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.

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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.

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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.

The idea of the Great American Rail Trail (GMRT) is turning old, unused, and historic train rail lines into bikes paths, and then connecting them. Thousands of these old railroads intersect America like veins in the body. Just like the blood coursing through a body’s veins delivering oxygen and nutrients to the body, the rail lines of the past were America’s lifeblood. Goods, fuels, and foodstuffs traversed the country, bringing items for towns and cities to the country's interior, allowing them to survive and thrive.

However, eleven miles from the capital of America, the beginning bike route on the GMRT trail is not a converted rail line; but a trail created from the dying body of a transport system displaced by rail lines. In the early 1800s, water was the best way to transport goods and people quickly. The rivers of the East and down into the Mississippi were always filled with boats and barges transporting goods and materials. The Chesapeake and Ohio Canal; known today as the C&O Towpath operated for over 100 years as the lifeline for communities along the Potomac River. Coal, sugar, cotton, and other goods were loaded on to barges and pulled by mules.

As the country turned to the use of coal powered train lines, the C&O began its descent into disuse. It was turned into a National Park in 1971 and today hosts over 5 million visitors. A number that is higher than the revered Yellowstone Park. Oddly, the bike path along the many locks was developed in 1960.

I take a good 15 minutes to load all my stuff into its last places and onto my bike. When I pedal away, heading toward the unknown on my personal adventure, it takes just 15 seconds to receive my first two rookie bike touring lessons. The bike is unbalanced as hell. I’m not riding, I’m wobbling on two wheels. At no point in the preceding months had I even attempted to load all my gear and take a ride. Nope, never did. Rookie mistake number one and unforgivable. There is no shortage of posts on the Facebook group, Biking and Bikepacking, telling new members to go on trial runs.

Second, I discover the reason newer bikes—especially for touring—have step-thru frame models. I’m a child of the 80s so whenever I saw these bikes, I just associated them as girl bikes. And that is true to a point, but there are plenty of guys riding them too, for one reason; when your bike is loaded up, it is a pain to put your leg over the frame and get on the bike. Especially when you are overloaded, and your gear is not evenly distributed.

I had too much weight, and it did not take me long before I had to pull over and repack nearly everything. Somewhere on the web, I found a post that suggested putting the heavier items in the front panniers in order to keep the front wheel down. That sounded like rational advice, so I followed that direction and got my panniers situated to where I did not feel I was going to fall over to one side.

Starting was still a struggle. I was loaded for bear. The bike felt like a lumbering oil barge; slow to get going and, once started, I felt no desire to stop. Which was a problem, because the initial few miles along the path were not what I expected.

I assumed I would see other cyclists, but the sheer number of people resembled a gathering at the park during the fourth of July. See, remember that 5 million visitors annually I mentioned? Yea, they were all there and in the way of my lumbering bicycle-bus.

The crowds of people biking and walking kept me from gaining any actual speed. One reason for the large number of people became apparent four miles into my ride. Mile marker 14.3 was the location of a waterfall. It is called Great Falls and is well known to residents and any frequent national park visitor.

The falls comprise cascading rapids and several 20 foot waterfalls, with a total 76 foot drop in elevation over a distance of less than a mile.

The Potomac River narrows from nearly 1000 feet, just above the falls, to between 60 and 100 feet wide as it rushes through Mather Gorge, a short distance below the falls. The Great Falls of the Potomac display the steepest and most spectacular fall line rapids of any eastern river.
Courtesy of National Park Service

Not a lot mountains or elevation in my living state of Florida, so waterfalls are not something I get to enjoy. I was keen to enjoy them and take some photos. Unfortunately, I had all this stuff called camping gear, along with more than a few pricey electronics. What I did not have was a riding buddy that could keep an eye out on my stuff while I played tourist.

I walked the bike as close to the stairs to the falls as possible, and quickly went to the front part of the overlooking bridge to snap some photos. I got some video too, but ultimately, I don’t think they came out that well. The last thing I needed was for my trip to start off with a theft of my bike or something else.

