It’s that moment when excitement, possibility, and a little nervousness all come together. This isn’t just another bike—it’s the one that will carry me across America for Freedom Ride 250.

Join me as I reveal my new ride, explain why I chose it, and take the first step toward celebrating America’s 250th anniversary... one mile at a time.

🇺🇸 America’s Story. One Mile at a Time.

For months, Freedom Ride 250 had existed mostly in my imagination.

It lived in notebooks filled with route plans, sponsor pitches, article ideas, gear lists, maps, and enough checklists to make an air traffic controller jealous. Every spare moment seemed to revolve around this project. I’d spent countless hours preparing—not just for a bicycle ride, but for a journey I hoped would celebrate America’s 250th birthday the best way I knew how: one mile at a time.

Now there was nothing left to plan.

Tomorrow was Memorial Day weekend, and I was flying to Washington, D.C., to begin riding across America.

You’d think after all that preparation I’d feel confident.

Instead, at two o’clock in the morning, I was wide awake.

Excitement? Absolutely.

Fear? Oh... there was plenty of that too.

What if the bike breaks down? What if I can’t handle camping night after night? What if I get hit by a distracted driver? What if somebody decides they don’t appreciate the patriotic message behind this ride? My imagination, which had spent months dreaming about incredible moments on the trail, had suddenly switched careers and become a full-time disaster consultant.

It wasn’t exactly the emotional sendoff I’d pictured.

I climbed out of bed—again—and opened my luggage for what had to be the tenth time that day.

Clothes? Check.

First-aid supplies? Check.

Bike repair kit? Check.

Camera gear? Check.

Extra batteries, cables, chargers, and enough miscellaneous equipment to outfit a small expedition? Unfortunately... also check.

Nothing had changed since the last time I’d looked.

I zipped the bags shut, shook my head at myself, crawled back into bed, and managed something that was closer to a nap than actual sleep.

A few hours later I was headed to the airport, because if there’s one thing I hate, it’s being late.

Ironically, being early didn’t matter.

While I’d been busy inventing fictional catastrophes and reorganizing my luggage for the hundredth time, I had completely ignored two things that actually mattered: the weather forecast and the emails from Delta.

Neither one was good news.

I arrived at the airport around 6:15 that morning only to discover my 7:30 flight had been delayed until 10:00.

Then 10:00 became 11:30.

So much for the carefully crafted plan.

The original idea had been simple: land in Washington early, pick up Lady Independence—my e-bike—from the bike shop where I’d shipped her, and be rolling onto the trail sometime around one or two that afternoon.

That plan evaporated while I sat at the departure gate.

Then I checked the weather.

Washington wasn’t just getting rain.

It was getting rain.

A severe weather watch covered the area, and forecasters were calling for days of steady storms. If I’d bothered to look before leaving home, I probably would have delayed the trip by a week. I’d ridden portions of the C&O Canal Towpath before. Nearly 200 miles of mud, puddles, and soaked gravel isn’t exactly where you want to begin a cross-country adventure.

But by then I was committed.

In my travel journal, I officially labeled this Amateur Move #1: Always check the weather before launching a major expedition.

The flight itself turned out to be uneventful. The roughest part wasn’t the turbulence—it was catching a few curious, and not-so-curious, looks from passengers who noticed the TPUSA Freedom T-shirt I was wearing.

It wasn’t a subtle shirt.

Neither was the mission behind this ride.

Freedom Ride 250 was always meant to be an unapologetic celebration of America, and I wasn’t about to hide that before the journey had even begun.

By the time I finally landed in Washington, it was nearly two in the afternoon. My carefully organized schedule was already in pieces, and the dark clouds gathering outside made it obvious I needed to adapt.

So before I ever turned a pedal, I made my first pivot.

Instead of heading straight for the trail, I booked a hotel for the night.

It wasn’t an expense I’d planned on, but between the delayed flight, the approaching storms, and the fact that my rain gear suddenly looked woefully inadequate, it was the right decision.

Sometimes the smartest adventure is knowing when not to start one.

After checking into the hotel, I made my way to Georgetown Pro Bike to reunite with Lady Independence.

Since she’s an e-bike—and a very heavy one—flying with her wasn’t really an option. Two weeks earlier I’d boxed her up and shipped her through BikeFlights, the service many cyclists use when transporting bikes across the country.

Overall, I liked the process. BikeFlights offers several box options, including one that only requires removing the front wheel and handlebars. Still, once everything was packed, I couldn’t shake the feeling that the box wasn’t nearly as sturdy as I wanted it to be.

At the UPS Store, I asked for extra tape to reinforce it.

Let’s just say the enthusiasm to help wasn’t exactly overflowing.

As it turned out, my concern had been justified.

When I arrived at the bike shop, they told me the box had shown up upside down, barely holding together despite all the extra tape I’d wrapped around it.

Worse, the bike had been damaged during shipping.

Thankfully, most of it was cosmetic—a few scrapes to the handlebars and rear rack—but the front fenders were completely destroyed.

On most rides that would be annoying.

On the muddy C&O Canal Towpath, where miles of crushed gravel quickly turn into flying mud, losing the front fender was a genuine problem.

It also meant another unexpected expense before the trip had even officially begun.

Still, this is exactly why I’d built a cushion into the budget.

Adventure rarely follows the script you’ve written.

So I inspected Indy, accepted the damage for what it was, paid for the Burley trailer I’d be towing behind the bike, and reminded myself of something I was about to learn over and over again during Freedom Ride 250.

The adventure had already started.

I just hadn’t turned the pedals yet.

Riding through the streets of Washington, D.C., while towing a trailer behind an e-bike turned out to be an adventure all by itself.

You’d think drivers in D.C. would barely notice another cyclist. The city is packed with people commuting by bike and delivering food on two wheels. Compared to many cities, cyclists are practically part of the traffic ecosystem.

Even so, I still collected a few unnecessary honks along the way.

Apparently, towing a trailer behind a heavily loaded patriotic e-bike attracts a little attention.

After making it back to the hotel, I had two priorities: food and better rain gear.

Fortunately—or unfortunately, depending on your bank account—I was in REI territory.

My relationship with REI has always been a complicated one. I genuinely love the store. They carry excellent brands, knowledgeable staff, and just about every piece of outdoor equipment you could imagine.

I just wish they didn’t charge as though every sleeping bag had been handcrafted by mountain monks. And then there is the bag policy.

Even though you are paying a pretty number of pennies for the products at REI, they still have a company policy of no bags…because of global warming or whatever. So, you have to carry your items out in your hand; like you are leaving a garage sale after paying Sotheby’s prices.

I made my way over to the clothing section and asked the salesperson to help me find a rain jacket.

She gave me the kind of smile that politely says, You don’t come to REI expecting bargains.

I started looking at jackets around the $99 sale price, figuring they would get the job done. She gently, I wish I could remember her name, she was great—but persistently—steered me toward a three-layer shell that cost nearly twice as much.

Every time I picked up the cheaper jacket, she’d explain another reason why the more expensive one would perform better.

Eventually she pulled out the final argument.

“It’s on sale.”

“And you’re a member. You get a 20% discount.”

Against my better financial judgment...

...I caved.

It ended up being one of the best decisions I made on the entire trip.

Over the next several days that jacket endured hours of steady rain, wind, and everything the weather could throw at me. The cheaper option probably would not have worked.

Sometimes paying a little more really is buying peace of mind.

With the jacket checked off the list, I made one final stop at CVS.

The shopping trip itself wasn’t memorable.

The security system was.

If you’ve followed the news over the past few years, you’ve probably heard stories about retailers locking up everyday items because of organized theft. Seeing it in person, though, was something else entirely.

As soon as I walked in, an employee greeted me and asked what I needed.

When I told her, another employee—a very large gentleman—personally escorted me to the aisle.

He unlocked a plastic security case, handed me the item, locked it back up, and then walked away.

The whole process took maybe thirty seconds.

I couldn’t help but laugh.

Not because it was funny, exactly.

More because it felt surreal.

It was one of those moments where reality seems stranger than anything you could have made up.

With my errands finally complete, I headed back to the hotel.

I spent the evening mounting panniers, attaching camera poles, organizing batteries, securing the trailer, and making sure Lady Independence was finally ready for the miles ahead.

Everything was packed.

Everything was charged.

Everything was as ready as it was ever going to be.

Tomorrow, the planning would finally end.

Freedom Ride 250 would begin.

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When I lived in Tampa, I had a good friend who used to call me “extra.”

And honestly, she was not wrong.

“Extra” is code for doing too much. It is when you take that one little step, or sometimes one very large step, beyond what most people would consider normal.

I do this on a regular basis, especially when I come up with a new project idea.

Deciding to ride a bike is normal.

Deciding to ride a bike across the country? Extra.

Documenting your trip on X or Facebook? Normal.

Creating an entire media project around the ride, complete with articles, videos, interviews, sponsors, music, and a larger mission? EXTRA!

You get the point.

So, in keeping with that spirit, I could not simply buy a bike, give it a name, and call it a day.

No, no, no.

This is for America.

This ride is a tribute to my people, my fellow patriots, and the country itself. So naturally, Indy needed more than a name.

Indy needed a makeover. A little extra pizzazz.

For Freedom Ride, I decided I wanted to give the bike some custom design work. I wanted to take it beyond whatever color scheme and decals came stock from the factory and turn it into something that felt connected to the spirit of the project.

That presented a challenge. I am highly creative when it comes to words, ideas, themes, stories, and big project concepts. That is my lane.

But design?

Color schemes?

Drawing?

Graphic design?

That is not my gift. Not even close.

Thankfully, this is 2026, and we now live in a world where AI tools can help fill in the gaps. They can give you access to creative abilities you may not naturally have or at least help you communicate a vision clearly enough to bring it to life. Sure, it’s likely AI will get turned into T2000’s at some point and eradicate humanity, but until then we might as well have some fun along the way.

So for Indy, that meant it was time to start imagining what Freedom Ride’s official bike should actually look like.

The color scheme was easy.

Red, white, and blue.

That part was never in question.

But the actual design? I had no idea.

I wanted something patriotic, but not corny. Something that felt like America without looking like I had attacked the bike with a Fourth of July decoration kit. Clean. Modern. A little bold, but still classy.

