Ten points! Twenty points! Thirty!

ZOOOOOM! Biking so fast that my feet can't keep up and almost get tangled in my reeling pedals, I fly past three bicyclists. Guess who's more Dutch than you? Hint: you’re eating her dust! My bright orange UNOX gloves from Sinterklaas soar in the air triumphantly.

Some people would say that racing through the streets of Utrecht for arbitrary and inconsequential points is ill advised, given that my competition are the Dutchies, and they have been biking since they were in the womb. Some even have the audacity to argue that racing a five-year-old on a tricycle doesn't count – especially if only one side is aware of the competition (meaning me). Something about an unfair advantage and picking on someone your own size. But frankly, as a short Asian girl, by this very logic, kids would be my competition. The people – adults and babies alike – in the Netherlands are the tallest in the world! It's statistically proven. Plus, c’mon, he was on a trike – that's an entire extra wheel on me! Somebody should mention that. Whatever. I choose not to listen to these hypocrites and their deficient analyses. I have better things to do. Like race giant toddlers and mothers with a bikeload of them.

The trailer is already playing in my head:

Fighting the urge to point and laugh at my competition – “In your face… five-year-old!” – I zip past stores lining the streets. House. Blokker. HEMA. Albert Heijn. (Mmm… lekker… good memories of splurging on 18 packages of stroopwafels… which may or may not have traumatized the cashier…) Sex shop. Coffeeshop. Church. I can't help but laugh. Only in the Netherlands can such contradictions coexist side by side without a lawsuit.

My eyes dart to my left, briefly eyeing the shadowy figure beside me: Tall Dutch Girl eating yoghurt with her left hand and holding a cigarette in her right. Impressive and… gross. My feet dance frantically.