Biking Across America
I built a connection with my bike, it was my vessel for adventure, my life on two wheels. I spent 49 days on the bike saddle pedaling through the continental United States seeing unbelievable landscapes and meeting the most inspiring people. It occurred to me that I trusted this inanimate object with my life, it carried all my essentials; food, water, and shelter. How did it carry these things? What more can I ask for?
Packing up after a night behind a gas station in Montana.
When I was asked to be a part of this project the obvious answer was yes. Ignorance is bliss they say, as all my worries were shielded by the fact I got to ride my bike for 49 days with two good friends. I honestly had no expectations of this trip, I prepped my bike as much as possible doing plenty of research three weeks prior. All I knew was that it was probably going to be pretty damn hard. Man was I right.
We started in Seaside, New Jersey with our rear wheels touching the Atlantic with the plan to reach the Pacific Ocean. It was simple, ride your bike.
Start of the trip, Seaside, New Jersey.
In theory, it really was simple, eat, ride, sleep, repeat. The minor details included; flat tires, broken spokes, chickens, evil dogs, big trucks, navigation issues, racist assholes, headwinds, scary roads, mountain passes, heatwaves, storms, headwinds, headwinds, and more headwinds. The list goes on.
I want to mention that my bike held up the most, I had no flats, my wheels were true, and my gears shifted fine after a couple of indexes. My bike is a superior 4000-mile beast.
My bike still stands with no issue, Oceanside, Oregon.
As we biked westward we realized that every day was going to present its problem. Day by day we said, as we pushed past our physical and mental barriers. It was a saying for us to acknowledge the challenges and a way to keep us grounded and humbled by life on the road. It’s easy to have a positive day when everything is perfect, but a testament to the mind to stay positive when things go wrong.
As the weakest biker of the group, I lagged behind some days struggling to keep pace with my friends 2 miles ahead. I felt terrible at times, feeling super negative and blaming them for leaving me. It wasn’t a mindset I was particularly proud of. It’s draining, the energy I needed to put those damn pedals to the ground went straight through me, disappearing in thin air. I realized it’s easy to have a scapegoat, to take the responsibility off of you. I didn’t feel any better. I knew it was wrong, I knew that it was my fault, and I knew I had to stop feeling this way. But how?
I specifically remember biking through eastern Montana. We were hit with two heat waves that surged temperatures to reach 115 degrees, impossible to bike in, let alone be outside. It felt like someone blew a hair dryer in your face on high, my brain felt like it was melting. My eyes stung with the sweat that fell from my brows, as for the sweat that made it to the ground it would turn to dust. Sizzling on the asphalt was our pee that didn’t even leave a stream. Never again would I want to bike through that.
The film I brought was stored in a black external bag strapped onto my bike. During the heatwaves, some of my films were affected by the heat, creating this weird red haze.
Crazy mountains in Montana.
With stretches of gas stations 100 miles apart we were left to strategize the grueling headwinds, the heatwaves, and the long climbs. Our only option was to take US route 212 the fastest course, leading us straight to Missoula, Montana home of Adventure Cycling. We had to beat the sun, waking up at three am and biking seven hours straight in the dark with no breaks until we reach the next gas station. From there the sun was peaking with unbearable heat, leaving us to sit in a gas station until the sunset. For four days straight we sat in different gas stations for eight hours allowing ourselves to escape the sun relaxing and refueling with soda and candy.
Three am wake up time, todays high of 116 degrees.
My favorite was the soda guessing game. As a quick way to get simple sugars and carbs, Fran would make a concoction of sodas and have me guess the drink. I was pretty good at it; distinct hints of cherry from Dr. Pepper, or the ginger from the ginger ale was a make or break to guess the elixir. Fun, easy, and definitely disgusting.
The gas station managers were always very kind offering their air conditioning and allowing us to stay in their shop until sunset. They cared for us, and in return, we would help them close the shop by mopping the floors or taking out the trash. It was just a sign of respect, human reciprocation, the least we could do. I really enjoyed these intimate moments.
Jessica gas station manager in Montana. She let us stay in her gas station for a couple of hours and made us food.
It was interesting. We met a bunch of people who had a lot of questions and a lot of opinions. On the fourth day of the heatwave, we sat in a Sunoco in Broadus, Montana. We watched as local rancheros came by to get their daily cup of joe and reconnect with friends playing card games on the table. Terribly loud motorcycles would park their bikes near the large glass windows we sat by. We sat in silence on these old-fashioned benches trying to find the best sleep position. Buzzes of big ol’ flies would whizz by your head landing on your face as you try and catch up on last night’s sleep.
Drinking soda with the locals.
