In his new e-book, BikeSnobNYC reaches the ultimate frontier of biking: driving with the family members. As his option to take to the line together with his little one son in tow is met with bewilderment and disapproval from onlookers and the occasional motorist, he ponders why it is this kind of taboo. And what does it particularly suggest to be a bike-friendly nation? looking solutions, he heads from the U.S. to London, Amsterdam, Gothenburg, and San Vito dei Normanni looking for an alternate. With funny anecdotes and his trademark biting wit and knowledge, BikeSnobNYC takes us on his such a lot own narrative trip but, and finally shines a mild at the becoming pains that exist in any tradition that asks smartphone-obsessed text-happy pedestrians, the two-wheeled, and the four-wheeled to percentage the line.
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Extra info for Bike Snob Abroad. Strange Customs, Incredible Fiets, and the Quest for Cycling Paradise
It’s only marginally less stressful than taking a stroll along a highway median. In fact, looking back at those days, as I waited to cross Sunrise Highway I was very much at a crossroads. Straddling a bicycle at one of the busiest intersections on Long Island, in pretty much exactly the spot where, back in the late 1800s, a hotel just for cyclists once stood, I was in a place where I didn’t belong—at least as far as most people were concerned. Furthermore, I doubly didn’t belong because I had a weird imported record hanging from my handlebars and had colored portions of my hair with Lady Clairol.
In the previous century it had been a place of summer estates, and in many ways it still felt rural. The houses that made up those estates, though decidedly less grand now and in many cases divided into multiple family homes, were still there. My mother would take me on walks and point out what she said were mounds of shells left by the Reckouwacky Indians. My friends and I would spend hours exploring the shoreline of Jamaica Bay, with only the landfill across the water and the very distant Manhattan skyline to remind us we weren’t the first people to do so.
Once Elliott was bike-legal, that’s when the fun would begin. No longer would we be limited to playgrounds within easy walking distance, where we’d see the same old moms and the same old toddlers. No longer would I have to schlep that stroller up and down the subway stairs like some hybrid of Sisyphus and Michael Keaton in Mr. Mom. No longer would we need to use the car for our family outings and then regret it immediately when we wound up sitting in traffic or circling for parking. Instead, we could flit about in Prospect Park like a couple of balls in a pachinko machine.
Bike Snob Abroad. Strange Customs, Incredible Fiets, and the Quest for Cycling Paradise by BikeSnobNYC