So I turned to ChatGPT and Leonardo and started with this prompt:

A subtly patriotic electric bike, its red, white, and blue design minimal yet impactful. The color scheme is modern and elegant, showcasing national pride without being overly flashy. This is a photograph capturing the bike in a studio setting, highlighting its sleek lines and vibrant colors under perfect lighting. The quality of the image is exceptional, with every detail crisp and clear, making the bike appear stylish and sophisticated.

And then I started playing.

That was actually the fun part. I could adjust what I liked, remove what I didn’t, change the colors, clean up the lines, and try different ideas without having to know how to draw a single thing. Since I had photo references of the bike I thought I would be using, the process became much easier.

After several iterations, I finally settled on this design.

This design had me stoked.

Clean. Classic. Undeniably American.

But you see the problem, right?

This design was created back when I thought I was going to get the Skyline. Once it became clear that I was not going to get that bike, and that Indy would be red as the main color, I had to readjust the whole idea.

I will skip ahead here, because designing a color scheme for a bike turned out to be much harder than I expected.

There are really only a few ways to do it.

The first option is to have the bike professionally painted. That is not cheap. The second option is to paint it yourself, but that is not exactly simple either. You would have to disassemble a large part of the bike, sand it down, prep it properly, paint it, seal it, and hope you do not ruin anything in the process.

That was too much trouble. Honestly, it was more than I wanted to take on.

The other option is to wrap the bike, kind of like you see with cars. That sounds easier, but it really is not. A bike frame has curves, tight spaces, cables, tubes, and odd angles everywhere. It is not the kind of thing you just slap a wrap onto and call it done. Plus, once you start talking about a custom patriotic design, now you need someone who can design it, print it, and apply it.

I searched around, but I could not find anyone who could really create the kind of wrap I had in mind.

So that left decals and stickers.

But before I got there, I needed a new design.

I went back to the prompt, changed the color approach, and looked through a bunch of new possibilities.

The problem was that none of them felt as clean as the original.

So I decided to keep the same general concept, but reverse the colors a bit. I wanted something similar to the original image, but adapted for the Specialized bike, with red becoming the main color instead of the accent.

Then I ran into the next problem.

The best way to do this would be with custom decals or stickers, but that meant I needed accurate measurements, dimensions, and someone who could create the pieces to fit the frame. That sounds simple until you actually start looking at the angles and curves on a bike.

I tried.

I really did.

There are plenty of decal companies online, but none of them seemed able to do exactly what I wanted. At least not in a way that made sense for this project.

So, eventually, I went with something more DIY.

I went to Amazon and found colored reflective stickers. Then I cut them into a design that felt close to the original idea. After that, I found a decal maker on Etsy who could create a custom decal with Indy’s name.

And that became the final result.

What do you think of the design? Let me know below.

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I had pretty much decided a while ago that for the Freedom Ride project, I was going to buy a new bike.

There were two main reasons for that.

First, I have the typical cyclist mentality. Cyclists do not really think in terms of replacing a bike. We think in terms of adding “another bike.” Is that a little wasteful in terms of resources? Maybe. But also, that is just how cyclists roll.

The second reason was more practical. For Freedom Ride, I knew I would be carrying more than the average bike tourer. This would not just be a simple ride with a few changes of clothes and a sleeping bag. I would be bringing camping gear, comfort items, media equipment, camera gear, chargers, batteries, and everything else needed to document the ride properly. That meant more weight.

And because of that extra weight, I decided early on that this project called for an e-bike.

So began the long, winding research process into which e-bike would make the most sense.

From the very beginning, my preference was for a bike with a belt drive. Belt drive systems are known for being low-maintenance. They do not need to be oiled or cleaned the way a traditional chain does, and that mattered to me. I knew portions of the early ride would involve mud, dirt, gravel, and less-than-perfect trail conditions. A belt drive seemed like the clean, simple, practical choice.

The problem is that belt-drive bikes are still harder to find in the United States. Belt-drive e-bikes are even harder to find. So, even though that was my preference, I had mostly written it off from the start.

Once I began looking seriously, the e-bike market seemed to fall into two broad categories.

E-bike Categories

The first category was commuter e-bikes. These are great bikes for zipping around town, going to work, running errands, or casual neighborhood riding. But most of them are not really designed for a long-distance tour with loaded bags and media equipment. Many of them have smaller, lighter batteries that might get you somewhere in the range of 30 to 40 miles, depending on conditions.

The second category leaned in the other direction. These were the big, heavy, high-powered e-bikes built around speed, throttle use, or both. Some of them had much larger batteries, often 700Wh or more, but they were also extremely heavy.

Neither category really fit what I wanted.

Yes, I wanted an e-bike to help offset the weight of the gear. But I did not want to turn Freedom Ride into a freshman version of a motorcycle tour. I still wanted to pedal. I still wanted the physical challenge. I still wanted the ride to feel like a bicycle journey.

And I definitely did not need a bike that could go 45 miles per hour.

With all due respect to the people who want that, you probably do not need that either. At that point, just buy a moped or a motorcycle.

In any case, that realization made the search easier because it narrowed down the options.

Then, just as I was beginning my search, Salsa Bikes released three new e-bike models.

Salsa Bikes

That caught my attention immediately. My current bike is a Salsa Journeyman, and I used that bike for my first rides along the C&O Canal and GAP Trail back in 2021. I love that bike. So when Salsa entered the e-bike market, I paid attention.

The Salsa Tributary looked like it might be the one. It was a beautiful bike, and it seemed to offer a good weight-to-power ratio in terms of battery capacity and touring potential.

Other possibilities were brands like Trek, Aventon, and Specialized, but Salsa quickly moved near the top of my list.

My next step was to see whether any of these companies might be interested in sponsoring the bike for Freedom Ride.

I knew that was a long shot.

Freedom Ride is a worthy idea. I believe in it deeply. The project is about telling American stories, celebrating the country’s 250th anniversary, and documenting people and places across the route. But belief in a project and proof of a project are two different things.

That is the hard part when you are building something new.

You can see the vision clearly. You can feel the potential. You know the audience will come once the stories begin moving and the ride starts unfolding. But from the outside, companies are being asked to take a chance on something that does not yet have a track record.

No big follower count yet.

No long list of past sponsors.

No polished case studies showing what happened last year.

Just a strong concept, a lot of preparation, and the belief that the project can become something meaningful.

That is a difficult place to pitch from. Companies get requests all the time. Many of them naturally gravitate toward known personalities, professional gravel racers, large influencers, or existing categories that already fit their marketing plans. A new media project, no matter how heartfelt or well-planned, still asks them to take a risk.

Still, I reached out.

I contacted the companies through their online applications and by email, sent what I could, and then went back to working on other pre-production matters. At that point, the bike itself would not become urgent until later.

Then I woke up one morning to an email that changed everything.

Skyline

Priority Bicycles, an American company based out of New York, announced a new bike called the Skyline.

That got my attention immediately.

Priority is known for belt-drive bikes, and they have had a strong presence in the cycling world, including their ongoing sponsorship of Ryan Van Duzer. They already had an e-bike called the Current, but that model is more of a commuter bike and not really designed for touring.

The Skyline, however, looked different.

It was beautiful. Clean lines. Belt drive. A large battery without being oversized. It looked like the bike I had wanted from the very beginning.

That announcement completely shifted my focus.

I immediately went all in on the Skyline and contacted Priority about Freedom Ride. Over the next few weeks, I sent proposals, ideas, and detailed explanations of how I believed the project could add value to their brand and to the Skyline specifically.

At that point, I had moved the Salsa Tributary to the back burner.

I want to give Priority credit here. They gave me time. They listened. They allowed me the opportunity to make the pitch. I appreciated that. For a new project, that matters. Even being taken seriously is part of the climb.

Unfortunately, because Freedom Ride was still a new media project without an established track record, they could not take the risk of a full sponsorship. They did, however, offer a slightly higher discount if I wanted to use the Skyline.

That left me with a real decision.

E-bike pricing is already a sore point, and it became even more complicated as America moved into new tariff concerns. The Salsa Tributary retailed from around $4,500 to $7,999, depending on the frame material. The Priority Skyline launched at $3,499, but soon moved to $3,999 due to tariffs.

The Skyline was still more affordable than some of the other options, and I still had not heard back from Salsa about my sponsorship proposal.

Then my local bike shop changed the equation.

They had a bike that normally sold for $3,999 marked down to $2,499.

That left me with a real decision.

The Priority Skyline was the emotional choice. It was the bike I had wanted from the start: clean, belt-driven, elegant, and seemingly made for the vision I had in my head.

But then another option appeared.

Sometimes Local is Better

It was sitting at my local bike shop. It was not the original dream bike. It did not have the belt drive I had been hoping for. It was technically an older model, even though the bike itself was new.

But it checked a lot of the boxes that mattered.

It had a strong mid-drive motor, which is important when you are climbing hills with loaded bags. It had a large battery. It had proven components. It had racks and fenders already built into the setup. And perhaps most importantly, it was on sale for a price that made the decision much harder than I expected.

The Skyline still had my heart.

But this bike made a very strong argument to my head.

It became a battle between the bike I wanted emotionally and the bike that made the most sense practically. And when you are building a new project, trying to manage costs, and already learning how hard it is to secure sponsorship for an idea that has promise but no long track record yet, practical decisions matter.

I went back and forth on it.

A lot.

But in the end, I could not justify paying at least $1,500 more for the emotional choice when there was a more-than-capable bike available right in front of me.

So, after all the research, the sponsorship pitches, the proposals, the back-and-forth, and the second-guessing, Freedom Ride finally has its official bike.

It is a red Specialized Turbo Vado 4.0.

Here are the primary specs:

Drive: Mid-drive, bottom bracket motor mount
Motor: Specialized 2.0, 70Nm torque, 250W nominal
Battery: Specialized U2-710, 710Wh integrated in the downtube
Weight: About 27 kg / 60 lb
Display and controls: MasterMind TCD with handlebar remote, built-in anti-theft feature, Bluetooth
Frame and fork: E5 aluminum frame; SR Suntour MobieA32 fork with 80mm travel
Brakes: SRAM Level hydraulic disc brakes with 180mm rotors
Drivetrain: SRAM NX 11-speed, 11–42T cassette
Gearing: 48T Praxis chainring
Wheels and tires: 650b disc wheels with Pathfinder Sport Reflect 2.3 tires
Rack, fenders, and capacity: MIK HD rack with 27 kg max load; Specialized Drytech fenders

In the end, I could not in good conscience choose the emotional option when the practical option was sitting in front of me at that price.

