By Lawrence Block
From the respected manhattan occasions bestselling writer comes a touching, insightful, and funny memoir of an not likely racewalker and global traveller sooner than Lawrence Block used to be the writer of bestselling novels that includes unforgettable characters corresponding to the hit guy Keller, deepest investigator Matthew Scudder, burglar Bernie Rhodenbarr, and time visitor Evan Tanner, he was once a walker. As a toddler, he walked domestic from tuition (mostly simply because he could not trip a bike). As a col-lege scholar, he walked till he used to be in a position to purchase his first motor vehicle (a deep blue 1950 Chevrolet coupe named Pamela, after the Samuel Richardson novel). As an grownup, he ran marathons until eventually he found what may develop into a lifelong obsession—never brain if a few humans did not imagine it was once a true sport—racewalking. through that point Block had already spent lots of time strolling in the course of the urban of latest York. yet racewalking ended up taking him all around the nation, from New Orleans to Anchorage, from marathons within the punishing warmth to marathons within the pouring rain. And alongside the way in which, as he started to pen the books that will make him a loved ones identify between suspense enthusiasts world wide, he stumbled on that during lifestyles, as in writing, you simply have to take one step after the opposite. during the lens of his adventures whereas walking—in twenty-four-hour races, on a pilgrimage via Spain, and with regards to all over you could imagine—Lawrence Block stocks his heartwarming own tale approximately life's trials and tribulations, discomforts and successes, which really we could readers stroll a mile within the grasp of mystery's sneakers.
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Additional info for Step by Step: A Pedestrian Memoir
It must have been the following year, when I was in seventh grade, that I started taking long solo walks around the city. I don’t remember the impetus behind them. You would think my inability to ride a bike must have had something to do with it, and perhaps it did, but not on a conscious level. Looking back, I think I can recall a desire to gain knowledge of the city I lived in, and to do so in the most basic way—not by reading books about it, not by acquiring information, but by walking its streets.
And my grandmother, her daughter-in-law, was in the kitchen preparing to cook a chicken herself. My greatgrandmother went in to observe. She looked at the chicken, plump and perfectly plucked, and she took her own kosher bird from its wrapping and considered it. It was a scrawny bird, its color was nothing great, and there were still bits of pinfeathers in it. “That chicken of yours,” she said to my grandmother. ” “No,” said my grandmother. ” “Hmmm,” said my great-grandmother, looking back and forth, from one bird to the other.
There was no falling down involved, no test of his patience. I don’t know how many times I went out and played golf with my father—eight or ten, probably, a dozen at the most—but we always had a good time of it. He taught me to drive, too, and that didn’t go wonderfully. But we both stayed with it, and I passed my test and got my license. I learned a lot more about driving when we took road trips. He was a good highway driver, careful but not timid, and I paid attention and learned. He was a sweet and loving man, my father was.