The path of the C&O is made from two kinds of gravel. A natural sandy and crushed rock and later a crushed, gray gravel that provides a smooth, if dusty ride. The first part of the trail is normal gravel. As I pedal down the path wondering what’s ahead of me, the number of people walking thins out and then disappears. Now, I’m surrounded by bike traffic flowing in my direction and going in the opposite direction. I see a ton load of people loaded with panniers, packs, and gear. At one stop, I walk around and ask people where they are traveling to and from. Most are heading to DC from Pittsburgh or headed toward Pittsburg.

I don’t know anyone, but I feel at home among the waving bikers that speed past me. Back in Florida, I’m nuts, according to my friends. On the C&O I’m just another tourer with gear. Albeit more gear than anyone I pass on the trail.

At mile marker 30.8., I stop for something to eat. I have a small stove and food with me, but am in no mood to dig it out. I walk into the only store there and decide to order something to eat. As I lock up my bike, I meet my first trail friends.

Patrick and I believe Dale (???) is pulling up to break as well. They are both from Pennsylvania and are also riding the Great American Trail. We sit outside with well-deserved burgers, getting to know each other. They have been friends for a while and have always talked about riding the trail, but time never presented an opportunity. Now Patrick had time and jumped on the bike to travel. I ask them where they were going to camp. I had planned to listen to one piece of advice I got continually as I planned my trip “do not ride far on the first day. Take it easy.” My goal was to bike another ten miles and then camp. My new friends, however, invited me to camp with them at Brunswick, if I could make it another 25 miles.

The most I had ridden before then was 20 miles. Riding an extra 25 seemed daunting. I did not think my fitness level was up to the job, given that I had not trained adequately for long rides before the start of this trip. I know, I know not the smartest thing to do. Nonetheless, I decided that if I could get there with enough time to set up my tent before nightfall, I would go for it.

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But, with the judicious use of pleasant music and singing along like a madman, I’m able to get closer to the mental state I want. At least from Florida through Georgia, and halfway through South Carolina. Things changed when I passed around Florence. The highway resembled the highways of the Midwest with steep embankments on either side, and bridges. The sweat inducing unease of the earlier portion of the trip came roaring back. If I went off the road on either side, I would be well and truly screwed. This caused me to slow down, much to the annoyance of the drivers behind me in either lane. As darkness descended, my unease grew. I’m sure that it is nothing to the residents of the area that are used to zipping along this portion of I-95, but for flatlander Kiara it was annoying. I finally stopped for the night and got a hotel.

The early morning sun and a couple of cans of Redbull made the morning drive better… until I hit the area of Richmond, Virginia. The makeup of the drivers and traffic changed so suddenly it was as if some capricious God transported me from one area to another in-between blinks of an eye. Traffic became HORRENDOUS and the driver's worst. After a few miles, I saw accident after accident. I went from driving eighty miles an hour to fifty or fifty-five.

Entering the Swamp of DC made things even worst. I for the life of me cannot understand why the hell anyone lives in that place. The highways are wide as hell and have too many connecting highways. Which you would think should mitigate traffic, but it's a false hope. Looking down at the bisecting highways of 95, 495, 395, Hwy 1, or Hwy 611 from the air would look the same as a line of ants transporting food to their nest—with about as much space between the cars as each ant.

I needed to reach the general area of Gaithersburg. My friend Kortney had convinced her parents to allow me to park my car at their house while they were out of town. I was looking forward to seeing Kor-as I refer to her in my phone—her husband Matt, and their rug rat of a son Nigel. The last time I had seen them was during the Presidential Inauguration in 2016. I was covering the event for a few sites and at the time Nigel had still been sitting in car seats.

Following the convoluted directions out of my phone, I think I drove a section of each highway in the area before I finally reached my destination. It was still early in the day and Matt asked me if I wanted to head to my starting point. However, the combination of traffic, not being sure where in the hell the lady's voice from the phone was directing me, and the nature of the roads, I was annoyed and stressed out. All I wanted to do was get a hotel, drink a beer or a dozen, and chill out.

Seriously, if you live in the DC area, why in the hell do you? Like, please post below whyyyyy? Unless you’re working for some high flouting lobbying firm, bilking Uncle Sam out of millions of dollars, it doesn’t seem worth it.

