Notes from America’s Roadbed

I effectively live in a one-company town. Bentonville, Arkansas, is what it is because of Walmart and Sam Walton. It’s the reason vendors have set up shop in town. It, and the money that has come from it, are the core reason behind the city’s explosive growth. So it’s been rather illuminating to bike through the boom and bust towns in the West and Midwest—where a city’s growth and success was tied to one railroad line, one gold mine, or a single natural resource or crop.

Interviews from the Road is a series of excerpts from conversations I've had with people along my route. We’ve been talking about what it mean to be American in 2026 and where they feel the country is headed, but also their stories and passions, how they fell in love or got their dream jobs, how they’ve coped with tragedy and loss, the best advice they’ve ever received. The interviews were all recorded with permission, and I have only excerpted portions of them for brevity.

I’ve been trying to write for a couple of days, but the words don’t always come so easy. This journey has been transformative—the adventure of a lifetime, a lesson in humanity, a test of my own willpower and strength. But some days are not as poetic as they are brutal. Today I cried on the side of the road—twice. The heat index was 114 degrees, and, as I rolled out at 5:45am this morning, the humidity was already 92%. I’m wrestling with dehydration and headaches and overheating.

It all started with a detour. I’d been planning a shakeout ride this past weekend for a few weeks—a one-night bikepacking adventure through the Ozark National Forest to test the gear setup I've been tweaking for months on some serious paved and gravel ascents. It was all planned out: a there-and-back gravel route on part of the “Tour de Ozarks” that ascends through the Boston Mountains.

I’ve found this enormous marketing shift to social media—via influencers and free stuff—to be rather annoying. It’s actually become rather difficult to find honest opinions about products or travel recommendations. I’m inundated by reviews of luxury hotels from people who have never paid for their room, and therefore can’t tell me whether their one-night stay in a mountain-view lodge was worth a month of my paychecks.

When you are in pain. When you still have another 1,000 feet to climb. When your breath is caught in your throat. When your water bottle has run dry. When all you have left is to keep pushing, keep struggling, keep pedaling up the hill. So that you can sleep on a pad on the ground. So you can add water to some instant mashed potatoes. So you can try to stretch, to eat, to drink, to recover so you can do it again the next day. You realize what you want because you want it, need it.

In about a month and a half, I’ll be hopping on a plane to Portland, so I can start pedaling east across the country. There’s so much to do before then, and I’m taking it one day at a time. The checklist ranges from mundane to meaningful: quit my job, cancel Netflix, replace tires, figure out health insurance, get new contact lenses, say goodbyes. Notes from America’s Roadbed is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.

All my gear for 2.5 months laid out in the backyard. It’s time to talk about gear. Gear is a personal, ever-constant juggling act of sacrifice. Sure, one extra shirt would be nice, but every ounce makes climbing a little harder. My bike lock is going to feel heavy after a few hundred miles—but I’ll never be able to relax if I’m worried about someone snatching everything I own when I run into a cafe for three minutes for a snack. Every ounce is a tradeoff between comfort and weight, and it’s not easy.

I wish I could describe what it felt like—to swing my leg over my frame, clip into my right pedal and stride off into the street to begin my ride across the country. But it’s hard to put into words. Trust me: I’ve tried. I’m sitting in a little restaurant on the side of the road, beer in hand, with a plate of tater tots with fry sauce, having just completed the first section of my route. I’ve biked more than 243 miles. And I finally have a spare moment to try to tell you what it feels like.

In a little town called Wisdom, Montana, I was a sight to behold. There was no shower at the free campsite I was staying in that evening—or any drinkable water. I stumbled into the only market in town looking for Nutella, which they were out of. But the man who owned it kindly showed me around, and he let me use their well water sink in the back to fill up my bottles. He pointed me to an all-cash bar, where I would find WiFi so that I could use my phone, which didn’t have service. I was exhausted.