From bike sceptic to lycra-clad convert: how Germany convinced me to love cycling

When I tell people in Germany that I’m from Scotland, it’s not uncommon for them to wax lyrical about Scottish scenery, before mentioning how much they’d love to go hiking or biking in the Highlands. On the occasions I’m asked for bike-packing tips, however, I’m forced to disappoint them. Unless you count pinballing around the street I grew up on, I’m woefully lacking in experience when it comes to cycling in Scotland. And I’d be willing to bet that many of my compatriots are in the same boat.

A look at the stats confirms my suspicions. Fifty-seven per cent of households in Scotland don’t own an adult bike, while in Germany, around 80 per cent of households have at least one. As for those who do own a bike, just 10 per cent of people in Scotland cycle at least once a week. In Germany, on the other hand, 38 per cent ride their bikes either «daily» or «several times per week».

So why the disparity? Thinking back to working in an office in Edinburgh, I remember the handful of cyclists who’d trail in, skin rosy from the wind, and trade battle stories about near misses with impatient drivers. Add our notoriously long nights (the sun can set as early as 3.40 p.m. in winter) and steep hills into the mix, and it’s probably understandable why cycling was so unappealing to me at that point.

That said, bike-crazy Scandinavia isn’t exactly known for its sunny climes, nor is it completely flat. It is, however, famous for having fabulous bike infrastructure; something encapsulated by «the most comprehensive and holistic ranking of bicycle-friendly cities on planet earth» being named «The Copenhaganize Index». Incidentally, three German cities managed to snag a place in the index’s top 20. By contrast, no Scottish or UK cities made the cut.

The first time I experienced a German bike lane, I was on foot. I’d made the classic tourist error of unknowingly straying into one, earning a cry of «watch it!» from a disgruntled cyclist. It wouldn’t be the last time I’d get short shrift for failing to notice one, which I think demonstrates how well they’re usually separated from cars. Perhaps being able to escape the bustle of the roads is one of the reasons why Germany’s 2021 Cycling Monitor found that 63% of respondents felt «very» or «mostly safe» while cycling.

After seeing so many people nonchalantly navigating the city on two wheels, I decided I wanted a slice of the action and treated myself to my very first adult bike. Asked by German friends which one I’d chosen, I quickly found out that «a red one» wasn’t a satisfactory response. «But is it a city bike? A mountain bike? A trail bike? What do you want to use it for?» they asked. Swept up by a sense of beginners’ enthusiasm, it turned out I’d skipped some basic questions. All I’d really wanted to do was hit the ground running pedalling.

Then, the pandemic hit, and the world went into lockdown. Not particularly enthused about breathing potentially Covid-ridden air on public transport, my Ciclista Ponte Vecchio (indeed a city bike) became a bit of a godsend. Not only that, but it became my key to discovering Southern Germany’s beauty spots. Each week, I’d choose a route on Komoot, grab a buddy and swap the city for the winding rock faces of the Swabian Alps, towering fields of sunflowers and the distant tinkle of Allgäu cow bells – city bike, be damned.

There were all sorts of random mini adventures in towns it’d never occurred to me to visit. Accidentally pitching up at a nudist lake. Joining in with a music festival in Blaubeuren. A spontaneous trip to the bee museum in Illertissen. An otter popping up in front of my partner and I with a dramatic sucking sound as we split a pretzel on the bank of the River Danube.

Then there were the things that went slightly awry. Flat tyres. My partner startling the pharmacy staff in Vöringen when he hobbled in, blood streaming from his knees and elbows after he skidded on a pebble and toppled over. An unexpected downpour turning the path to Oberstdorf to slurry. Fleeing from what was supposed to be a refreshing dip in a Bavarian lake after a snake reared its head above the surface.

What each outing had in common was the wind roaring in our ears, conversation giving way to cursing as the last of the kilometres trickled in. Thighs aching, skin chafed, we’d roll towards the final stop on the trail and slump onto a bench in the nearest beer garden. There’s nothing quite like the rewarding tang of that beer. Or even the sweet relief of sliding into bed after a long bike ride, fresh from the shower, limbs poised for what the Germans call a «muscle hangover».

There have been plenty of learnings along the way. Remembering to take a spare tyre tube and mini bike pump on long rides, investing in a bike bag to spare myself some backache, and travelling light, to name a few. The most important thing, however, has probably been the simple realisation that cycling might actually be for everyone.

Before moving to Germany, I would’ve been one of the 55% of people in Scotland to say they’re «not the kind of person who rides a bike». With the sense of safety that accompanies good bike infrastructure and a bit of experience, I can now say I’ve ditched that attitude.

Just don’t ask me to go up any hills.

Have you taken up any surprising new hobbies since moving abroad? How does cycling in Germany, Austria or Switzerland compare to cycling in your home country? I’d love to read about your experiences in the comments section.