The next morning, I learned my first lesson of the trip. I woke with a clear mind and excitement. I was finally ready. Like for real, for real. I headed back to Kor’s parents' house and on the way got a terrible surprise. A full twelve inches of lead pipe popped into the air and impale my brand new, $300 dollars a piece tires. I was on a tire slowing losing air with my spare under a shit ton of equipment in back. The tire went fully flat two miles away from the house.

A part of me took it as a sign. God’s message to me saying, “Yo, bruh! You really shouldn’t do this. This ain’t what I want you to do, and I’m giving you a tap on the shoulder to alert you.”

Another part of me was too invested. I had thought, saved, planned, and plotted for a full year. I could not not take the trip. I did not care about anything else.

Here is the lesson. We all have goals, events, or destinations we wish to reach. We invest our emotions, time, money, and sometimes our heart into achieving them, a business, a relationship, marriage, education, etc. No matter what it is we cannot allow any bump in the road to trip us into descending into negative thinking. That feeling of “this is a sign” is nothing more than the boogeyman of doubt. A thought that if we allow will become a self-fulfilling prophecy.

If your goal is worth pursing, there is the possibility of failure. Assigning meaning to obstacles allows an emotional exit strategy for you if you fail or something goes wrong. Do not allow that.

On the other hand, do not become obsessed. In that moment, I was more closely aligned with the, this is a sign point of view. BUT I was also obsessed, if I am honest. I wanted to do this, needed to do it.

But did I really? If I had turned around and said, “oops, this is a mistake. I’m going home,” would the world have ended? No. Perspective is everything. Do not lose it.

In my case, I drove the last couple of miles to the house and said to myself, “Kiara, you planned for this. You bought a real spare tire for your car—not a donut tire—specifically for this possibility, so it’s not that big of a deal. Stop being emotionally overwrought. Change the tire and get on the goddamn bike.”

Self-flagellation over, Matt showed up with some power tools, we switched out the tires, parked the car and headed toward my starting point, Carderock Lock. Matt keeps looking at me with bewilderment. When his wife told him I was coming to town to drop my car off and bicycle across the country, he starred at her for three minutes in disbelief. He did not think she was serious.

Faced with me outfitted to the nines and a bike hanging off the rack of my SUV, I can tell he is trying to accept the reality. He admires what I’m trying to do. He also leans into me and say, “Dude, I think what you’re doing is kinda cool and brave… but you know this is some white boy shit right here, right?”

I can’t do anything but laugh. Matt is white. Kor is black. Clearly neither of them gets hung up on racial nonsense. But one thing I love about them, and our friendship is that we both still know there are differences between people of all races and those differences are quite funny sometimes. Black people are not into cycling as much as white people. And certainly riding 4,000 miles ain’t something most brothers are in the barbershop planning. So, I get what he means.

The Great American Rail Trail starts in Washington, DC. Because of Nancy Pelosi’s over the top, political reaction to January 6th and some of the equipment I have with me, I decide to start further down on the trail. Carderock is on mile marker 10.5 of the C and O trail. The trail goes from DC to Cumberland, Maryland. A total of 185 miles.

Matt drops me off, wishes me luck, and smiles as he tells me to watch out for any banjos. I’m here. The adventure truly begins now.

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Every year, millions of parents place their children into sports, music, or other activities. Sometimes it is the child who begs their parents to take part. Just as often, the parents pick the activities because they believe it is good for the kids, or they need an unofficial after school babysitter. The one challenge they all face is deciding where the line is on pushing their child outside their comfort level versus crossing it and making them do something they really do not want to do.

The line between resistance and hating an activity is razor thin. It is a lesson that I’ve learned during this project. I can easily see a reader finding this newsletter and thinking, “What a jerk of a brother,” for making David come with me.

Forcing him was not the intention. Pushing him in a direction that I thought would stretch past his, admittedly enabled, locked in routine was the primary goal. I failed in that endeavor, at least for the moment. It might take more time and work on my part here at home, or maybe I need to do that with a different activity. Only time will tell.

In the meantime, I needed to decide what to do next on my goal. There was only one choice. I would need to get someone to watch over David while I was away. I was not willing to give up on this trip. I had done too much planning, daydreaming, and romanticizing of the travel to just let it go. It is an itch that had to be scratched.

