Psychologists say that narcissists make up about one in every six people. I have a theory: if we were to draw our sample population from Germany’s cyclists, that proportion would be considerably higher.

In Germany, bicycles and motor vehicles often share the same lane. Unless otherwise indicated, the speed limit for cars within city limits is 50 km/h. Bicycles, unless they belong to a professional racer, typically move at 18 to 25 km/h. The idea that two vehicles moving at such different speeds must coexist on the same stretch of road is daunting, even for someone like me—raised on a bike, battle-tested on the saddle. While more and more streets are beginning to carve out designated bike lanes, these remain patchy. If you’re trying to get from one point in the city to another, you’re bound to encounter segments where you must brave the mixed-use lanes.

My coping strategy? I dismount and push my bike along the sidewalk. Part of this is out of fear—fear of being hit—but a larger part is psychological. I can’t bear the pressure of knowing that a line of cars might be forced to crawl behind me. It feels as though I, alone, am jamming the entire road—a one-woman traffic jam.

German cyclists, however, appear completely unbothered by such considerations. Again and again, I’ve observed their unwavering confidence—an “I’m here, deal with it” aura that borders on the regal. There’s no concern about getting hit. No guilt about slowing others down. Many even seem to relish the added challenge, weaving deftly between cars with the kind of boldness that would make a driver clutch their steering wheel in horror.

And if you think that’s bold, try Amsterdam. Dutch cyclists take it a step further. In that city of canals and clanging trams, bikes dart through intersections with near-mythical authority. Trams arrive, and cyclists don’t even flinch. It’s the swagger of kings.

This narcissistic streak becomes even more pronounced on dedicated bike lanes. If a pedestrian strays into their path, the cyclists unleash a flurry of furious bell-ringing, often followed by a loud, indignant scolding: “Don’t you know this is a bike lane?!”

After years of watching this, I feel justified in proposing that the rate of narcissism among cyclists may indeed be higher than average. I invite anyone working in social or behavioral psychology to test my hypothesis.

All that said, cycling in Germany is not without real danger. In 2023, 94,050 cyclists were injured, and 445 died. Since 2010, cyclist fatalities have risen by 17.1%. While that number must be read alongside the steady increase in cycling, it’s still alarmingly high. Most accidents involve motor vehicles, but a full 28% of them occur without any second party—just a lone cyclist and a mishap. As a driver, whenever I spot a cyclist in my peripheral vision, my whole body tenses up. Hyper-awareness kicks in.

Helmet use, naturally, is crucial. I used to think of helmets as optional—until one day, my child came home from school after a bike safety class. The teacher had demonstrated the effect of dropping two watermelons from a height—one wearing a helmet, one not. The results were, predictably, unforgettable.

Meanwhile, in our once-great kingdom of bicycles, more and more people now prefer to drive. Yet in Germany, the opposite trend is emerging: cycling is on the rise. I see this kind of inverse development often in Europe—one culture’s decline mirroring another’s ascent.