I would be lying if I didn’t get weird stares, perhaps my tight bike clothes, or maybe my skin color. They were curious as to know why we were biking and where we were headed next. We had the same response, 20 days of media training on the road allowed us to be short and quick. “Just for fun,” we said.
It was just for fun. Sometimes I would feel bad for having too much fun, back home where my friends are working a 9-5 internship busting their ass to find an adult job. It seemed they had a purpose, a life goal, something I lacked. I just was having fun.
Western edge of Badlands, South Dakota.
Some random casino in the middle of nowhere. We had to escape the heat somehow.
Our plan was to continue west on Route 212, where it narrowed into a single-lane trucking road with no shoulder. Definitely not a bike-friendly situation. It was our only choice though, as the other option takes us 100 miles north with no refill stations in the heat, tacking on an extra two days. The rancheros told us it was a bad idea to go west. It will only lead to trouble they said, referring to the two Indigenous reservations we would have to pass. “Thieves, kidnappers, ruthless no good people.”
For a second, I was nervous. The bike trip was successful so far, bringing us over halfway across the country. The last thing I wanted to hear was my bike getting stolen. Consciously I knew this was wrong, it had to be wrong. Is it not suspicious that a group of white men telling me that indigenous people are criminals? Has this happened before? Flashbacks of people telling me going to Temple University was a bad idea, “Dangerous criminals” they said. Who the hell were they talking about? It felt like the same white men explaining the benefits of a brand new sports stadium to replace the multigenerational community of Chinatown. A transgression against my Chinese background. It was wrong. I was enraged.
Repressive white men.
Going against their orders, we slipped by their warnings with an open mind and an open heart.
Our next stop was 81 miles away from Broadus in a small town called Busby, Montana. Again, we biked on open roads. The constant wind in your face was excruciatingly painful, it was such a mental battle. For me, it drove me crazy. I would let out a desperate scream, to only have the wind turn it into a whisper. It traveled eastward for no one to hear.
We rode 45 miles to Ashland a border town of the reservation and stopped at a little house off the road. It had a sign, “Roxy’s Cafe.” We rang the bell next to the small window where an older brown-skinned lady with beautiful gray and brown braids poked her head out. She handed out menus and my eyes immediately beamed as I saw the breakfast burrito option. We gave our orders and 10 minutes later I was holding a beautiful silver baby, waiting to be unwrapped and demolished. It was really nice to have a warm meal, I appreciated it. Eating beans and peanut butter tortillas got old quickly.
Roxy in her little window.
After a nice talk with Roxy, it was time to leave to finish what we started for the day.
We biked through two towns on the reservation named Lame Deer, and Muddy crossing two large mountain passes that extended over Montana. It was our first major mountain pass climb. The west coast mountain passes were oddly pleasant compared to the short and punchy East coast hills. Climbs consisted of low percent gradients allowing us to find a really good rhythm with our legs. It was a good burn.
After an exhausting day, we reached Busby, Montana a small little community with a population of 600 people. Morale was low, with no gas stations in sight to refill, just houses and yards. Rolling grassy hills filled the horizon, it was really quiet. We biked around the neighborhood trying to find a well or a hose, desperate for water. Unsure of any water source, we had to find a place to sleep.
Rolling grassy hills, middle of the US
In our last scavenge for water, a man in the distance beckons us over. The sun set behind him, surrounding him with a warm glowing aura, like an angel sent from the heavens. We biked over to him, and standing in front of us was a large brown man, with long hair, wearing a red t-shirt and some basketball shorts. His eyes were slanted, covered by his square glasses, and he had a kind face. We had a small introduction before he immediately invited us into the rec center, allowing us to refill our waters at the water fountains, and giving us a place to shower. I don’t remember the last time we showered, I was so used to our stench, we didn’t even smell bad. At that very moment I felt gratitude, I was so grateful for his immediate hospitality, inviting us in without a second thought. He allowed us to relax, and clean ourselves before having a conversation.
An angel.
Inside the rec center filling up our water, and brushing our teeth.
In the rec center were about 20 kids ranging from 5-16 years old playing basketball on the wooden courts inside the gym. Above the doorway to the entrance of the gym said “Home of the Eagles,” a symbol of strength, and bravery.
Entrance to the gym.
We cleaned ourselves in the bathroom where we showered, brushed our teeth, and washed some clothes. I remember the brown soapy water falling from my body. It felt so good to take a cold shower after some hot days in the sun, the water rejuvenated my dry sun-baked skin. We left the bathroom with a big smile.