I still like Priority. I still think they are a good company. I hope there may be an opportunity to work with them in the future. But for this moment, and for this ride, Specialized was the decision I needed to make.

The only thing left to do was name the bike.

And every bike worth having deserves a name.

I toyed around with several possibilities, but ultimately landed on:

Lady Independence.

Indy for short.

So say hello, everyone, to Freedom Ride’s official ride.

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Follow the Freedom Ride Tour here and on X and Youtube.

Long before the Statue of Liberty became one of the most recognizable symbols of America, Columbia stood as the female personification of the nation. She appeared in art, songs, poems, newspapers, cartoons, and public imagination as a symbol of the young republic — brave, noble, free, and still becoming what it was meant to be.

Columbia represented the spirit of America before America had fully defined itself. She was liberty, courage, hope, sacrifice, and national identity wrapped into one figure.

One of the most famous tributes to her came in the patriotic song and poem “Columbia, the Gem of the Ocean.” First copyrighted in 1843 under the name David T. Shaw, its authorship has long been debated, with Thomas à Becket also claiming that he rewrote or created the lyrics. But whoever held the pen, the words captured something powerful:

“O Columbia, the gem of the ocean,
The home of the brave and the free…”

That image — America as a great land worth honoring, defending, exploring, and celebrating — is exactly what Freedom Ride 250 is about.

So I’ve used those lyrics as inspiration to create a new song.

Why?

Because I want to find any and every way I can to showcase and celebrate America — this great land, its stories, its people, its history, its beauty, and the spirit that still rides through it.

Freedom Ride 250
America’s Story. One Mile at a Time

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Here are a few surprising things worth carrying on a bikepacking trip or long bike tour.

1. Thermacell Mosquito Repellent

Bug spray is useful, but a Thermacell-style mosquito repellent can be a game changer at camp.

After a long day of riding, the last thing you want is to sit outside your tent getting eaten alive by mosquitoes. This is especially true near rivers, marshes, lakes, wooded trails, and humid campsites. A small mosquito repellent device can create a more comfortable zone around your cooking area, picnic table, or tent entrance.

It may feel like a luxury item until the first night you’re trying to cook dinner in a cloud of mosquitoes. Then it feels essential.

2. Lidocaine Spray for Insect Bites

Insect bites are usually not serious, but they can be incredibly irritating, especially when you’re hot, sweaty, tired, and still have miles to ride.

A lidocaine spray or similar topical numbing spray can help take the edge off itchy or painful bites. It is not a cure, but it can make a rough night at camp much more tolerable.

This is one of those small items that weighs very little but can dramatically improve your comfort.

3. Prescription-Strength Anti-Itch Cream

Over-the-counter creams are fine for minor itching, but if you know you react badly to mosquito bites, chiggers, poison ivy, or other skin irritants, ask your doctor whether a prescription-strength anti-itch or anti-inflammatory cream makes sense for you.

On a bike tour, you may be passing through areas where you cannot easily get to your regular doctor or pharmacy. Getting this ahead of time can save you from being miserable for several days.

Do not wait until you are already covered in bites to wish you had packed something stronger.

4. Eyewash

Eyewash does not sound exciting until you need it.

On a bike tour, your eyes can get hit with dust, pollen, trail grit, sunscreen, bug spray, or campfire smoke. If you ride gravel trails, rail trails, or rural roads, something will eventually end up in your eyes.

A small bottle of sterile eyewash or saline rinse can help flush out irritation quickly. This is especially useful if you wear contact lenses or ride in dry, dusty conditions.

It is a small, cheap item that can prevent a minor irritation from ruining a day of riding.

5. Make Sure You Have Your Prescriptions

This one is not surprising because it is unusual. It is surprising because people forget it.

Before a bikepacking trip, make sure you have enough of any regular prescriptions to last the entire trip, plus extra in case of delays. Weather, mechanical problems, transportation issues, illness, or route changes can all keep you out longer than planned.

Also consider where you’ll be riding. If you’re crossing state lines or spending time in rural areas, refilling a prescription may not be simple.

Pack your medications in a waterproof bag and keep them somewhere easy to access.

6. Ask Your Doctor About an EpiPen

Most people do not expect to have a serious allergic reaction on a bike tour. But bees, wasps, hornets, fire ants, and other insects are real possibilities outdoors.

You may never need an EpiPen, and not everyone needs one. But if you have a history of allergic reactions, or if you’ll be riding in remote areas where emergency medical help could take time, it is worth discussing with your doctor.

The point is not to be paranoid. The point is to think ahead. A bike tour often puts you in places where help is not five minutes away.

7. Tick Removal Tool

Ticks are easy to overlook until you find one attached to your skin.

Many bike paths and rail trails are maintained by state or local agencies, but that does not mean every surrounding area is manicured. You may still pass through tall grass, wooded edges, brushy campsites, and rural trailheads.

A small tick removal tool or fine-tipped tweezers should be part of your first-aid kit. It takes almost no space and gives you a clean way to remove a tick if needed.

Also make tick checks part of your nightly routine, especially after riding through wooded or grassy areas.

8. Folding Saw

A folding saw may sound like overkill, but it can be surprisingly useful.

On rural trails, storm debris, fallen branches, or campsite obstacles can become a real problem. You are not going to clear a giant tree from the trail, but a compact folding saw can help with smaller branches, firewood preparation where legal, or clearing something minor that blocks your tent area or camp setup.

It can also be useful in emergency situations where you need to improvise a repair, create a support, or deal with trail debris.

Just be responsible with it. Do not cut live trees, damage public property, or violate park rules.

Why These Items Matter

The best bikepacking gear is not always the flashiest gear. Sometimes the most valuable items are the ones that solve small problems before they become big ones.

Mosquitoes can ruin a campsite.
A tick can create a health concern.
An allergic reaction can become serious fast.
A forgotten prescription can derail a trip.
Dust or chemicals in your eye can make riding miserable.
A few small branches can make a campsite or trail section more difficult than expected.

These items are not meant to replace the basics. They are meant to round out your kit so you are better prepared for the strange little problems that show up when you spend days or weeks outside.

Final Thought

Bikepacking is about freedom, adventure, and self-reliance. But self-reliance does not mean packing like a minimalist at all costs. It means thinking realistically about what can happen on the road or trail and carrying the small tools that help you handle it.

A few unexpected items in your bag can make the difference between a trip that feels miserable and one that feels manageable.

Before your next bike tour, double-check the obvious gear — then take a second look at the surprising stuff. That may be what saves the day.

Every great American journey begins with a simple idea: go see the country for yourself.

Freedom Ride 250 is my way of doing exactly that.

In the months ahead, I’ll be riding thousands of miles across the United States—on backroads, rail trails, and forgotten routes that connect small towns, big landscapes, and the everyday Americans who make this country what it is. The ride is timed with the 250th anniversary of the United States, but the purpose goes beyond celebrating a historical milestone.

This project is about listening to America.

Along the way I’ll be documenting the journey through the Freedom Ride newsletter—sharing the landscapes, the people I meet, the conversations about our country’s future, and the unexpected moments that only happen when you travel slowly through a place.

But projects like this don’t grow because of algorithms.

They grow because of people.

And that’s where you come in.

Why This Project Exists

Freedom Ride began with a simple belief:

America is best understood from the ground level.

Not from headlines.
Not from cable news debates.
Not from social media arguments.

But from the roads, the rail trails, the small towns, the diners, the farms, the parks, and the people who live in places most of the country rarely talks about.

Traveling by bike forces a slower pace. It creates conversations you never would have had otherwise. It removes the barrier between observer and participant.

Over the course of the ride I’ll be documenting stories about:

• The people who live along America’s rail trails and backroads

• How communities are changing across the country

• Conversations about the future of America’s economy and infrastructure

• The landscapes that define this country

• The everyday patriotism that rarely makes national headlines

The goal isn’t to lecture anyone.

The goal is to listen, observe, and tell stories.

Why Spreading the Word Matters

One of the biggest challenges today isn’t creating good content.

It’s helping people discover it.

The internet used to be built around sharing. A good article would spread organically through search engines and social media. Today, most platforms prioritize keeping people inside their own ecosystems rather than helping them find independent creators.

That means projects like Freedom Ride depend on something much older than algorithms:

Word of mouth.

Every time someone shares an article, forwards the newsletter, or tells a friend about the project, it expands the reach of the ride.

And the larger the audience becomes, the more stories from the road can reach people who might never otherwise hear them.

If you enjoy the content, the single most powerful thing you can do is simple:

Share it.

Forward it to a friend.
Post it on social media.
Mention it to someone who loves travel, cycling, or American history.

Those small actions compound quickly.

Subscribing Helps Sustain the Project

All Freedom Ride articles will remain free to read.

That’s intentional.

The goal is for these stories to be accessible to anyone who wants to follow the journey.

However, subscriptions help make the project sustainable.

When readers choose to subscribe, they aren’t just paying for content. They’re helping make the project itself possible—supporting the time, travel, equipment, and work required to document a cross-country journey in a meaningful way.

Think of it less like buying a product and more like supporting a story you want to see told.

Reader-supported projects allow creators to focus on telling honest stories rather than chasing advertising clicks or corporate sponsorship requirements.

And it ensures that the project remains accountable to the readers who care about it, not to outside interests.

Freedom Ride Gear

Another way to support the project is through Freedom Ride merchandise.

Shirts, gear, and other items tied to the project serve two purposes.

First, they help fund the journey itself.

Second—and just as important—they help spread the story.

A Freedom Ride shirt or piece of gear becomes a conversation starter. It introduces new people to the project and keeps the spirit of the ride visible long after the bike rolls through a town.

Sometimes the best form of advertising isn’t an ad at all.

It’s simply someone asking:

“What’s Freedom Ride?”

The Power of a Community

Projects like this are never truly solo adventures.

