Three Inspirational Bike Tours, One Lesson: Just Ride
For more than a year, our Adventure Cycling Is Everywhere storytelling campaign has invited cyclists to share the rides that challenged them, changed them, or stayed with them long after they returned home.
And the submissions have kept coming. This batch covers three very different trips: a cold, wet solo ride from Seattle to St. Paul, a seven-day inn-to-inn tour on Missouri’s Katy Trail, and a two-week trip through the Northeast with a family support crew.
Stories like these are made possible by routes that get riders out the door. For 50 years, Adventure Cycling has helped people hit the road with the maps, know-how, and support they need to ride with confidence. A year-end gift keeps that work going, so the next great bike travel story can start with you.
Doubt: A Cold, Wet Start from Seattle to St. Paul
Dan Taflin
“Difficulties are part of every adventure. Otherwise they wouldn’t be adventures; they would be carefully managed experiences, with minimal risk and guaranteed payoffs.”
It was 42 degrees, rain was falling heavily, and I was laboring uphill along a busy highway into a strong headwind. My hands, soaking wet in light fingerless gloves, were so numb I could no longer squeeze the water bottle. I was still in the first week of my long-planned Seattle-to-St. Paul bicycle ride, and I was beginning to question the whole idea.
I had felt a strange mix of trepidation, guilt, and excitement when I kissed my wife goodbye six days earlier. I was not new to bicycle touring. Fifty years earlier, I had completed my first multiday, self-supported ride, and I had done dozens more since. But this was different: It was five times farther than I’d ever gone before. I was also biking alone and was not yet following a designated route.
We were experiencing a long, cold spring in the Pacific Northwest. I left on June 8, but I still encountered patches of snow on the first mountain pass. I was prepared for cold and for the wet, but I learned on Day Six that I was not adequately prepared for cold and wet.
The day before, in LaCrosse, Washington, I had felt strong after covering 64 miles and decided I could make it another 28 miles southeast to camp at Klemgard Park. Unfortunately, I relied on Google and Komoot to pick my route. Both said Musgrave Road was the way to go. It was a big mistake. It had rained recently, and the unpaved road had been transformed into impenetrable mud. The bike squinched to a stop after 30 feet. I had no choice but to continue on to Colfax, Washington, much farther north than I had intended, and I barely outraced a powerful thunderstorm getting there.
The forecast was terrible, but I didn’t take a day off. The next morning, I embarked on the worst day of the trip and finally limped into Pullman, Washington, after covering only 17 miles. That evening, in a hotel with the thermostat set to 80 degrees and my wet clothes hanging everywhere, I ate a microwaved chicken pot pie and asked myself: Should I quit? I had told myself at the beginning that I wasn’t trying to prove anything, and that there would be no shame in cutting it short. That night was the closest I came.
How do you decide whether the difficulties outweigh the payoffs? I honestly don’t remember how I decided to continue. My trip journal, which recorded the question, was silent on the answer. At any rate, I packed up my washed and dried clothes and set off for Lewiston, Idaho. After a couple of strenuous but peaceful hours heading west into the wind, I turned south, and the wind became friend instead of foe. I set up camp at Hells Gate State Park in much better spirits.
After joining Adventure Cycling’s Lewis & Clark Bicycle Trail, I started meeting other cross-country riders, and I encountered no more impassable barriers.
I made it to St. Paul more or less on schedule, and I learned a few lessons along the way:
- Plan to finish early enough in the day so you can respond to unexpected difficulties.
- Don’t trust Google or Komoot.
- It’s OK to take a day off now and then.
- Trust Adventure Cycling routes.
There’s freedom in allowing yourself to adjust the itinerary on the fly. It frees you to make the best decision at any time, rather than sticking to a faulty plan at all costs. That may have been the most valuable lesson of all.
Renewal: Seven Days on Missouri’s Katy Trail
Geraldina Visconti
“The Katy Trail carried me further than the miles.”