The man we met was Jace Killsback, former Northern Cheyenne President. He is one of the directors of the after-school programs to provide students with a way to escape rough home life through exercise and sports. Jace is one of the most real people I have ever met, he studied at the University of California, Berkeley receiving a degree in Native American Studies. Post college he felt a calling to his people and eventually came back to the reservation to grow and foster community, first through the younger generation. We talked about his younger days on the reservation growing up as a 2nd generation Chinese immigrant and his struggle with racism. The proudness of his ability to count to ten in Cantonese was amusing and inspiring.
The conversation we had with Jace outside the rec center was authentic, it was brute honesty. He briefly explained the history of his people. They are known as the warrior tribe, fighting countless battles against the U.S. army losing many people in war, but also achieving bloody victories over their white oppressors. Again, the Northern Cheyenne are still fighting to this day; two years ago when the Trump administration tried to establish mining operations on their land without the tribe’s permission, lawsuits were set against the feds, and again they won. It’s not easy to win, but their strong will is inspiring. To this day they struggle with the everlasting effects of colonization, contributing to their extremely impoverished communities. Their struggle to escape the vicious cycle of abuse, drug usage, and alcoholism is detrimental to their well-being. The lack of resources and funding to provide for community infrastructure is terrible, simple things like a gym for people to work out in doesn’t exist. After-school programs for kids are a way for them to escape abusive home life, a way to exercise, and a way to learn how to work with others.
Jace Killsback.
I wasn’t sure what to say to Jace, I was left speechless, holding back tears. I was flushed, overwhelmed, and emotional to say the least. “Is there anything we could do,” I asked, uneasy if there is anything I could do. Jace said that they don’t need another white savior referring to the missionaries that tried to destroy their culture for the better of America. It hit me, I couldn’t hold back the tears any longer, I am not sure when the last time I cried was. I couldn’t stand to hear the beautiful kids that we just met were being abused at home, it just didn’t make sense. My anxieties about biking across America have washed away, there is no way in hell that I could be negative in any sort after hearing what Jace said. It’s not comparable, I am not struggling.
Jace left us to go home to cook dinner and to spend time with family. He allowed us to camp on this open piece of grass outside the recreation center. He informed the security that we were there and that it was okay.
From there we set up camp, all three of us in silence, taking everything he said, absorbing it all. We slept to the buzzes of mosquitos outside our tent and the nice breeze that gently cooled us down.
Setting up camp outside the recreation center.
The days that followed meeting Jace were fine, it was the same old biking across America. 70 miles days were ahead of us with 20 days left and definitely counting. We biked crossing the Western Continental Divide through the western part of Montana. It got more beautiful moving west, trees started to appear I never realized how much I missed seeing green. The air was fresh and the breeze was nice, it was a good change from the high desert regions we were in.
At the very top of the continental divide, we ran into a race called the Butte 100, a hardcore endurance-style mountain bike race. They were finishing up cleaning the tents and giving out food and drinks to the racers. I will say it was pretty good timing. Nothing like feeding your malnourished body with some beer at a high altitude, did I mention we were dehydrated too. Nonetheless, we got our calories and a few laughs in.
We might have been a little bit drunk. I don’t remember.
Before we stepped into Idaho we picked up a straggler named Won Young whose goal was to also bike across America to the very same destination we were heading. What a character, I’ve never seen someone with so much tenacity and will. His bike was a piece of garbage, everything was improperly loaded. He carried 10 hats with him collecting them through the different states he biked through. The lack of space on his bike forced him to carry his groceries in plastic bags that would swing from his handlebars. What a gnarly guy.
10 days were left to reach the coastal beaches of Oregon, it was probably the slowest week of my life. The trip never really got easier, the winds never died down, and the roads never really got better. Our attitude was definitely strong, we were used to things never going the way we planned. We reached Portland, Oregon where the bike lanes were in pristine condition. It was bike central, I felt safe, and it made me wonder why cities don’t build around bikes. In Portland we got sushi in a revolving sushi café, I racked up a hefty bill myself, but I would say it was worth it.
Although, itching to reach the coast, the ride there was magical. We biked on a path that took us through the dense old-growth forests, with rivers and waterfalls every 20 miles.
Fast forward, to our last day, it was 20 miles to the coast. Should be easy, 20 miles is nothing. Why would we ever say that? For some odd reason, it was not downhill to the coast, in fact, it was quite the opposite. Hill after hill we climbed and descended, we finally smelled the salty air and saw the dark blue water. Mark screamed, it was pure joy. We descended in fact the very last hill to reach the sandy beach of Seaside. We jumped off our bikes, pushed and trudged our bikes to the water, and touched the front wheel in the Pacific Ocean.
It was over. We biked across America.