They become communities.

Some readers will follow the ride daily.
Some will share stories from their hometowns along the route.
Some may even meet up along the trail.

Over time, those connections become one of the most meaningful parts of the journey.

Freedom Ride isn’t just about crossing miles.

It’s about connecting people who believe this country is worth exploring, understanding, and celebrating.

The Simple Ways You Can Help

If you want to support Freedom Ride, there are a few powerful ways to do it:

1. Subscribe to the newsletter
It helps sustain the project and ensures you don’t miss stories from the road.

2. Share the content
Forward articles, post them on social media, or tell a friend about the project.

3. Wear the story
Freedom Ride shirts and gear help spread the message far beyond the ride itself.

4. Be part of the journey
Engage with the posts, share insights about your region, and help expand the conversation about America.

A Ride Across America

In 1776, a small group of people took a leap of faith and launched an experiment called the United States of America.

Two hundred and fifty years later, that experiment continues.

Freedom Ride 250 is a journey across the landscapes and communities that keep that experiment alive.

It’s a ride across the rail trails, highways, rivers, mountains, farms, and cities that make up this country.

And it’s a reminder that the story of America isn’t finished.

It’s still being written—mile by mile.

If you believe that story is worth telling, then I invite you to come along for the ride.

And if you want to help make it possible…

Share it. Support it. Ride with it.

Subscribe now

Of course, America’s Semiquincentennial is a major milestone for the country. President Trump has called for a nationwide celebration and established two organizations to help coordinate events across the country: America250.org and Freedom250.org.

Freedom 250 is a national movement helping lead the celebration of America’s 250th birthday in 2026. The organization works with partners across the country—businesses, communities, and civic groups—to create events, storytelling, and initiatives that highlight America’s history, innovation, and enduring spirit of freedom. Through national programs and local participation, Freedom 250 aims to inspire Americans to reflect on the nation’s past while looking ahead to the opportunities of the next 250 years.

As part of the journey, Freedom Ride 250 will be collaborating with Freedom250.org to help highlight the nationwide celebration of America’s 250th anniversary. While traveling across the country, the ride will share stories, events, and perspectives connected to the Semiquincentennial, bringing the spirit of the celebration directly from the road.

I’m quite excited about these collaborations and will be bringing more information about the Freedom 250 events and other partnerships we have in the works.

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Wheels to Adventure, at its full expression, is about exploration—adventure travel by bike, camper, motorcycle, or whatever else gets you moving toward something new.

Freedom Ride 250 is a specific expression of that spirit: a cross-country journey celebrating America at 250 years old.

Neither project is about partisan politics or daily social debates.

They are about movement.

Discovery.

And celebrating the country through experience—not commentary.

Neither project is about partisan politics or daily social debates. They are about movement, discovery, and celebrating the country through experience—not commentary. If public policy enters the conversation, it will be because it intersects directly with travel. For example, I plan to speak with senators on both sides of the aisle about funding for rail-trail development and the balance between investing in public infrastructure and managing national debt. That discussion isn’t political theater—it’s practical.

Trails exist (or don’t) because of those decisions.

While I have a personal interest in public policy, that is not the purpose of this newsletter. However, given the current political climate and certain recent events, it feels necessary to briefly acknowledge that context—not to debate it, but to frame Freedom Ride 250 properly.

This ride is about celebrating the country itself—beyond election cycles and headlines.

When Patriotism Became an Interview Question

For context, I think it’s helpful to look back at both the Australian Open and the Winter Olympics.

At the Australian Open, Owen Lewis—a writer for The Athletic, owned by The New York Times—asked several American players how it felt, or whether it was difficult, to represent the country given the “current situation,” specifically referencing Donald Trump as president.

Most of the players declined to engage with the premise of the question.

Coco Gauff was the only one to respond in any substantive way, referencing past comments she had made expressing displeasure with certain policies of the current administration.

It was clear the reporter believed the players should feel a certain way, while most of the athletes seemed intent on avoiding controversy altogether.

The Same Questions at the Olympics

A few weeks later, similar lines of questioning appeared during coverage of the Winter Olympics.

This time, however, several prominent athletes were more willing to engage.

Hunter Hess — Freestyle Skiing

Said he had “mixed emotions” representing the U.S., adding:

“Just because I’m wearing the flag doesn’t mean I represent everything that’s going on in the U.S.”

Amber Glenn — Figure Skating

Described it as a “hard time” for the LGBTQ+ community under the current administration and defended speaking out:

“Politics affects us all.”

Chris Lillis — Freestyle Skiing

Said he was “heartbroken” over recent U.S. immigration enforcement and the protests surrounding it.

The comments themselves were not the issue so much as the broader media framing. For many Americans, it did not align with the traditional image of athletes representing their country on the world stage.

It left a sour taste among a significant portion of the population.

When the Narrative Changed

That tone shifted in the second week of the Games.

When Alysa Liu won gold in figure skating…

When the women’s hockey team won gold and sang the national anthem together during the medal ceremony…

When the men’s team later won and spoke openly about how the victory was for America and for each other…

The narrative changed.

The focus returned to excellence, unity, and pride in country.

Their profiles rose not only because they won—

but because they celebrated representing the United States without qualification.

Celebrating America — All of It

Part of celebrating America is celebrating each person’s right to feel how they feel about politics or anything else for that matter.

But one of the foundations of Freedom Ride is simple:

I’m celebrating the country. All of it.

Pride in America is not about who is president.

In the hype video I made for this project, a few friends were surprised I included a clip of Barack Obama.

Their surprise was concerning to me—but not surprising.

Many avoid discussing politics with me, and therefore don’t really have a full picture of what I believe and why.

It’s one aspect of my personality they simply don’t try to understand.

But here is the point of this post.

I don’t love my country when my preferred party or candidate is in charge.
I love America regardless of who wins.

I vote for a particular type of candidate.

But my love of country isn’t conditional.

I was not a fan of President Obama’s policies, but I loved my country just as much during his presidency as I do now that Trump is president.

If Hillary Clinton had won, I would have loved America just as deeply.

I would celebrate the 250th anniversary of this great nation just as much if Kamala Harris had won.

Because patriotism isn’t partisan.

Loving a Country Doesn’t Mean Ignoring Its Flaws

Pride in your country is not reserved for Republicans or conservatives.

Nor does it mean ignoring the mistakes or injustices committed over the last 250 years.

But what I celebrate is how we have responded to those moments.

America has fought to become a more “perfect union” and to move closer to the ideals expressed in the Constitution.

One Country

During this ride, I won’t care whether the people I meet are red or blue.

I’ll care that they are Americans.

And that they are part of this country’s story.

We are among the most privileged people in the history of the world.

The Olympic athletes who feel some disdain for the country can still say that on the international stage.

Athletes in countries like China or Iran cannot.

Alysa Liu’s own family history is connected to the events surrounding Tiananmen Square—one of the most famous examples of what happens when protest is crushed by force.

Perspective matters.

The Real Goal of Freedom Ride 250

I am lucky and blessed to live in this country. I love it above party and above individuals, and the greatness of its people rises above both.

That is what I hope to show my subscribers. Let’s meet the people, see the beauty of the land, and remember that both exist in red states and blue states alike.

Because at the end of the day, we are all Americans.

Why would you get on a bike—ignoring a perfectly good car, van, or airplane—to travel across a whole continent? Yeah, people forget sometimes. America is not just a country. It’s a continent, too. So why would you do it?

The video above is the first time I had ever heard of the Great American Rail Trail (GART). I’m not even sure how it came up on my YouTube feed, but there it was. I watched it out of curiosity more than anything else, and my immediate reaction was: That is so cool.

The idea that you could get on a bike and ride across the whole country is mind-blowing to me. Little did I know not only that you could do it, but that people have been doing it for years. As crazy as it sounded to my friends when I first mentioned it to them and attempted my first ride in 2022, the truth is there is a whole subculture of people who travel by bike across America, Canada, South America, and beyond.

I made it as far as Indiana on my first trip. Obligations at home and a miscalculation of funds forced me to cut it short. But the lingering call of adventure continued to whisper in my ear. I’ve always known I would try again—and I can think of no better time than this year, when America turns 250 years old.

Cycling long distance is a gateway into a trance state. I know that may sound crazy to anyone who thinks making it to the gym is a milestone for the month. But once you get into a rhythm and just ride—with no worries and beautiful nature around you—you go zen. Afterward, your muscles are sore, but you feel great because you did something great.

The first time I rode 60+ miles, my legs cramped up like a vice. But once I got fluids back into my body and finally relaxed, I felt amazing.

There are days in the office when I long for that feeling. Making money is great—necessary, actually—but let’s be honest. Sometimes customers and suppliers are annoying. You’d much rather be at the beach, in a park, or in my case, on my bike like I was a kid again exploring parts of town I didn’t know existed.

Traveling across 3,700 miles gives me more places to explore than I could possibly imagine.

Why Now

Not to put too fine a point on it, but if you were designing my headstone, the best symbol of a major aspect of my personality would be one shaped like Captain America’s shield.

I love America. Always have.

I’m not sure whether the ’70s cartoons got to me, or whether it was having the flag from my father’s casket nailed to the wall of my bedroom. But I’ve always been gung-ho about this country. I celebrate it every day. And to be able to showcase that love in some way during our 250th anniversary feels right. I could have taken this ride last year or next year—but now is the perfect time.

Too often in the news and across social media, we see people who seem embarrassed by their country, who don’t want to show their love for it, or worse, who filter that love strictly through a political narrative. We saw this at the 2026 Australian Open, when American players were repeatedly asked whether it was difficult to represent America given current events. We’ve seen it at the Winter Olympics—an event created expressly for athletes to proudly represent their nations—when some American athletes in the early days seemed hesitant to do so.

Luckily, those games ended on a patriotic note, with the men’s and women’s hockey teams taking gold and proudly placing the flag over their hearts.

I won’t go too deep here—I’ll address it in another post—but love of country is not about who sits in the White House. Presidents come and go. Political parties rise and fall. America is larger than any one person.

I celebrate America no matter who occupies the Oval Office. Pride in your country shouldn’t depend on who is president any more than loving your favorite sports team depends on who the coach or quarterback happens to be.