When I set out on my first unsupported, inn-to-inn bike tour on Missouri’s Katy Trail, I didn’t imagine it would rank among the most transformative experiences of my life. Over seven days, I rode 253 miles, counting the miles to and from the trail and my lodging. What began as just another adventure became, before I’d even left my hometown, a journey of patience, flexibility, resilience, and renewal.
Everyone approaches the trail differently, but for me, the clichés held true: Live in the moment, and it’s the journey, not the destination. The rhythm of pedaling and the crunch of gravel beneath my tires were calming, even meditative.
Miles of gravel turned into miles of simplicity. (When all was said and done, what stuff did I really need?) They turned into miles of gratitude and appreciation, miles of endurance, miles of clarity and confidence, and miles of pure, unadulterated joy.
In addition to a deep sense of accomplishment, I guess you could say the Katy Trail carried me further than the miles, as each mile and trailhead left me feeling lighter, stronger, and freer.
Grit: Bar Harbor to Buffalo with a Family Support Crew
Ned Donnelly
“I did this trip my way, warts and all, and I had a great time doing it.”
As many with full-time jobs know, taking up to three months off to do an entire cross-country bike trip is difficult … if not impossible. Getting that much time off work wasn’t in the cards for me, so I pivoted to breaking a transcontinental route into three parts.
Starting in the Northeast, I used Adventure Cycling’s Northern Tier route as a guide to cross Maine, New Hampshire, Vermont, and Upstate New York. In late August 2025, my parents, Lu and EJ, and I drove from Pittsburgh to Bar Harbor, Maine, where I set out to ride roughly 750 miles over 14 days. In an effort to help, and only a little because they feared for my safety, my parents acted as SAG. They booked hotels (yes, the three of us shared a room), met me along the trail with food and water, and tracked me in case of any issues. It became clear on the very first day that I couldn’t have completed this trip without them.
I learned some hard lessons. First and foremost, get your bike fit right before you leave. I started riding with a different seatpost than I was used to, and the seat height was off, leading to an almost immediate saddle sore. I also planned to get 80 percent of my elevation out of the way in the first four days. Front-loading the climbing while my legs were strong was the right idea, but this was my longest trip to date, and I wasn’t sure I could make it the whole way.
As soon as I put wheels to pavement in Bar Harbor, something clicked — the trip had started, and I just rode. That’s not to say I was a peach to be around. The first three days were hot, and I kept running out of water. In New Hampshire and Vermont, the trails tended to be poorly maintained doubletrack and, in some cases, didn’t exist at all, leading to reroutes and extra miles. But that’s all part of the adventure. Day Eight began in Troy, New York, and marked the start of the Erie Canalway Trail. It was wonderful. Little did I know (cue ominous music), there’s a reason most people ride this trail west to east. Starting on Day 11, when I rounded Rome, New York, and headed almost due west to Buffalo, I rode into a headwind for four days straight. I should have realized sooner that every single person I saw bike tripping was heading the other direction.
The worst of my trail misadventures came on Day 12, between Syracuse and Palmyra. The GPS wanted me to go one way. The signage was sending me another. I followed the GPS (cue ominous music again). I should have turned around when I saw the dead-end signs. I should have turned around at the train tracks and the unrideable gravel path. I should have turned around at the rickety old bridge and the active construction zone. Did I turn around? I did not. Luckily, the construction workers were on their lunch break, and I walked through their job site with no issues other than the mud.
When I arrived at the Buffalo and Erie County Naval & Military Park on the bank of the Buffalo River, my final totals were 14 days of riding, 736 miles, and 21,531 feet of elevation gain.
Some might say this isn’t a true bike trip without camping or because I accepted rides, but it was mine. I did it my way, warts and all, and I had a great time doing it. My main advice is to do hard things. Not everything goes to plan, and it sure didn’t on this one, but I came out of it with a real sense of achievement.
For Part Two, I took the hint and planned to ride west to east from Madison, Wisconsin, to Buffalo.
Do you have a bike travel story of your own? Adventure Cycling Is Everywhere accepts stories, photos, and short videos on a rolling basis, and we feature new submissions on our blog, social media, and in Adventure Cyclist magazine.
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