My Brother's Bicycle - Stanley, Leslie
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This book describes a journey of contemplation and misadventure as I re-live a bicycle trip I first embarked on as a fresh faced 20 year old. It was more than 40 years ago that I originally mounted the tandem and headed south with a guy I had met at Liverpool Street station a few days earlier. Rod Stewart was still on his third marriage. The channel tunnel was just a dream and only a few years had passed since Man first walked on the Moon. For the re-run I was better prepared, or so I thought. An electric bike as opposed to a clunky old tandem with barely functioning gears, and, as you'll read…mehr

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Produktbeschreibung
This book describes a journey of contemplation and misadventure as I re-live a bicycle trip I first embarked on as a fresh faced 20 year old. It was more than 40 years ago that I originally mounted the tandem and headed south with a guy I had met at Liverpool Street station a few days earlier. Rod Stewart was still on his third marriage. The channel tunnel was just a dream and only a few years had passed since Man first walked on the Moon. For the re-run I was better prepared, or so I thought. An electric bike as opposed to a clunky old tandem with barely functioning gears, and, as you'll read in the book, limited braking capabilities. A GPS to guide me and help find accommodation. I even had a helmet and a trendy cycling shirt. I'd drawn the line at padded lycra shorts though. A far cry from the T-shirt, cut-off Levis, tattered maps and soggy campsites of my previous ride. And this time my wife was coming with me, not some guy called Alan from Enfield whom I had met through an ad in Time Out magazine. What could possibly go wrong?
Autorenporträt
I'm an uncomfortable corporate citizen and haphazard blogger. I was, as Groucho Marx said, born at an early age, in London (England). My parents moved to the Kent coast when I was seven. I caught up with them a year or so later.

My school days were unremarkable. The only subjects I had any affinity with were english and geography. I think this stemmed from my parents, who both spoke English, often at the same time, moving house every few years when my father sought out places, in various windswept parts of Britain, he could "fix up". Despite our protestations, the family usually went with him.

I recently discovered that due to a quirk of fate, my loving mother and father had not, as planned, migrated to Australia before I was born. It took me some years to come to terms with this glaring error of judgement on their part. Some days I think I still haven't.