The Spirit of the Ride: Why America Still Moves Us
Some journeys begin as ideas—a notion in your mind that won’t leave. Others spring from a book you read, a conversation with a friend, or a news story. The idea of riding across the country came to me from an article about the Great American Rail Trail—a fully connected 3,750-mile path stretching across the United States.
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.