My friends know this. They have heard me talking about this crazy idea of mine for well over a year. I have no doubt that some of them—okay, probably all of them—had a collective opinion of “get on with it already!”

I think it has to be why when I asked—ok offered a bribe—to check in on David while I was away; my friend said yes faster than I expected. The agreement lifted a weight off my chest and left gratitude. While David is far enough along the spectrum to be left alone, it is still a responsibility. In a perfect world, I could leave David at home with no issue if there is food, soda, and working internet. But life happens and an emergency could be a problem if I’m three states away. No amount of compensation diminishes that responsibility.

With a solution for David in hand—one I should have considered more strongly from the beginning—I would take a couple of days to reset my preparations. Watching David would just entail my friend checking on him every few days and taking him to the mall to get him out of the house. David knows how to cook several easy to make meals on his own. I loaded up on those items and gave him some spending money. If he needed more, I could always Cash App my friend some money for David.

Planning Tip: Make sure to try all items you buy from Amazon right away, so you have time to return them if necessary.

The next agenda items were all the gear that I had now that I would not need. I tried and failed, often trying not to think about all the money I could have saved if I had not brought David. Between the price of his bike, its modifications, extra camping gear, and gear for car camping, I estimate I could probably have saved $5,000. There was little to be done about it now, so I just focused on returning items I could. It was a long list, comprising gear that did not work that way I wanted and duplicate gear I had bought for David.

Camping Gear that did not work out

Both my larger tent and gazebo did not work out the way I thought. The gazebo took too long to set up; an issue I could have overlooked if it had screened out the bugs like it was supposed to do. Unfortunately, it did not do that well enough. The large tent was good, but I did not need that either, so I returned both to Academy Sports where I purchased them. Academy’s return policy is flexible and so I recommended using them as a spot to buy your gear.

Related to the tent were items in our sleep system. The nights we slept in the tents were not at all comfortable. The tent was too hot and our sleeping pads not comfortable. The sleeping pads I had gotten were the Klymit Static V. The Klymit has well over four thousand reviews on Amazon, with an average star rating of 4.5. However, I found the pad to be not thick enough.

Besides the pad, our pillows left a lot to be desired. Originally, I wanted to get a Therm-a-Rest compression pillow. Every review I read online or on YouTube listed the Therm-a-rest as the best travel pillow for camping. Unfortunately, the pillow was sold out everywhere. My substitute was a Wise Owl Camping pillow. It was not comfortable in the least.

I replaced the sleeping pad with the Sea to Summit Comfort Lite self-inflating pad and added one of their self-inflating pillows. I hoped this would fix my sleeping system.

Other items that I returned were camping cooking tables, chairs, and various car emergency car items. It was not much, as most of the gear I had bought was way past their return time limits. This is one tidbit of advice I would share. If buying off Amazon, thoroughly test what you buy as soon as you get it. If you dislike the items or are not working the way you need them to, you will then have enough time to return them.

I would also take the time to investigate any gear you need at local camping or extreme sports stores. There is one store locally that if I had gone to, I could have tried out tons of gear in the store before buying.

I’m able to return about a $1,000 dollars’ worth of items and somewhat make up for the wasted money spent on the Car/Bike Combo trip idea. Adjustments made, I repack and it's time to get back on the road.

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I've had what I consider a magical morning. Perhaps some would consider that hyperbole, but I have a romantic vision in my head on what this group should entail. The beginning days have been anything but what I imagined. The morning's ride has brought my trip mojo back.

My plan for the rest of the day is to check out the hotel, get brunch, and bike with David on the trail opposite from the blockage. We head out and I drive back over to Loveland. We spend an hour walking around the town and window shopping before getting an early lunch.

I am wearing my America #1 biking shirt. I wrapped my dreads in a gator emblazoned with an American flag. I leave no mystery to anyone passing by me on my allegiances. Several people compliment me or honk their horns as they pass me on the street, giving me the thumbs up. It is nice to be among super patriotic folk, ANNNDD as soon as I think the thought, a young kid in a van passes by me and screams, "YOU SUCK!"

I can only shrug while the people around me shake their heads.

David enjoys the town. I can tell because he is taking pictures everywhere and directing me toward stores he wants to walk into. It is like fool's gold though. His demeanor turns quiet and sullen when we leave, and I drive down lonely roads looking for a trailhead.

