Here's the latest installment of my stories from Kabouterland.

The Short Long Journey

Who else would have thought he could ride a 15 year old moped some 1200 kilometers? Probably no one, but that didn�t stop Mark. For those of you that don�t know what a moped is, here�s a short description. It�s a bicycle with a motor attached that allows the rider to start the motor once his pedaling has achieved enough speed to make the motor kick in. You could compare it to push-starting a car. First, someone pushes the car (preferably down hill), while the driver estimates the proper speed, and then throws the car into gear to make it start. Mopeds were quite popular in the Netherlands back in those days of the Oranje Vrij Staat, and probably remain so. Of course, the newer ones had starters so that the rider didn�t have to pedal at all to get them started. But, Mark�s vintage model didn�t have a starter that worked. Oh yes, it had a starter when it was new, but that was some 15 years earlier. To start it now, he had to pedal up to a good little speed, then move a little handle on the frame of the moped into gear to engage the motor. The handy thing about mopeds is if the fuel runs out or the motor breaks down, the rider can just pedal like a bicycle and get to his destination all the same. Pedaling a moped is harder than pedaling a bicycle, because a moped has the additional weight of the motor, and the chain still turns the motor even though it�s not running.

Mark purchased his moped for the equivalent of about $15.00 in the flea market in Amsterdam. He tested it, and confirmed that the motor would run. He was very satisfied with his purchase, and put it to much use. He even took a job at a pickle factory( see We Like Luycks), and rode his moped back and forth to work each day. The pickle factory was located in a small suburb of Amsterdam named Diemen. He had even given a coworker a ride to work on his moped, and it had performed flawlessly. One night while sitting stoned in his neighbor Harry�s room with several other stoned young people, he was struck with the bright idea of riding his moped to Copenhagen. He learned that Europe had little bicycle paths that ran alongside the regular highways, and that he could ride all the way there. He had visited Copenhagen earlier, but had not stayed as long as he wanted, so he was eager to return. The others estimated that the trip would be about 1200 kilometers. Mark was outfitted with a metal framed camping backpack, a sleeping bag, and a moped. What else could anyone need? The next day he bid adieu to the house on Prinsengracht and its inhabitants, and set out on his journey to Copenhagen.

It was a nice day with clear skies and warm temperatures. His route took him by the pickle factory he had worked in. He was glad he didn�t have to work there more than one week, and he chuckled as he rode past the place on his way out of town. He had ridden about 1 kilometer past the factory, when his moped began to stutter and then stopped. He couldn�t imagine what might be the matter. He pedaled mightily in an effort to get it running again. It refused to start just a little more mightily than he pedaled. Back and forth on a level part of the path he went to no avail. Suddenly, the idea came to him that his moped had probably overheated. So, he put down the kick stand on his moped, took off his backpack (which weighed about 15 kilograms), and sat on the path. After 30-45 minutes had passed, he put his backpack on, kicked the kick stand back up, mounted his moped, and began pedaling. When he moved the handle to engage the motor, he rejoiced as it started up faithfully. He resumed his journey with a newly lightened heart.

But, alas, it wasn�t to be. He went perhaps another 10-15 km. when his machine stopped again. This time he was a little farther away from civilization. He got right back into the pattern he tried before, except this time he removed the backpack first, because it just ain�t easy pedaling a moped with a huge weight on your back. Of course, this course of action meant that he couldn�t make any headway toward Copenhagen either. He had to pedal back and forth on the path near the backpack, because it contained everything he owned. Back and forth, back and forth...still nothing...sit and wait...try again...sit and wait some more...try again. Finally, success! Back on the road to Copenhagen. By now he had covered about 20-25 km. (about 12-15 miles). At this rate it would only take him...hmmm...60 days to get there! He began experiencing the first inklings that he might not make it; but in true heroic style, he forged on.

He passed by Bussum, Hilversum, and the city of Amersfoort with no trouble. Now, try to imagine that you are riding an old stiff bicycle with no shock absorbers while carrying an extra 15 kg. on your back. You feel every bump, dip, and crack in the surface you�re traveling. It�s really hard on your butt and back. By the time Mark was nearing Nijkerk, his butt was giving out. He began thinking about finding a place to spend the night. He remembered from the map that from Nijkerk a little road led onto one of the newest polders.

He had read about polders in the 5th grade in his Weekly Reader, and was quite interested in them. Polders are land that has been reclaimed from the sea. Many years before the Dutch had sealed off the Zuider Zee from the North Sea with a very long dike. They quit calling it the Zuider Zee, and began calling it Ijselmeer. Then they began an engineering miracle of making dry land out of what once was water. These areas of dry land were called polders. His plan was to go onto the polder and find a place to sleep out of sight in his sleeping bag. Keep in mind this polder was quite new, so there was really nothing out there but some short grass. What looked like some kind of construction hut was all Mark could see. Also, remember that near a body of water there is a constant rather strong wind. It was beginning to turn cold as sunset approached, and Mark could find absolutely no where to get out of the wind. He went on all sides of the construction hut, but it was too small to provide any real protection. His only choice was to lie in the grass and shiver. Polder schmolder, he got the hell off the island!

What began as an inkling was now beating him over the head (and butt, and back) telling him to forget this fiasco, and go back to Amsterdam to the house on Prinsengracht before they gave his room to someone else. He started the journey home. He passed back through Nijkerk on the way to Amsterdam when it became imperative that he stop for the night. He found a ditch by the side of the bike path to hide his moped in, and he ventured back away from the road maybe 25 meters into a very thick stand of trees. He slept very, very well that night.

The next morning he awoke early, and set out early. His moped started up right away as if it were a sign from God that he had made the right decision. But, just like the day before, he had only gone about 10 km. when his moped stopped again. This time he was in the middle of a town on a sidewalk by a busy intersection. This time his efforts to start his moped were right there for every passerby to see. He was naturally self-conscious, so this display of difficulty in view of everyone was quite embarrassing! After an hour of back and forth...back and forth...it finally started. On his way again! He had the same problems with the moped overheating, and his butt and back; but somehow the weight seemed lighter now that he was going home. His only worry was that he wouldn�t have a room anymore back at the house on Prinsengracht.

As he re-entered Amsterdam the moped breathed it�s last (so to speak), and he pedaled the rest of theway back to the house. He arrived back when not many people were there, so he quickly went to his old room to see it anyone had take up occupancy. No, no one had! He breathed a sigh of relief, pledged never to try that again, and rested for the remainder of the day.

A few weeks later, when he really was leaving for Copenhagen by car, he gave his moped to the two American drug dealers in the room next to his. They had previously owned a motorcycle, but something had happened to it, and they were in need of transportation. The two were so excited when he gave it to them that they immediately we out to the street to take it for a spin. The last time he saw the moped, the two drug dealers were running while pushing it down Prinsengracht trying to get it to start. One of them yelled with joy, �Now we can go to Rome!