New Orleans: Electric Bike Tour French Quarter & Historic Districts

4.92

(227 reviews)

What’s the experience like?

“You ever tried riding one of these?” our guide asked as he handed me the helmet. I just grinned and shrugged — honestly, I was more focused on not embarrassing myself in front of the group than anything else. The shop sits just outside the French Quarter, so right away you’re hit with that mix of beignets-in-the-air sweetness and something a little musty from the river. The electric bike felt weirdly smooth under me — like gliding instead of pedaling — which turned out to be a blessing once we started weaving through those narrow old streets.

We stopped at Jackson Square first. There’s this hush there early in the day, broken by someone playing slow jazz on a battered trumpet. Our guide (I think his name was Marcus?) pointed out where Creole families would gather, told us about duels that happened right there on the grass. I leaned against my handlebars and tried to picture it — all those layers of history stacked up in one spot. He’d toss in little stories about his aunt’s gumbo or how Mardi Gras beads end up everywhere (seriously, I spotted some tangled in a tree branch), which made it feel less like a tour and more like hanging out with someone who really knows their city.

The neighborhoods blurred together after a while: Marigny with its bright shotgun houses; Treme where music seemed to leak from every porch; Bayou St. John with moss hanging low over the water. We rolled up to one of those above ground cemeteries — all stone and sun-bleached names — and for a second everyone went quiet. It smelled faintly of earth and flowers left behind days ago. Not what I expected but kind of beautiful in its own way.

I didn’t realize how much ground we’d covered until Marcus laughed and said we’d basically circled half of New Orleans without breaking a sweat thanks to these bikes. My legs were grateful. If you’re thinking about doing an electric bike tour in New Orleans, just know you’ll get stories you can’t read on plaques — plus maybe some helmet hair you’ll have to live with for lunch later.