Multiple Routes

As I mentioned, there are multiple routes across the country. Three were established by the Adventure Cycling Association (ACA): the Northern Tier, which follows the top of the continental United States and moves into Canada; the Southern Tier, which crosses the southern states and into parts of Mexico; and the TransAmerica Trail, which traverses the middle of the country.

These routes exist because thousands of riders have used them to cross the country—for challenge, for adventure, or simply for a different kind of vacation, one that requires effort instead of lounging on a beach.

More recently, Bikepacking.com introduced a new cross-country option: the Great American Wheel Route.

The key difference between the ACA routes and the GART is that the GART is designed to connect rail trails whenever possible, allowing riders to avoid highways and busy city streets—a much safer option. Unfortunately, the system is not yet fully complete. Currently, about 52% of the trail is connected. The remainder requires riding on roads and highways.

This gap is especially significant between Nebraska and Wyoming, where roughly 800 miles remain unconnected.

In the future, I may attempt one of the other routes purely as a challenge. But for now, my plan is to ride the GART, with strategic detours to avoid major highways in the West—or possibly a temporary pause in riding to bypass the 800-mile gap. Safety matters. And realistically, that adjustment would also reduce the number of days I’m away

What Do I Hope to Accomplish?

In one sense, this is a personal challenge—to prove not just that I can do it (which I honestly don’t doubt), but that I can do it the way I envision.

I want to showcase the country and the places I ride through. That means not just logging miles, but experiencing them—and sharing those experiences with everyone who follows this project. It means more than trail footage, lunch photos, or snapshots of campsites. It means conversations. Stories. Human connection.

On my first attempt, I often shied away from people because I didn’t want to bother them. I hesitated to ask about their camping setups or where they were from. Yes, I made riding friends—but I didn’t go as far as I could have.

This time, moving past that mental barrier is part of the mission.

I hope to show you wonders you may not have seen—and inspire you to ride yourself. Maybe not across the country. But perhaps on your local trail. Or on your next vacation.

At the end of the day, this ride isn’t just about miles, maps, or proving something to myself.

It’s about movement—in every sense of the word.

Moving across a continent.
Moving past comfort.
Moving toward conversations, stories, and places that remind us what this country really looks like beyond headlines and hashtags.

If I can capture even a fraction of that—if I can show the beauty, the grit, the small-town pride, and the everyday Americans who make this place what it is—then the journey will be worth every mile.

And maybe, just maybe, it will move you to begin your own.

Thank you for reading. If you are interested in following or helping to support this project, please subscribe below and share the post to your social media. It helps spread the word.

Subscribe now

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Ah, Christmas Day.

A day—when done correctly—is supposed to be full of cheer: family gathered close, smiles, and the infectious grins of people surprised by what’s been placed in their hands. Few things ever captured that feeling better than the smiles of children. Everyone loves a gift, but Christmas gifts once seemed to carry a deeper kind of joy—more weight, more meaning—than those given on birthdays, anniversaries, or even the polite obligations of corporate holidays like Valentine’s Day.

Maybe it was decades of careful framing—commercials, television specials, and the endlessly replayed It’s a Wonderful Life version of the season—that taught us how Christmas was supposed to feel. Or maybe it was simply youth, when wonder came easier. Either way, most of us still carry a soft, rosy memory or two of the Christmas gifts that mattered most, lingering long after the paper was torn away.

For anyone born and raised in the 1970s and ’80s, I believe most of us carry a memory of a bike. Maybe it was the first one that ever felt like it was truly ours, or the one we spent months staring at, begging our parents for until Christmas or a birthday finally arrived. Bicycles held a special place in the hearts and imaginations of kids and teens—especially boys—etched into memory from a time when the days felt longer and the world somehow quieter.

As I plan and structure what I want Freedom Ride to become, I can’t help but reflect on what a bicycle meant in childhood and adolescence. It was never just a toy. In America, learning to ride—through the falls, the early fear, and the quiet triumph when your parents finally took off the training wheels—felt like a genuine rite of passage. The first, I like to think, truly symbolic step away from the prying, protective eyes of your parents. A bicycle meant freedom, independence, and a doorway to adventure.

My first bike arrived on a Christmas morning, a complete surprise. To this day, I still don’t know how my mother managed to hide it from me. It was a Huffy 54, and it should come as no surprise that, in memory, it feels far cooler than it probably looks now.

It took me three months to learn how to ride it. My cousin Karen taught me—my father couldn’t, having died a year or two earlier—and she watched me fall, crash into trees, and eventually learn the art of bailing off the bike just before disaster struck. Once I finally got the hang of it, I rode constantly.

In those days—the 1970s—kids walked to school unless they had a bike. Once I had mine, the trip to school became something I looked forward to. I still chuckle when I think about the bike racks back then, packed with bikes of every kind, not a single lock in sight. Theft simply wasn’t something kids worried about.

Which is ironic, because a year or two later, someone did steal my bike. They caught the culprit, but the police said they needed to keep the bike as evidence. For reasons I never fully understood, I never saw that bike again.

It would be years before I asked for another bike. Looking back now, I’m not even sure why I didn’t beg or cry for one. Maybe it was because the neighborhoods I lived in during my pre-teen years were thick with woods and winding paths—places my friends and I were perfectly happy to explore on foot.

Then BMX arrived. The iconic image of ’80s boys racing off on their bikes toward trouble wasn’t just something on television anymore—it became real. My first was a Kuwahara, and it wasn’t meant for cruising the neighborhood. This bike was for BMX racing. Somehow, this felt like a safer compromise to my mother, who had decided football was too dangerous.

Yes—football was forbidden, but a sport that required a helmet and launching yourself over obstacles was acceptable. Parents can be wonderfully illogical like that.

That bike marked the beginning of a phase of life I still smile about. Going outside to ride was all that mattered. Parents in those days had no real idea where we were or what we were getting into. There were no cell phones to call for help if you got stuck deep in the woods, wiped out attempting BMX tricks, or broke something jumping stairways or cars. It wasn’t unusual for me to be eight or ten miles from home, chasing curiosity, exploring places I’d never seen before—trusting I’d find my way back before dark.

BMX racing wasn’t a sport many—hardly any, really—Black kids got into. BMX bikes weren’t cheap Huffys or Schwinns you could find at Kmart. You couldn’t stumble across one in a department store. Bike shops were the only place to get a decent one, and “decent” usually meant the bikes you saw advertised in BMX Magazine or BMX Now.

Black kids played football, basketball, or ran track. At the local weekend BMX track, I was usually one of only two Black kids racing. I never felt out of place. I noticed it the way you notice a tall person in a crowd of shorter ones—acknowledged, but not important. It didn’t matter to me, and it didn’t seem to matter to anyone else.

Fast-forward to today, and the situation isn’t all that different. BMX, mountain biking, bike touring, and camping do have more Black participants now than when I was growing up—but the numbers are still low. Not because of exclusion or racism. Mostly because many simply aren’t interested. Which is a shame. I went years without a bike as an adult, but the moment I got back on one, all the joy of childhood came rushing back.

I eventually moved on from my Kuwahara and built what felt like the ultimate racing machine. A Skyway TA frame and fork. Powerlite bars—those handlebars with the slight curve at the grip ends, perfect for racing. Bearclaw pedals. Three-eighths rims built for speed. The total cost was $475.50. I remember the exact amount because it was a fortune in the ’80s—so much so that my cousins thought I was spoiled. In today’s dollars, that would be roughly $1,600 for a bike owned by a twelve-year-old.

I named it Silver, and I loved that bike. Racing felt bigger than life. I traveled to different towns to compete. If my mother couldn’t—or wouldn’t—take me to the track, I rode there myself. Eight miles. I caught rides with racing friends who had vans and traveled farther than I could. Once, I went to a national BMX race so far away that I camped at the track for three days. I was thirteen years old and seventy miles from home.

I can’t imagine parents allowing that today.

My racing days ended when we moved too far from a track. I held onto Silver for another two or three years, until the day I made the mistake of letting a cousin ride it. He left it outside, and it was stolen—never to be seen again. Forty years later, the memory still carries a small sting. I loved that bike, and only the fear of my mother’s wrath kept me from confronting my cousin in anger. I never owned another BMX-level bike after that. I was relegated to the inferior wheels of big-box-store bikes—but the freedom to ride, to visit friends in the evenings and on weekends, mattered more.

This long walk down memory lane reveals a few common threads: joy, adventure, doing the uncommon thing. Looking back, all the ingredients were already there—the desire to ride long distances, to camp when necessary, to find joy without wondering whether anyone else like me was doing it.

Like so many others, I left high school, went to college, graduated, and became an adult—more or less. Bikes faded into the background, replaced by the next symbol of independence: a car. Bicycles became something people rode because they couldn’t afford a car, not for fun, adventure, or exercise. Cycling grew as a sport, and mountain biking eventually eclipsed BMX, but I think many adults simply outgrew that childlike connection to two wheels—or transferred it to motorcycles.

In truth, many of the things that once brought us joy get left behind. And when—if—we rediscover them, something stirs awake. I spent years in a car, but the moment I decided to ride long distances again, something opened up inside me. A rediscovery of travel, even when it was just around the corner to a place I’d never been before. A wanderlust quietly reignited—still smoldering now, waiting for enough oxygen to flare back into flame.

All of that sits beneath Freedom Ride 250. This isn’t just about miles logged or places crossed on a map. It’s about returning to something that was always there—the joy of movement, the quiet courage of going a little farther than planned, and the simple satisfaction of seeing what’s around the next bend.

What I’m chasing now isn’t speed or competition. It’s that feeling from long ago, when a bike was enough and the world felt open, knowable, and worth exploring. The roads are longer now, the stakes different, and the body older—but the impulse is the same. To ride. To wander. To see what happens when you trust yourself to keep going.

Freedom Ride 250 is a continuation, not a beginning—a long-delayed return to the freedom, independence, and adventure that first took shape on two wheels.

The thought that you could get on a bike and ride from one end of the country to the other without ever encountering a highway blew my mind. It just seemed cool—and the idea hooked into me like a fish on a lure.

When I started Wheels to Adventure, it was this same call to movement and discovery I wrote about in the very first post: a desire to just go. Of course, it’s never that simple. I’m an adult with responsibilities—a younger, special-needs brother to care for. I couldn’t just buy a bike and start riding, though the Facebook groups I joined would often encourage exactly that.

