or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bike

This past July, I self-published my first book—Vanbikes: Vancouver's Bicycle People and the Fight for Transportation Change, 1986-2011.

Five years in the making, as it morphed from aimless passion project to a written work of narrative non-fiction, it also became a life preserver of sorts, during one of the most tumultuous, challenging, and fulfilling periods of my life.

It was a strange period of time that included:

Becoming an empty nester
Joining the Board of the BC Cycling Coalition, the provincial advocacy organization, and then becoming the Executive Director
Leading a small non-profit organization through the first year and a half of a global pandemic
Separation and divorce after 20 years of marriage
Selling a house and moving to new surroundings after 16 years
Beginning a new relationship
Supporting my children as they began to adult in a world full of potholes, fast-moving threats, and uncertainty around every corner

To pick up a theme from Jonah Hill's documentary Stutz, I realized during this time that the world was basically full of pain, uncertainty, and constant work. OK, fine—bring it on.

I reconciled myself with all that scary stuff because in the end, the scariest of all was the idea of actually starting the book. By that, I mean moving from groundwork (the interviews, the photographs, the research) to writing. No job, except for the one I created for myself. No work, just creative exploration. No deliverables, outcomes, or successes...only one objective: Finish. The. Book.

And I did it. Perhaps you received an email from me, or saw my tweets or announcements on other social platforms, or someone told you about that guy Stein—"yeah, the former HUB person" or "that marketing guy, remember him? He wrote a book about cycling." Or about Vancouver. Or just about bike lanes. You heard something, but honestly I understand if it didn’t stick. It’s a noisy world.

For me, though, it was a blast. On a Tuesday in late July, I picked up 20 boxes of my books from the printer (“You better be careful on those speed humps,” said my printer, when he saw I was driving an Evo. “Any bumps, really. And hills.”), and prompty turned around and delivered about one-twelfth of my books (OH MY GOD, I AM DELIVERING MY FIRST BOOK TO THE LIBRARY CIRCULATION DEPARTMENT, IT’S GOING IN THE SYSTEM, OK WOW) to Vancouver Public Library.

Not only can you get *Vanbikes* at Vancouver Public Library, you can also find it the BCIT, UBC, City of Burnaby, City of New Westminster, City of North Vancouver, and District of West Vancouver libraries.

Over the course of the next few months, over 200 print and digital copies were purchased or given away to friends, family, peers, followers, and total strangers across North America. I hand delivered a bunch. Some people bought multiple copies. Some people expressed dismay about the price. Some people said it was just right, even too cheap. And in the end, many people said many nice things about it.

I even got some very favourable media coverage, including some book reviews in The Vancouver Sun and on the Viewpoint Vancouver blog; I was also interviewed for Gord Price's urbanist podcast (in front of some friends and advocates featured in the book), and for a bike-themed radio show in Portland, Oregon, considered by many to be Vancouver’s spiritual cycling sibling, and a big influence on many of the events that took place here over the past few decades.

But ultimately, I did what I do best when I achieve a goal—I sat back, soaked up the satisfaction, and moved on. Perhaps most distressingly (for some), you could say I kinda failed to leverage it all.

That's probably cost me book sales, and almost certainly cost me adjacent possibilities for more writing or even public speaking opportunities. Because when it comes to self-promotion, I am the worst.

If you're an introvert, have self-esteem issues, and work in the kind of bubble that an undiagnosed but suspected ADHD-creative type often needs in order to be at peace and get shit done, you may identify with this. But let's stow the psychobabble analysis for a moment and recognize a deeper and more real possibility—that recognition and money are not why I wrote the book.

The book was meant to be, perhaps first and foremost, an itch scratched. Can’t sleep if something’s bothering you, can’t smile if you’re not happy, and you sure as hell can’t NOT scratch that itch, can you?

After a few dozen interviews, it was obvious there was a story and a unique opportunity for someone like me—a previously untold history of Vancouver and the region, of transportation, and of advocacy. Nobody would commission such a strange thing, but if done well, and in actual collaboration with the actors themselves, it would occupy a distinct niche and fill an actual void. And I wanted to do it my way.

In parallel, I wanted to give a gift to the advocates whose work had contributed to this amazing part of the world for over a quarter-century, and had gone largely unrecognized for just as long. I worked in the same space, for a good chunk of 2013-2021. I saw the personal costs, and the social benefit. And being a bit of a bleeding heart leftie, this was where the itch was becoming a bit of a rash. In other words, it was important, and I was hot and bothered to just get it done. A long overdue passion project and love letter to some personal heroes.

You might say, "Well then, if they should be recognized, then you have to promote the book! Isn't that the best way to make good on your objective? Suck it up, buttercup—shill, baby, shill!"

That's one way. The other way is to stand by my work, and let it carry itself. If there's actual merit, it will be read, passed around, and live its own life. This is not how marketing is done, by the way, and it's totally out of line with the present day culture of instant gratification and bigger-better-faster-more. But it’s authentically me. Besides, I had other things to do this fall. Like earn an actual income.

But with the close of the calendar year, I find myself reflecting on the events of 2022, and planning next year’s creative challenges. And I know now what I felt as I was writing the book—the Vanbikes story isn't completely done yet.

That five-year chunk of my life yielded another book's worth of content. Not another history, but a manual of lessons learned about transportation change, using the people, places, and events of Vanbikes as the historical example.

So as I begin to unpack and organize the lessons learned for Book #2, the remaining copies of Book #1 must go.

If you were waiting to get it, debating getting it, or know someone who might like it, please consider picking one up at cost, a $15 discount.

Get a print copy of Vanbikes for $35, plus any applicable shipping costs, using discount code:

VB2022POVIP

BUY THE PRINT EDITION

Gift Vanbikes to someone you love this year—for World AIDS Day, Las Posadas, Chanukah, Christmas, Kwanzaa, their birthday, or some other festive reason.

Thanks for your support!