When I find one and park, David remains in the car when I exit. I can tell he is going to give me attitude and become determined to ignore it. I told him from the beginning, if he wanted to come with me, he was going to have to bike. I've spent well over two thousand dollars on his bike and the gear he would need for the trip. It will be used.

I tell him to get out of the car as I take the bikes off the car rack. He complies, sort of. David exits the car and walks several feet away and sits on a bench, arms folded. I'm getting aggravated and I snap a little too harshly when I tell him to put on his helmet.

David grumbles under his breath that he does not want to ride no bike paths and does not know why I want to. I tell him to get on the bike. "You wanted to come with me. You said, you were not staying home, so you knew we were going to do this. Stop being bratty. Come on."

In retrospect, I was not handling this in the right manner. My agenda was overriding my knowledge of my brother's condition and what that means when he is taken out of his routine. Routine is everything for individuals with mental disabilities. And while it is important to expand on and enlarge the range of activates in those routines, this was something different.

David knows how to ride a bike, but his insistent refusal to do so impaired that skill. A mile into the ride, he fell off the bike, after I told him to stop walking it. To me it looked like he was caught between trying to throw the bike down and getting on it.

As far as I was concerned, he was making himself fall and so I just told him to stop riding slow and started biking again. David followed; faster than before, but still slower than me. And no, I was not going too fast.

I started grumbling under my breath as I rode, fussing, as my grandmother would call it, to myself. Every few feet, I looked behind, hoping to see David closer to me than he ever was. My thoughts were on my annoyance, on David and if he was okay, and nowhere in the realm of peace, joy, or excitement, like in the morning. The underlying sense of adventure that undergirded my spirit in the morning was absent.

It took five miles for me to recognize all of this. When I did, it became obvious I needed to stop. Not just the ride, but the entire thing. There was no way I could traverse the country with David. He was too unwilling, and it would only get worse. I stopped pedaling and as if to hammer the point home, David arrived next to me with his face scrunched into an angry grimace before falling off the bike as he attempted to stop it.

This fall was more serious than any of the others. He did not hit his head or anything, but there was serious road rash on his arms and legs. Luckily, I had the first aid kit with me. I cleansed the scraps, sprayed them to numb the pain, and put bandages on them. Then I told David we were going home.

I hit the highway soon after getting back to the car. Orlando is roughly fourteen hours from Milford. I drove ten hours that day and was back in our apartment by the middle of the following day.

Our roles were not reversed. David was—if not happy—content and calm. He was back in the bubble I had created for him over the last thirteen years. Wow, it really has been that long since our mother died and I took over David's care.

I was the one pouting now. Angry and aggravated at the time wasted, money spent, and a goal seemingly out of reach.

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It's 5am and I'm wide awake. People close to me would raise in eyebrow in surprise. I am a vampire by nature and hate the rising dawn. But anticipation and adrenaline are providing a natural coffee high in my veins. I'm hitting the trail this morning, after much delay.

I dress quickly, minimizing the noise I create, but hoping the faint sounds will wake my brother. I am riding alone, but a small part of me still wants David to come with me. I hope he will hear me and rise to get dressed and follow me.

The thought is a fantasy. David does not stir. I whisper, "David, I'm going to the bike trail. I'll be back later."

He acknowledges me with a faint grunt and returns to dreamland.

The trailhead is only two miles from the hotel. I stop at Ms. Cheri's Donuts for a snack and coffee on my way there. The owner is busy putting all the morning's creations into the display case. I see all the familiar donut favorites; glazed, chocolate, frosted with sprinkles on top. I want something different from my go-to favorite glazed donuts and ask the owner, whom I presume to be Cheri, for her recommendation. She smiles and I cannot think of anything else. It is one of the best smiles I've ever seen. A side hustle in Crest commercials is something she would just slay.

She recommends the glazed croissants, and I grab three to go with my coffee. The recommendation is on point. The croissants are light and fluffy, and the sweetness of the glaze is primo. I wolf my three down in the car in short order and finish my coffee as I pull into the trailhead parking lot.