Still, I planned, saved, and decided to do it—or at least to try. Unfortunately, my first full foray into long-distance biking hit a snag when duty called me back home. I rode from Washington, D.C., as far as Indiana before returning to care for my brother.

But the idea never left. I knew I would complete the ride someday—this time structured in such a way that I wouldn’t have to worry about being pulled back before reaching the finish.

As America approaches its 250th birthday, it feels like the perfect time to return to the road and showcase the country I love. A milestone like this—once in a lifetime, literally—invites reflection. Yet it also reminds us how divided we’ve become. Americans are no longer just debating policies; we’re wrestling over the soul of the nation itself. It’s painful to see, especially in the age of social media.

The internet was supposed to bring people closer together, but in many ways, the divide has grown wider. For some, even loving the country has become a point of contention. But not for me. I love America—always have, always will. I know there are millions of good, funny, kind people across this land: Black, White, Asian, Hispanic, and everything in between. They exist, and I believe people need to see them—connect with them. I hope Freedom Ride 250 can help make that connection, shining a light on the quiet strength and shared humanity that define this grand experiment we call America.

The plan is simple enough: ride a bicycle across the United States, coast to coast. But simplicity can be deceiving. Behind every pedal stroke is a story. Behind every horizon, a lesson waiting to be learned. Out there, with nothing but two wheels, the wind, and the road, I expect to find both the beauty and the lessons discovered by those who made similar journeys before me—by bike, wagon, horseback, or on foot.

In all things, we learn most when we move. Action reveals understanding. Each step, mile, or climb teaches something new. But here’s the quiet truth: not all lessons require firsthand pain. We can learn through others—their stories, their struggles, their courage. Books, films, and adventures shared across time give us a glimpse into endurance, and how motion shapes meaning.

I’ve always believed movement reveals truth. When you’re stripped of comfort and momentum is all that keeps you upright, life becomes clearer. You start to see the land differently—the way mountains give way to plains, how rivers thread through towns once full of promise. You start to see people differently, too: the quiet kindness of a gas-station clerk handing you water in the heat, the small-town mayor fighting to keep a trail open, the veteran who rides a few miles beside you before turning back home. Each moment is small, but together they form a portrait of something big—something still worth believing in.

Freedom Ride 250 isn’t just about endurance. It’s about rediscovery. Every generation has to define freedom for itself. For some, it’s wealth or comfort. For others, it’s the right to speak or dream. For me, it’s the act of movement—the courage to keep going when the road is long and uncertain. That’s what America has always been about: not perfection, but perseverance.

Along this 3,000-mile path, I’ll pass through towns most people have never heard of. Some have one stoplight, a diner, and a flag that’s seen better days. Others are thriving again because of the trails that run through them. Each place, no matter how small, holds a piece of our shared story. And by slowing down long enough to listen, I hope to uncover what still unites us beneath all the noise.

There’s a humility to riding that far. You can’t fake it. The road demands honesty. It reminds you that freedom isn’t given—it’s earned through effort, endurance, and empathy. Every climb tests your resolve; every descent rewards your faith. By the time the journey ends, I won’t be the same person who started—and maybe, by seeing America from the ground up, I’ll help others see it with new eyes, too.

So when people ask why I’m doing this—why trade comfort for uncertainty—I tell them this: because the story of America isn’t finished. It’s being written right now, in every small act of courage, every hand extended across difference, every mile traveled with hope instead of fear. And if I can ride through it, share it, and invite others to be part of it, then maybe together we’ll remember what freedom truly means.

This is Freedom Ride 250—a journey across a nation’s heart and soul, and in many ways, a ride back to my own.

The funny thing about a big project like Freedom Ride 250 is that everyone sees the polished pitch—3,000 miles across America, celebrating 250 years of freedom—and it sounds clean, simple, almost inevitable. But right now, in these early months, it’s anything but simple. It’s exciting, yes, but it’s also pure chaos. Pre-production is like juggling flaming torches while riding a unicycle, and half the time you’re not even sure if the floor beneath you is solid.

Most days start with emails to editors, trying to land early coverage that will build momentum before the first mile is even pedaled. Then there are the first sponsor conversations, which are both thrilling and nerve-wracking. You’re introducing a project that you’ve poured your heart into, and at the same time you’re navigating the delicate question of who exactly makes sponsorship decisions inside a massive company. Sometimes you hit the right person on the first try, sometimes you feel like you’re wandering through a corporate maze, knocking on every door and hoping one opens.

And budgets—don’t get me started. They live in spreadsheets that never seem finished. One day I think I’ve nailed it, and the next day something shifts and I’m tearing it apart again. The tension is always there: how do you dream big enough to do this justice without blowing the plan wide open? The answer changes by the hour, but that’s part of the process.

Then there’s the creative storm swirling in the background. I want this project to feel alive, not just like a ride, but like a story people can step into. That means I’m sketching out what the podcast sounds like, how the YouTube series will flow, how livestreams from the trail will capture those raw, unpolished moments. My whiteboard looks like a mad scientist’s diagram, arrows pointing in every direction, sticky notes falling off the edges. But when I step back, I can see the shape of it. The chaos is building something real.

All of this is happening while I’m still working on other projects, writing, producing, keeping the other creative wheels spinning. There’s no pause button—you just have to blend it all together, letting the momentum from one thing fuel the next. Some days it feels overwhelming, but most days it feels like proof that the vision is worth chasing.

And here’s the thing: I wouldn’t trade this part for anything. The ride hasn’t even started, but I can feel it already. Every call, every late night with the budget, every half-formed idea that turns into a plan—it’s all part of the story. This is the messy middle where vision slowly becomes reality, where the dream leaves your head and begins to take shape in the real world. So yes, I’m tired, over-caffeinated, and still staring down a million to-dos. But the Freedom Ride 250 is alive, and even in the chaos, that’s the most exciting part.

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This is Wheels to Adventure.

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Here is a video I recently did for my facebook group about this ride I am doing on Sunday. I will get back to the incrediable ride across the great country of America shortly.

It’s day two on the trail, but my first full day touring. I say that because I woke up in a tent and not a bed. I am on my bike immediately and not driving to a trail in my car first. Fully caffeinated and my wheels topped off, I hit the trail.

It is June, and there has been recent rain. The trail is like riding through a green and brown tunnel. The trees provide enough shade to keep the heat from feeling oppressive, but you are still warm. Plus, you are pedaling constantly. It does not take long for a sheen of sweat to cover my body.

The trail is the hard packed gray gravel. It provides a smooth ride, but there is dust. Before long, that changes to a hard packed sand dirt. Now the trail looks like what you would expect to see in any forest if there was continual traffic on a path. I move from one side of the path to the other to avoid roots and tree limps.

Within in an hour I have seen five deer. A couple dash across the path, but most are off to the right of me where the topography changes from forest to small pools of water.

A steady of stream of people pass by me either going in my direction or going the opposite direction. I even pass several hikers, making good use of man’s first mode of locomotion. I wonder about their stories and why they are on the path, but I do not want to approach anyone. It is a little odd, but I am being quite introverted. It is a trait none of my friends would ever ascribe to me.

Like the day before, I eschew playing my phone and music. I am content to just ride in silence with only the thoughts in my head. I could never meditate, but I imagine what I am experiencing as I pedal away is what meditating might be like. I go minutes at a time with not much of a thought, and then a rush of thoughts race through my head. It is the typical musing of anyone who is not quite satisfied with their lot in life. Thoughts about work, career, love, and goals ping around my old noggin like a pinball. The one consistent idea that generates the most thought is the early morning lesson my half-awake; half sleep mind gave me about stretching your life versus scrunching it down.

My current path is no doubt a stretch for me. I have not ridden a bike in 22 years; not around a corner, let alone four thousand miles. Have not been in a tent in thirty years at least. Annnd, I quit a perfectly good job just to do it.

Yeah, I am getting stretched good.

But, what about in other areas of life? Have I stretched significantly enough elsewhere or settled for the simple path? I keep getting a negative answer.

In short order, life gives me a perfect chance to confront this whole concept.

I am coming up on Lock 38 and the exit from the trail that leads to Shepardstown. I would discover later that Shepardstown is a small college town. It has picturesque buildings and streets, along with a plethora of eateries and lodging options.

That knowledge is secondhand. I would learn it later. In this moment, however, I know that to reach the street that will take me into town, I must ride my bike up a steep switchback. When I say steep, I’m talking about between 60-70 degrees.

I have forty to fifty pounds of gear with me. The thought of trying to pedal up the path of switchbacks, freezes me in place. I am literally just standing in the middle of the trail, staring at the path. Worst, assuming I get up to the street with my bus of a bike, I need to cross a long bridge to get into town. Have I mentioned in this travel account that I hate bridges? I think I may have mentioned it once or twice.

And so, I scrunch down, turning into a shrinking violet in the face of the hill and bridge after that. I decide to skip the ordeal and just ride to the next town, Sharpsburg. I am not up to the challenge at that moment.

I know I am going to face suspension bridges eventually on this trip. I know I am going to have to move off the dedicated bike paths and venture onto city streets with moving cars that do not pay any attention to cyclists. But I could not muster up the…” oomph” to just get'er done!

Here is the lesson life gave me.

Sharpsburg is a scant four miles from Shepherdstown. I take fifteen minutes to reach the exit. I get off the path and hit a lonely country road. There are houses along either side of the street, and a long hill in front of me. Yup, a hill. But it is not steep, so I think no problem. I pedal away.

And pedaling, pedaling, and pedaling. I am making progress, but not getting anywhere. I do not turn around, however. Not even when I pass two large houses with even larger Confederate flags in front of them.

Now, I do not trip over the confederate flag. Sure, I think the people who display them do it for reasons that make little sense, but I do not think every person who does is racist.

I would be lying if I said I did not start hearing banjos in my head. Damon Matt and his jokes…

It becomes obvious the hilly road is hiding the elevation with its gradual nature, but my legs are telling me the truth of the situation. In short order I pass the homes and all shade, emerging into the heat of the day with nothing but massive farms on either side of me. I am too tired, so I stop, consult my map, and see that yes indeed I am going the correct direction.

