Editor’s note: Herald assistant sports editor Tim Hintze returned last month from his ninth cycling tour in Europe, a 35-day trip to Finland, where he spent 10 nights with three Finnish families, who allowed him into their homes despite the fact he wears spandex and showed up at their door dirty and smelling like road kill. Which may explain why his Finnish friends, after greeting him, quickly suggested he take a shower and wash his clothes.
It’s gotta be the spandex.
What else could it be?
I was standing on a wharf on the waterfront in Copenhagen in June of 2014 when I heard a voice say, “You’re back.”
I looked up to see Anders, a 20-something Dane who worked on the wharf in one of the stores that are designed to serve/fleece the thousands of passengers from cruise ships that sail in with the tide, dock for a few hours, and sail out with the next tide.
I had met Anders, who speaks perfect English, the year before when I used Copenhagen as a staging area for a trip to Sweden and Denmark. I had wandered onto the wharf and into his store, and since there was no one around but me (there were no cruise ships docked), Anders and I had a long conversation as I searched for gifts for friends and family.
Now I was back in Denmark, once again using Copenhagen as a staging area, and looking for a teddy bear for my 3-month old grandson Kai. After asking Anders if he had lost another bicycle — he’s had five bikes stolen off the streets of Copenhagen — I asked him how, with all the people who come into his shop, he remembered me.
“Well, no one else who comes in here looks like you,” Anders said.
Yeah, there is that. I’m the man in spandex. I wasn’t one of the dazed and confused passengers from the cruise ships who stumble into his shop asking, “Is this Oslo?”
No, I’m the guy who travels by bicycle, and I was wearing my cycling kit: helmet, funny-looking jersey, shoes with cleats that make me sound like a tap dancer, sunglasses — with a mirror attached — and of course, those form-fitting shorts.
Cycling shorts, which are usually made of stretchy spandex and have a pad (a.k.a. chamois), are designed for comfort and functionality. They help prevent — along with chamois cream or an anti-chafing balm — heat rash, chafing and saddle sores. They allow the cyclist to focus on the ride, instead of, well, more unpleasant things.
And if you are going to spend long hours in the saddle, as I do, they’re a must. But some people can’t get over the form-fitting look. So for anyone who has ever worn them, they are the cause of many a derisive comment — which is aimed directly at the man in spandex.
So, I wasn’t surprised when Anders had something else to say about how he remembered me.
But I was surprised by what he said.
“You made an impression,” he told me.
Apparently I did, because Anders gave me a deal on two teddy bears, which came to about 35 percent of the list price. And since I was heading out on a month-long tour, and couldn’t carry the teddy bears, Anders kept them in the shop until I returned to Copenhagen at the end of the trip. At which time he gave me equally good deals on other gifts.
So, the question is, does wearing spandex have its perks?
Or are the perks for the man, despite the fact he is wearing spandex?
• • •
After leaving Anders’ shop I rode north out of Copenhagen on the coast road along the Oresund, with views across the water to Sweden, until I came to the campground at Hornbaek. I had been there the year before when I was scouting the area and the 30-something Danish woman with long blond hair who ran the campground also remembered me.
“I recognized you as soon as I came to the door,” she told me.
Huh?
Now, Copenhagen is a bicyle-centric city, with thousands of Danes riding the city streets. But none of them are wearing spandex. It’s more of a commuter/transportation thing.
But Hornbaek is a different story. The coast road along the Oresund from Copenhagen to Helsignor, Hornbaek and on up to Gilleleje is filled with serious cyclists, both men and women. There is more spandex per square kilometer/mile on this road than any road I’ve ridden, and I’ve been up and down roads in 14 European countries.
So how did the blond woman remember me?
It couldn’t have been the spandex, it was everywhere, in a myriad of colors and styles.
So, was it my sparkling personality?
Hmm, maybe it is the man.
• • •
As I noted, wearing spandex makes you a target, moreso when I’m riding in Snohomish/King counties in Washington, where at times it can get unpleasant. When I’m traveling in Europe I often ride into what I call friendly fire — insults that aren’t malicious, but are simply good-natured teasing.
But not all of the verbal fire directed my way is friendly.
When I was traveling in Sweden in 2013 there was another issue I had to deal with in addition to my butt-hugging shorts. It was what more than a few Swedes perceived as my nationality after learning I did not speak their language.
“Are you Germ-min?”
For a period of several days during my four weeks in Sweden I was asked this question repeatedly in an openly hostile, contentious and belligerent manner. I felt like I had a disease.
After I explained, that no, I was not German, and told the angry person I was an American from the west coast of the U.S., everything was fine. The Swede would become quite friendly and I was treated with kindness and respect.
Except for one time.
• • •
One evening about 8 o’clock, after being on the road for 12 hours, I rode into a campground northwest of Oskarshamn on the east coast of Sweden. I stopped at a table outside the reception office where four Swedish men, ranging in age from 20s to 40s, were sitting and drinking.
The Swedes started in on me immediately. It was not friendly fire. It was mean-spirited from the get-go. Some of it was in Swedish, some in English, and it was all aimed at me.
And then came the question, “Are you Germ-min?”
I told them I was from the U.S., but they were on a roll, and continued to fire away, laughing at my expense.
One of them said something the other three Swedes must have found particularly amusing, because the laughter got louder.
Now, I’m nice. Until I’m not.
And whether I was German or not, wearing form-fitting, butt-hugging spandex or not, there are appropriate modes of behavior. There are acceptable ways to treat people.
And this wasn’t one of them.
So I no longer had to be nice.
I had been straddling my bike, but I turned so I was facing the table and after squaring up my antagonists, I asked a simple question.
“Excuse me,” I said in a calm and even tone, “could you please repeat what you just said.”
The three Swedes facing me obviously saw something had changed in my demeanor for they immediately stopped laughing. The speaker, a 20-something who had his back to me, continued to laugh until he noticed his slacked-jaw friends. Then he turned to face me and I repeated what I had said.
“I said, excuse me, could you please repeat what you just said.”
The silly grin left his face and he mumbled something I didn’t understand. But it didn’t matter. The point had been made and I was now dealing with four well-behaved Swedish gentlemen who treated me with a new-found respect.
You see, here’s the thing you need to know about men in spandex.
It’s not the spandex you should be concerned about.
It’s the man.
• • •
This Swedish campground didn’t accept people like me. No, not men in spandex, but campers with tents.
After a cordial good evening with the four Swedes, I rode down the road to another campground. I pressed the buzzer at the closed reception office and after a while an older woman came to the door. She was not a happy camper and she wasn’t pleased to see me.
I’m sure you can guess her first question.
“Are you Germ-min?”
Here we go.
I didn’t say a word.
I simply gave her my passport.
She looked at the distinctive blue U.S. passport, and just like that, everything changed.
“Ah-Mary-Can,” she said, lighting up like a Christmas tree as I was transformed from a “Germ-min” to the Golden Child — or in my case, since I’m in my early 60s — the Golden Old Man.
The old woman could not have been nicer. She escorted me around the campgrounds, showing me everything I needed to know while pointing me out to all the people who, despite the cool wind blowing off the lake, were sitting outside enjoying the Scandinavian evening.
As I unloaded my gear from my bike and prepared to pitch my tent by the water, the old woman was deep in conversation with a nearby family.
I could tell they were talking about me. As I stated earlier, I don’t speak Swedish, so I couldn’t understand what they were saying. But I had a pretty good idea, because I’ve heard it so many times before.
“Why isn’t that idiot wearing pants?”
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