Illustration by Joel Kimmel
The best way to see a city is from the seat of a bike. I learned this years ago, while touring Barcelona with my sister. We decided, on the spur of the moment, to take a guided bike tour, renting a pair of those low-riding fat-tire numbers. Along with a small group of tourists—some balding and slow-pedaling, others young and energetic—we wove through alleyways and along beaches, coasting through parks and plazas, stopping at historic churches and busy markets.
At one point, our guide nodded toward a row of red bikes, explaining that they were part of a members-only bike-sharing program that had just recently started, but already was gaining traction with locals. It seemed revolutionary—and indeed, it was. The program not only curbed environmental emissions but also dramatically improved the flow of traffic, cutting down on congestion. Here in the U.S., dozens of metro areas, including Kansas City, have launched bike-sharing programs. After an initial study, St. Louis is also considering it.
Already, our region has come a long way. After all, it was here that people first began chaining white-painted bicycles to street signs near crash sites as both somber memorials and reminders that drivers should yield to cyclists. Over the past decade, Great Rivers Greenway and TrailNet have done their parts, carving out trails across the region, on roads and alongside rivers. The Downtown Bicycle Station now offers a place for commuters to store their bikes and shower. St. Louis nonprofit BWorks is making cycling accessible to children of all income levels, teaching them responsibility and connecting those in the city with the outdoors. And in
St. Louis County, the 10–10 BIKES program highlights 10 locations with 10-mile bike rides.
Among them is Creve Coeur Park, where dining critic Dave Lowry frequently bikes around the lake. Several years ago, he elegantly captured its sights and sounds in an essay simply titled “Cycles.” He wrote about the season’s changes: the “snowy blossoms of native mushrooms,” the “night herons that perch motionless,” the “grandfather bubbling excitedly at the appearance of every carp.
“Snatches of such conversations, faces, nature’s vignettes,” he wrote, “they all unfold in front of me at 15 miles an hour, 82 cranks of the pedal, 124 heartbeats to the minute.”