I take a long time before I reach town, because the road is an up and down journey of hills. I stop often to walk the bike. When I finally reach town, I learn damn well what country singers are talking about when they sing about small towns.

The main street—also named Main Street, which annoyed me—is a mile long, downhill. Which, of course, means I must come up the hill to leave. I head into town, and it is empty. I mean, people live here, but there is hardly anyone around. There is one restaurant along the entire stretch, a hole in the wall, bikers bar. There are no hotels, just a couple of bed and breakfasts, all booked up.

I have traveled three miles off course, and it has taken me an hour to travel it. I am tired, hungry, and thirsty as hell. Unfortunately, there are no convenience stores in sight. I grind my teeth, turn around and pedal back up the street to see if there are any in the opposite direction I came. I see only quaint homes and small businesses like accountants, and real estate agents.

Now, I am pissed. Silently, enraged with no outlet, because the fault is my own. I should have just freakin manned up and rode my black ass up the switchbacks back at Shepardstown. But, no, I wussed out and now I have biked up elevation anyway with nothing around to provide a freakin happy ending.

I turn around and head to the biker's bar. There is no way I am going to make it back to the trail without water and a few sugary drinks. I lock my bike up and head inside. The bar tender and owner of the establishment takes one look at me and says, “Honey, are you okay?”

I shake my head in the negative, but answer, “nothing some Gatorade and sodas won’t cure. I got a little sidetracked today.”

There are a couple of older men sitting at the bar. When they find out I am biking across the country, they start howling.

“Brother, I’ve heard of people riding up to Cumberland or Pittsburgh, but the whole damn country? You crazy.”

I merely shrug, cause at the moment I cannot argue against the words. I feel crazier, than since I got this idea. I down three sodas, and the owner packs my water bottles with ice. The men wish me luck and I head back into the baking sun.

Three miles and forty-five minutes later, I am back on the C&O Towpath. It is two in the afternoon. There is plenty of daylight left. The next town with lodging and food is Williamsport. It is forty miles down the path.

I resolve to do two things. One, I will ride the forty miles. Two, I will not shrink away from any more damn challenges or take the easy route. I have learned my lesson.

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I have a friend, Michelle, that decided one day to run the Disney marathon. Michelle was not a runner. There was no gym rat in her. But for whatever reason, she decided she wanted to run 26.4 miles. Since that year’s decision, she has run several marathons. I asked her how she did it. How she stayed motivated to keep running when the finish line is miles away?

Michelle said, she does not think about the finish line until she passes it. She focused on one foot in front of the other. According to Michelle, thinking about how close or far the finish line is makes it harder to run the race.

I have not spoken to Michelle in many years. As I come around a corner I believe to be my last for the day, those words float into my head. I’m sucking wind and happy I’ve finally made it to Brunswick. I’m tired and want to just stop at last. Unfortunately, I don’t see a damn thing.

Actually, that is not quite true. I see a port-a-potty, a parking lot, and a boat ramp. There is no campground. No picnic tables, RVs, no gathering of dozens of cyclists. There is, however, a sign that says Brunswick.

I immediately pull up my trail link map. I know for certain that Patrick and Dale are not camping in the parking lot. I’m almost certain they were not talking about a camp site off the trail. Sure enough, the map tells the tale. There are two Brunswicks on the map. The parking lot and a campground a mile or so further down the trail.

I curse like a sailor, get on my bike, and pedal the longest mile I have ever ridden in my life. When I finally see the campground, it is like seeing a pool after being in the desert for four hours. I nearly collapse in relief on my bike.

Brunswick Campgrounds is in West Virginia with over 100 campsites. There are RV spaces, cabins, and a large area for tent camping. Tent camping is 20 dollars a night. They also have shower facilities, food, snack store, and most important for cyclists, a station to wash your bike.

Sounds luxurious, but it really isn’t, but I’ll get to that.

I located my buddies relatively fast. They had struck camp already and saved me a spot next to their tents. Patrick was trying to decide whether to take a shower or wait till later. As he went to go inspect the facilities, I hosed my bike down, then set up my tent.

If you recall from my “Tent Trials” I’m using a Coleman Sundome tent. It’s a freestanding three-person tent. I’ve only set it up one time. Once, however, is enough to keep me from looking like a total amateur. Glancing around the assemblance of campers, I see a cornicopa of tents and camping set ups. I am curious about all of them and I want to go speak to a few people about thier set up. For some reason, I do not. The notion flouts in my mind, but I take no action on it.

Instead, I hose down my bike. When Patrick returns from the showers, he warns me it's not the Ritz. I’m hot, sweaty, and dusty. I cannot imagine not getting a shower. When I get to the shower facilities, I change my mind. Patrick is correct, but overshot his description. It is not the Ritz, it’s not even Motel Six.

The bathrooms and wash area are not disgusting, but they're not tidy either. The thought that comes to mind is, “hey aren’t we still in the middle a freakin pandemic?” Yea, I know. The mental comment is rich coming from someone that has ignored pretty much every pandemic “restriction or order” on general principle.

Instead of a shower, I opt for a quick wipe down with my wash cloth in most of the important places. I don’t feel clean, but I don’t feel icky either. For now, it will have to do. I will look later in the night when people are sleeping. I rush to my tent, and decide to ride the two miles down the road for a proper meal in town. I meet Patrick and Dale (I swear I’m too embarrassed to text Patrick to see if Dale is the right name. I’m too old to remember) at the Potomac Street Grill.

Sitting back with my trail mates with a drink and talking about each other’s lives it is exactly what I expected and wanted from this endeavor. On the road, in small town America, enjoying the company of newfound friends. I even manage to not bring up politics. That is an accomplishment for me. Not because I love to argue or debate—though I kinda do—but it’s because politics just fascinates me. The pluses or minuses of each side is intellectual candy for me.

It's only 9pm when we get back to camp. I'm a night owl most days, so it is early for me to be turning in. I call my brother to check in on him and send a few texts to friends to let them know I'm still alive. Then I check the showers again. They are still not sanitary enough. I’m being snooty as befits a newbie on a bike tour. I know it, own it, and tell myself it doesn’t matter because there is no one around to impress.

On my way back to my tent, God screws with me and puts a smoking hot black woman in the path in front of me… his sense of humor is so annoying sometimes.

The last time I slept in a tent, I was 12 years old at a National BMX race event in Tom’s River. I remember that being more comfortable without all this high-tech gear I have with me. The self-inflating sleeping pad did not self-inflate. My pillow was not as comfortable as I would have liked. And it was just too damn hot. No, that’s not quite right.

The temperate is around 68 degrees, but it is a misty 68 degrees. My tent is clammy and there is little to no consistent air flow. I have it covered with the rain fly, because I didn’t want to be awakened by rain pouring into my tent. Which was a good call. In the night, it rained. The sounds of the rain hitting the tent were soothing enough to carry me to a fitful, half sleep. I imagined it was the type of sleep soldiers get when deployed in enemy territory.

Morning could not arrive soon enough. I’m not a morning person by nature, but I was up and out of that mist box, called my tent as soon as the sun cracked the darkness. I’m stiff, sticky, and in a foul mood, though I hide it.

Patrick and Dale have broken camp and are ready to hit the road. I ask where their next destination is for camping. Their destination is Sherpardstown. I get Patrick’s phone number to reach out to him later if I decide to stay in the same place.

They take off, and I sort of float through breaking camp. I take my time, repacking everything to redistribute all my gear and take a tip Patrick gave me the night before to heart. Categorizing each type of gear to each pannier and then marking with tape where I have my repair kits and tools. Before, I had everything kind of mixed around.

If I stay at Brunswick in the future, I’ll make reservations for a cabin. They do a brisk business at the location, and that’s in the middle of a pandemic. I shudder to think how busy it would be in normal times. That volume of people makes keeping the shower and bathroom facilities clean enough to be useful impossible.

If I ever own land large enough to serve as a camp ground, I have a basket full of ideas of how to make the campground better and cleaner. Then again, non-owners of stuff always have ideas on what should be done without the work of having to do it and do it at a profit.

I detour into town to get breakfast and wait for the local bike shop to open. I need to top off the air in my tires. My load is too damn heavy and I'm seriously considering mailing some items back home. Rosemont is an interesting town. It is small town America like you see on television. Small shops, many store fronts closed. I cannot help wondering what the heck the people who live here do. What’s the primary job or industry? As I pedal down the town center, back to the trail, I wonder if the residents are dying to get out. Or if they choose to live in Rosemont because they were dying to get away from somewhere else.

It is 9am. I wanted to start the day earlier. I’ve resolved that I’m going to be staying in a hotel or motel later that night. I want a proper shower. It will be a short day since Shepardstown is 17 miles away.

Unfortunately, that would be totally false, thanks to a major mistake I make.

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Our bellies are full. Our bodies are refueled. My new friends and I get back on the trail. We shift between following each other along the two-track trail, but soon it is apparent that I cannot keep their pace. Three miles in, Dale pulls away and tells me to find them if I decide to reach the campgrounds.

There is no way I can keep pace with them or the grandmothers passing me by with the amount of weight I have on my bike. It is a self-serving lie and I know it the moment I say it out loud. I'm so annoyed. Yea, this is the first time I have tried to tour. Yes, it has been only five months since I got on a bike for the first time since 1999. Sure, I did not train like I should have in the months preceding my trip. Nonetheless, I don't like getting passed by everyone—including people weighted down like me and older in age—like I’m standing still.

I’m averaging about eight to nine miles per hour. Essentially 5 to 6 miles less than when I hit the trail in Milford, Ohio. Of course, all I had to carry then was a GoPro and my fat mouth.

It is unreasonable to expect higher performance on the trail, given I have not done this before or trained myself up. This is a theme I would return to again and again during my trip. It is trail lesson three and a good life lesson. Do not compare yourself to others. Aspire to be like or exceed them, but when it comes down to the nitty gritty, compare yourself to what you did the day before. Plod along if you must, knowing that even plodders make progress compared to people who stand still.