The sun peaks through the clouds as I hit the trail and then its lost behind the tunnel of trees along the paved bike path. The air is chill, and a faint fog lingers along the path. It does not take long before I see the glow of bike lights from other riders on the trail. I pass—or get passed—by every biker type you can think of. Seniors on bikes straight out of the 1950s, overly serious cyclists decked out in full racing gear on carbon fiber bikes, bike tourers with stuffed panniers, and casual riders like me.

I ride through wooded areas, past extensive fields planted with crops or clover, and see a total of six deer feeding along the edges of the trail. Sections of the trail snake past decades old homes looking down on the trail from atop hills. One house has an immense garden in front of it.

I exit the trail to go back and get a better look. The street adjacent to the trail has no shoulder. It is a textbook place for a car to hit a cyclist, so I rise on my pedals and book it down to the house I saw. I pull into the driveway, but do not linger. I take a quick glance, and then turn around. It is private property and I do not know how the owners would react to seeing a random person in the early morning standing in their yard. When I turn around, I see a no trespassing sign that I missed, confirming my good sense. I make a mental note to look on my way back and see if the owners are tootling around the garden. If they are, I will say hello.

The trail also goes through Loveland, Ohio. It is a charming small town with adventure shops, restaurants, and coffeehouses on either side of the trail. Every business in sight has signs welcoming cyclists. I realize the path is a primary conduit to commerce for the town. I make a mental note to drive to it later for lunch.

I check my phone for the time when I reach the blockade. I've been riding for a little over an hour. It feels like a half hour. As I suspected it would be, the ride is a tease; a mere glimpse of what I am hoping to experience for the rest of the trip. I turn around and zip down the path. My spirit lifted above the treetops.

I glance to my left when I reach the street, I exited the trail from earlier in the morning. As luck would have it, I see a man walking his dog and headed toward his mailbox. It is the owner of the home with the garden, and true to my promise I turn around, hit the street again, and head over to him.

I introduce myself and compliment him on his garden. He is a little standoffish but shakes my hand before asking if I have ID on me. Without a second thought, I pull out my wallet and show him it. Surprise appears on his face, and I find out it's because bikers always stop at his house. None ever have ID on their person, and unfortunately many have just walked into his garden and helped themselves to some veggies.

I am shocked at the revelation. In the short time I have been engaging with the biking community, I expected better behavior and manners. My openness and honesty-his words-melts away his wariness. He tells me to come on and inspect what he has growing.

Tom has been living in the house for fifty years. He has had a garden the entire time. Right now, it is filled with broccoli, tomatoes, kale, potatoes and carrots. We walk around the garden talking and I tell him about the community gardens I'm a member of back home. I show some pictures of them I have on my phone. I point to a few carrots with their tops just crowning about the soil and say "Looks like you got some ready. Better get them before any more rude cyclists show up."

He chuckles but responds, "It's this dog I have to worry about. He loves them."

Tom pulls a few from the ground. He throws two toward his dog, Dutch, and true to his word the dog chomps on them. Then he walks over to his hose, rinses off two carrots and hands them to me. Thanking him, I bite into one. Its crisp, and crunchy on a level never found in grocery stores.

Speaking to Tom was awesome and validated what I hoped to find in the heartland. Sure, I know many people, even those of good intent, would find a demand for photo ID a little off-putting. But, hey I'm a random dude showing up in front of his house at 730 am.

I'm in high spirits when I get back to the hotel. I have just experienced a morning full of what I hoped to experience in the next several weeks. Gorgeous views, fresh air, and strangers turned into friendly acquaintances.

I'm at a high point in the trip so far, but it soon turned into a diving board that cracked in two, sending me to the water below.

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It only takes three hours to reach Milford, Ohio from Owensboro. The drive is everything I love (cue sarcasm) lots of bridges over water, big hills that keep you from seeing beyond them and plenty of ravines on either side of the highway. Seriously, I cannot for the life of me understand why the transportation authority thought having inclines guaranteed to make a car flip over if it goes off the highway was smart.

Once again, it’s raining. It has been stalking our trip from the moment we entered Mobile. Every day, I look at the weather map and see a green glob hovering over wherever I’m driving. Slick highways and roads are just what you look forward to when driving over bridges with other drivers still motoring at eighty miles per hour.

