, with even more to see. Returning to traditional sightseeing felt like a culture shock after days of biking.