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A Revolutionary American Model of Cycling

The Good Life

The hottest revolution in American cycling doesn't have a

name, a mission, or a coherent identity. But if you slow down long enough and look around, you might notice it—and join in the fun.

I COULDN'T WAIT FOR MY SON TO TURN SIX MONTHS OLD. Not because his smile became more infectious, even as his stream-of-conscious babbling seemed to edge closer to real vocabulary. Definitely not because he'd stop spitting up. (He didn't.) And to hell with early crawling.

I couldn't wait because the bike couldn't wait.

The streets of Los Angeles may not seem an intuitive choice for a first ride, or maybe any ride involving an overly eager dad and his baby. But my wife needed the car for a crosstown appointment, and Otto had to get home from daycare somehow. So at rush hour on an chilly April afternoon, I pedaled onto Figueroa Street, passing gas stations and markets and a local bottle shop whose neon sign boasted the Coldest Beer in Town, pulling a fancy new trailer behind my definitely not-fancy converted touring bike.

I was sweating as I buckled Otto, just rising from a nap, into the carrier. One of the little girls from the center watched from the front yard as I put my helmet on. "Is that Baby Otto's bike?"

I thought about it for a second. "Yeah," I said. "Guess it is."

"Cool," she said.