More than once, I think to myself, I’m a total flatlander. I like my roads with nothing more than the occasional retention pond. I keep my grip at ten and two o’clock and slow down anytime a bridge appears. I am sure I’m the favorite guest to the highway party for the cars behind me.

An hour into the drive, my worst nightmare comes true. There is a problem with the car. My air conditioning is blowing lukewarm air. A car repair four states from your home is not what the doctor ordered. It is not something I can just ignore. We’re 150 miles from a hotel on a cross-country trip in 90-degree weather. Rolling down the window does nothing as David points out more than once. I must get it fixed and I have no way to locate a shop that won’t ream my wallet over.

Hoping its just low coolant, I pull off and stop at the first shop I see, Center Street Service. The shop is bustling, and the service manager gives me a dubious look when I ask if he can look at the car asap. There are several cars ahead of me. I explain my situation and describe the purpose and nature of my trip. I’m blatantly trying to appeal to either his patriotic side or pity for a cross country traveler.

The ploy works. He squeezes me in and I’m back on the road in two hours. The issue was only low coolant. I’m topped off with a cost below two hundred dollars.

We make it to Milford later than expected, but with enough time to explore the area. The first thing I do is visit the local bike shop, Bishop’s Bicycles, to find out the location for the Ohio to Erie trailhead. The trail is part of the Great American Rail Trail and the Underground Railroad route.

The state of Ohio plays an important part in the journey of escaped slaves. Ohio marked the beginning point where escapees could, if not relax, certainly breathe easier. Posse’s chasing or looking for them did not continue into Ohio in mass numbers, and the number of safe houses and abolitionists increased. They were not safe yet, but they were safer. This is one aspect of American history I do not think gets enough attention or credit.

The underground railroad could not exist, but for the help of white Americans that did not agree with slavery. A safe house was not just a home or location hidden from view. It included places; slavers would not think to look for a slave. In the movie biopic, Harriet, there is a scene where she hides in the wagon of a Mennonite. In the scene it is quite obvious the white owner of the wagon knows Harriet Tubman is there, but he lets her hide. It’s a subtle scene, designed for the film to show there were white Americans who had no use for slavery.

The Ohio to Erie trail in total is 272 miles. Fifty miles of it is on the Underground route from Milford to Xenia. My goal is to ride the fifty miles, but I’m dubious about my brother. Nothing has gone well on that front thus far. Still, it is the first time we have reached a proper trail. A small wrinkle is thrown into my plan immediately when a local resident on the trail alerts me to a blocked off section. Construction is being done about 11 miles down the trail. Rolling with the punch, I decide I will ride the 11 miles on my own in the morning, then skip ahead and ride with David later in the day.

Trail head located, David and I spend the rest of the day exploring Milford.

Whatever picture you have in your mind for Main Street, small town Americana; Milford fits the picture. I freaking love this town. Walking down Main Street, the shops are eclectic and charming. There is not a single chain store in sight.

The homes in the surrounding neighborhood are what I like to call normal houses. Homes that are two stories and have actual yards around them. I love my resident state of Florida, but two feet between houses and pools in back are not yards. If you do not have a riding lawn mower in Milford, you’re in for a long day in the summer heat cutting grass.

Store fronts and homes display the American flag. There is even a kid’s bike decorated to hilt in red, white, and blue in front of a bank. It is what I hoped to see on my trip. Little did I know that the news was raging at that moment with comments from a quite successful recipient of all America offers, calling the flag “problematic.” I have an entry here about that.

David and I take pictures of everything we can. We do not have any idea what might be considered great photo material, I’m just trying to get snapshots that show the feel of the town. David is taking pictures of anything he finds interesting. Sometimes that’s a picture on a wall. Other times it is a cute girl.

Unfortunately, I take too long to download the photo’s he took on his phone and David deletes them. I must move quick with this boy, and I wonder why I bothered getting him a phone with 128 gigs of memory. He doesn’t save a damn thing on his phone.

We wander for an hour or two before getting dinner at a restaurant named Padrino’s. The food is great and staff friendly. No one is overtly shocked by my trip. They are used to bikers and tourers.

Despite the emergency and unanticipated repair expense it is a good day. It is what I imagined the trip could be. It is good to receive this ray of sunshine, because day six would see David rain on my parade.

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