Once I get the negative thinking out of my head, I’m able to enjoy the ride. I’m on a hard packed, gray crushed rock now. It is nearly as hard packed as riding asphalt. The trail itself is in the woods with trees on either side, branches reaching toward each as if trying to form a wooden, green tunnel. It is awesome for the ride. The temperature is a good 10 or 15 degrees cooler, than in open spaces.

Despite the late hour, I still see a few deer; five, to be exact. They are on the side of the path, so I cannot get any video or photos of them. I decide to keep a count on how many I see each day. Other than deer, I don’t see many animals, except the two-legged kind. The trail is busy. Every ten minutes someone is passing me, going the opposite direction or passing by me, headed in the direction I’m going.

My fellow trailers are an eclectic  bunch. Young, old, male, female, white, even Indian, but I’m the only black guy on the trail. I find it amusing and funny because I keep hearing Matt’s sarcasm in my head.

To prepare for my trip, I looked at a ton of videos, read a butt load of articles. I come across several articles and bike companies doing their best to speak to diversity in cycling, or the lack of it. Each time I see one, it annoys me. I delve into why in the entry, "There is no diversity problem in cycling."

As I pass or get passed by other riders, I’m curious about the wide variety of panniers I see on their bikes. If you are not familiar with the term, panniers are a fancy word for saddle bags. They hold all your gear. You can get them large or small, expensive, or cheap. The panniers that intrigue me the most are made from kitty litter containers. The first time I see someone with one, it makes me chuckle, and I think, “Geesh, they’re not that expensive.” However, it soon becomes apparent that the kitty litter panniers are not the cheap idea of some cash strapped cyclist. I see more and more riders with them. A group of six ride by me and all have the same litter containers on the side of their bikes. I keep a mental count and stop when I reach 35.

Three hours into my ride, I’ve pedaled close to thirty miles, I guess. I’ve got two fully charged phones with me and a music list on each that reaches into the thousands. But I don’t want to play them. I’m content to ride with nothing more than my thoughts to keep me company. I focus on the ride and messing around with my gopro to get some video. It take a few tries to get the video correct. I’ve got every mount you can think of for the camera, but positioning it takes some doing. Three guys jump off a bridge into the river, but I don't get it on video.

There is a little girl, age ten or eleven, I guess, watching the boys. She walks to the jump point, before her mother screams to not “even think about it!” The girl pouts and stomps over to her mother. I get the evil eye from her mother when I laugh uncontrollably.

“Oh, you think it’s funny now? It isn’t when you have to deal with that daredevil every day,” she says. I laugh harder.

The trail follows the Potomac. Water is usually within eyesight to the left of the direction I’m heading. To the right are wooded areas interspersed with small pools of water. Sections of the trail are placed close to the water. I imagine it would not be fun to crash and fall into them. I take solace there are no gators to worry about. My negative side reminds me there are certainly water moccasins around to take a bite out of me. I move to the opposite side of the trail when the trail gets too close to the stagnant pools of water. Better safe than sorry.

Great idea, until I reach my first personal challenge.

If you have read the first few entries of Wheels to Adventure, then you know I’m not a fan of heights, bridges, or water larger than a backyard pool. I don’t like heights because I can’t fly. I don’t like bridges, because you can fall off them, and well, with no wings or the ability to fly, that would end badly. I am a functional swimmer; meaning that if thrown into the deep end of a pool or lake, if the exit is close by, I can reach it. Throw me into the ocean or the middle of a lake, I’d likely drown.

I knew ahead of time there would be bridges that are long and high. My two fears would be encountered more than once on the trip and I’d have to man up. I did not expect the water issue to be put to the test and not this early.

Twelve miles from lunch, I reach Monocacy Aqueduct. Originally built in 1883, the aqueduct is a stone masonry structure 19 feet from water level to the top of the structure. The towpath parapet wall is 8 feet wide, and the upstream wall is 6 feet wide. It is 438 feet long with no side walls. If you take a tumble, you could be swimming.

The height is nothing compared to what I know I will face further in the trip, but it is still disorientating as I ride slowly across. Eight feet in width doesn’t feel wide. I’m hugging the middle of the path, so I only have four feet on either side.

I make it across with minimal stress, sweat, and sigh in relief. That relief would be short-lived. Four miles later, the trail opens onto a section next to a cliff. The towpath curls around the edge of the Potomac five feet—maybe—to your left. To the right is the cliff, complete with signs directing you to watch out for falling rocks. Oh joy.

Now I hug the right side of the path, or at least I wish to. I cannot, however, because you know, falling rocks. Plus, there are bushes and trees going out into the path, forcing me to swerve back and forth. If you get dizzy easily, I suggest you skip the video below. I take small comfort in the party boat I see in the water. If I fall in at least there is someone to com rescue me. Assuming they are not too drunk and see me.

I make it across and now I’m three miles from the Calico Rock campsite. But I’m only ten miles from the Brunswick campground and my new friends. There’s plenty of daylight left and I’m not tired. I should be. I’m over thirty miles for the day. The most I’ve done and more than I thought I would on the first day.

The decision is simple. Ten miles is nothing. Only an hour more, I reason. I can do it. I got this.

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Every business and major corporation—whether sincerely or cynically—made their position known. Money poured into BLM’s coffers. Diversity programs at work were revamped and filled with the language of university professors. Equity, inclusion, anti-racism, white fragility were the new buzzwords of corporate America. A new commitment—again, whether or not, sincere—infected nearly every business.

The cycling industry was no exception. As I researched bikes, read blogs, and magazines, companies in the biking industry were making sure customers knew where they stood. Racial bias and exclusion had no place in the cycling world.

Three pieces of content stood out to me. Outside magazine published a cover story by Jimmy Chin about adventure inclusivity. Trek bikes had a newsletter entry titled, All In, a list of things Trek was going to fight racism in cycling.

The “All Black” square was a nice virtue signaling touch. Last, a short documentary produced by REI about pro mountain biker, Ayesha McGowan. In the film, Ayesha comments she feels like an outsider, because when she goes to mixers or parties during race events, there is seldom any hip-hop music played.

These discussions specific to the biking world are beyond troubling. They are flat out annoying and tiresome. They are misguided in the extreme.

How can I say that? Isn’t inclusion and diversity in biking or anything a good outcome? The answer is, of course, yes. The problem, however, is these efforts contain a conclusion that is false; two, in fact.

The first problem is that when corporations switch from equality to equity as a focus, I do not believe they understand the term as it is practiced in the real world. The goal of equity is not what they think it is.

Equality is treating everyone equally. All people, regardless of race, class, gender, etc, have an equal shot at the job, promotion, home loan, legal justice, etc. It is equal opportunity for all. Equality is a bike race where everyone starts at the same starting line. Equality is what Dr. King fought and ultimately died trying to achieve in America.

Dr. King did not march for special treatment. He did not march to brand white Americans for the sins of whites in the 1800s. He marched to be given an equal, fair shot.

Equity is about equal outcomes. It is about doing what is necessary to make sure everyone gets outcomes based on the color of their skin. It is having different standards for blacks and more restrictions for whites. It is the assumption that a person raised by a single mother in a trailer park should be held up in favor of the person from a two-parent home in the burbs, if those people are white and black respectfully.

Equity can never be just because it pre-proposes a conclusion about people based purely on race. The very definition of racism. Again, corporate America and small business across the country who are subscribing to equity do not realize that word does not mean what they think it means.

The second problem is all the articles that deal with this subject within the biking industry are fighting phantoms. There is no racial exclusion in biking. None.

No disrespect to the Titans of the cycling world, but we are talking about bikes here, guys. Just bikes, not the exclusive, wealthy golf club. This is not wall street jobs, or NFL coaching positions.

If a black person wants to get involved in cycling, all they have to do is buy a bike. They can find one in every big box retail store in America. They can find cheaper ones on Amazon. They can find one at the pawnshop or Facebook Marketplace cheaper than the basketball shoes they wear playing hoops.

The only sports with a lower barrier to entry are running and walking. Okay, perhaps basketball too, if you do not count the Air Jordans. There are no gatekeepers in the bike world. Get a bike, start riding. Pretty simple.

Just because there are not a lot of black people involved in cycling, be it mountain bikes, touring, street racing is not because of racism or bias. It is because the black demographic are not interested in cycling. Everyone who looks at sports demos knows black Americans gravitate toward football, basketball, and track. Next on the list is baseball and soccer. But the more obscure the sport, the fewer blacks are involved. Sure, sports like golf, and tennis have more blacks taking part than in the 80s and 90s, but even that is a small percentage.

In 2019, the Outdoor Foundation published a study on the outdoor recreation industry. In this report, 10.4% of African-Americans were involved in biking activities like road cycling, mountain biking, or bmx. The vast majority of that time was spent riding less than 10 miles each ride. African-Americans love a good bike as much as the next guy, but we do not see cycling as anything other than something to do once in a while.

That’s a matter of taste, not racial bias.

As a child, I raced BMX bikes. When I went to the track, I was usually one of only two or three black kids. Not because anyone was trying to keep me from racing. I showed up, paid my entry fee, and was told good luck. My neighborhood black friends were home playing basketball or playing football. They chose to be elsewhere.

If Trek or any other bike maker wants to get the percentage of blacks interested and taking part in cycling higher, go for it. It’s an untapped demo that can raise the sales and profits of bike makers. But, you increase the numbers by getting black people and kids interested in the sport, not through half-cocked social justice outreaches.

Do not talk about racial bias. Do not even make that a focus. Go to a neighborhood with some bikes and show what black kids can do on them. Put together a program that gets minority kids-who mostly live in urban areas—out of the city and into woods with mountain bikes. Mountain biking as a sport is becoming a thing in high schools across America, sponsor a mountain biking team at an inner city school. Meet the demographic where they are and sell them on the sport and how cool it is. Because it is freakin cool!

But for the love of God, cut out the inclusion nonsense. Treat everyone great and focus on the fun of the sport and diversity takes care of itself. When blacks see the sport of cycling the same way they do tennis, golf, baseball, or track, then there will be more blacks involved.

This is the way to more inclusion. Companies, industry publications, and advocates for outdoor sports can talk and spend money on inclusion and diversity programs till they are blue in the face. It won’t make a bit of difference if there is just no interest. Do not take away or ignore the agency of blacks or any other minority. They are choosing their interests. Show them a more fun and exciting choice and they will come to you.