Adventure Cycling Association

Pedaler’s Pub, as its name suggests, is an unapologetic hub for cyclists. The Bentonville, Arkansas, eatery’s pizzas boast names like the Fixie, Singlespeed, and Derailer. A chandelier fabricated from old GT mountain bike frames hangs above the bar. But on January 19, 2026, just as the restaurant was closing for the night, area cyclists were drawn in for more than just the carbs.

At a quarter after 6 PM, Justin Allen stepped to a microphone and told the 50-odd-person audience how his young daughter, Dovie, had been hit by a truck the previous fall. She’d been thrown roughly 75 feet and was unconscious for about four and a half minutes. “That’s her right there,” he said, pointing to a 12-year-old girl at the back of the room. Her family was incredibly grateful that she was OK, but they also knew they had a decision to make.

“You have a choice of how you handle that and what you do with it,” Allen said. “And we decided to turn it into advocacy work. Because it was a moment when I thought, My daughter may not be with me for the rest of my life.”

The gathering — the first official meeting of The White Line nonprofit’s Arkansas Chapter — was a direct result of that decision. Getting here, however, wasn’t a simple matter of riding from point A to point B. Alphabetically speaking, the Allens had passed many, many more letters as they’d tried to navigate the system, first seeking answers and an opportunity to tell their story, later broadening their focus to both educating drivers and holding them accountable for their actions.

This would be no small challenge in a state that, by some metrics — including a 50th ranking from The White Line — is among the worst in the nation for driver accountability, the laws and regulations holding negligent motorists legally, financially, and criminally responsible for harming cyclists or other road users.

Shortly after Dovie’s accident, the Allens connected with Paige Onweller, a local professional cyclist who had her own near-death experience in June 2025 when she swerved to avoid a head-on collision with a van driving on the wrong side of a gravel road. Together, they began to realize that their corner of Northwest Arkansas, despite its self-proclaimed status as the Mountain Biking Capital of the World, had been prioritizing tourism and hospitality over cyclist safety. That’s when they began asking themselves, What difference can we make?

First, they hosted an open house in November 2025 to simply bring the cycling community together. Sharing their stories with the roughly 100-person audience — and hearing similar stories from others — galvanized Onweller’s and the Allens’ resolve. So, when the meeting was over, they asked another question: How could they be more effective with their advocacy? While there were plenty of cycling nonprofits in the area, none of them focused on driver accountability and cyclists’ rights. They decided they would.

It wasn’t long before the group realized the enormity of the task they’d taken on. Everything about their experiences — the fact that the motorist who’d ran Onweller off the road didn’t even receive a citation; that the 911 operator hadn’t known to ask whether the Allens’ daughter was unresponsive — pointed to a suite of deep-rooted system-wide issues, none of which would be an easy fix. But as daunting as that was, the group realized something else: They wouldn’t have to go it alone.

First, they found legal counsel in local lawyer and cyclist Paul Anderson. Next, they looked outside the state for advocates who’d been successful in advancing legislation and education for both cyclists and motorists. In mid-November, they began speaking with Megan Hottman, a Colorado-based attorney who helped them refine their mission. Then, they met with local law enforcement and city leadership across Northwest Arkansas to build rapport and identify where the gaps in law and education lay. One conversation led to another, and eventually the group contacted The White Line. The Colorado-based nonprofit, founded in 2023 to eliminate preventable road deaths of cyclists and pedestrians, was launching state chapters to help spread the advocacy it was doing nationally.

That connection eventually led to the inaugural meeting of The White Line’s Arkansas Chapter. On that January evening, The White Line founder Michael White addressed the crowd after an introduction by Allen. Photos of his son were projected onto a screen as he told how Magnus had been killed while riding his bike on July 29, 2023. He was 17 years old.

Much like the Allens in Arkansas, Magnus’ family had also found themselves at a loss for what to do next. “When you get hit, nobody knows what to do,” White said. “There’s no guidebook for what the steps are or who you should be talking to.”

Within six months of Magnus’s death, the Whites had founded their nonprofit. They’d started by telling their son’s story but soon realized that lawmakers were only interested in stories if there was data to back those stories up. So, they started accumulating that data. And when it became clear that lawmakers were only interested in change if there was a critical mass of voices speaking as one, The White Line developed a web feature to help cyclists generate letters to members of Congress. Then, the organization shared the tools it had developed and the lessons it had learned so that others wouldn’t have to reinvent the wheel.

Even still, that night at Pedaler’s Pub, White was candid about the work ahead. The people in that room would need to pair up with other interest groups, spend time at the state capitol, get a lobbyist, tell their stories, and gather data.

“Everything we’re doing in Colorado is a blueprint for you here,” White said. And there was reason to think it could work: Roughly a month after that meeting, Representatives Yvette D. Clarke (NY-09) and Joe Neguse (CO-02) introduced the Magnus White and Safe Streets for Everyone Act of 2026 to Congress. If passed, the bill would require all new cars sold in America to be equipped with advanced Automatic Emergency Braking systems capable of detecting bicyclists, motorcyclists, and other vulnerable road users.

Even if that happens, implementation is undoubtedly still a long way off. But as that evening came to a close in Arkansas, at least, it felt like there was a path forward. That when this group and others worked together, there was nothing they could not do.

SETTING THE WRONG RECORDS

Why cycling advocacy is more important than ever

Not quite a decade ago, people started to pay attention to a certain number again.

In 2019, a National Highway Traffic Safety Administration (NHTSA) annual report found that 857 cyclists had been killed the year prior. That marked the highest number seen since 1990. But it shouldn’t have come as a surprise. While cyclist deaths had steadily fallen between 1975 and 2010, they’ve been on the rise in the years since. In looking for answers as to why cyclists were once again being killed in record numbers, some pointed to the rise in popularity of “light trucks,” a category which includes SUVs and is responsible for 50 percent more cyclist deaths than trucks or vans. Others pointed to the rise of smart phones and distracted drivers. Then there’s the fact that Americans are driving more — and faster — than ever before.

But for all of that hand-wringing, the number kept rising. In 2020, the NHTSA reported 942 deaths. It grew to 971 in 2021. Then, 1,096 in 2022 (thanks in part to motorized bicycle riders being reclassified as pedalcyclists instead of motorcyclists), and 1,155 — 150 more than the highest figure in 50 years — in 2023. As this story prepared to go to print, the NHTSA reported that 2024 saw a modest decline with 1,103 documented fatalities. But they are not just numbers. And we owe them a debt to do better.

FIND A LIST of Adventure Cycling-vetted advocacy initiatives, including the Magnus White and Safe Streets for Everyone Act, at adventurecycling.org/take-action