Postcard from Boston

It’s nice to be reminded that all the stories of progress coming out of America, are in fact aberrations. I’ve noticed the people who are getting the fame and the keynotes in this Renaissance era of cycling, are the ones with the onward-and-upwards type tales of success. That’s nice in you live in New York or Vancouver. What if you live in Tasmania, or Boston?
I hope I finish this work week alive. I’m parked here at the Harvard School of Public Health, working on a paper with colleagues. It’s meant to be a stressful hothouse environment in which to work. But the greatest stressor in my life, this week, is my commute. They’ll book you if you ride on the footpath (which the tradesmen block with their vans), and door you if you ride in the bike lane (which the tradesmen block with their vans). Things aren’t quite so bad around Cambridge, and are fine if you can weave parts of the emerald necklace into your route, like Chuck who I interviewed with my iPhone two years ago. Otherwise, this city is one of the least attractive places on earth, to those of us not wishing to blimp as we age. No wonder most people here are  so fat—like Australians. Our environments and occupations give us no choice.

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