From Coast to Capitol: Journey Across the United States

When I first dipped my wheels into the Pacific Ocean in Astoria, Oregon, I knew the road ahead would be long. But I didn’t yet understand just how deeply it would shape me.

5,400 kilometers stretched between that quiet coastal town and the nation's capital. Mountains rose like questions. Storms rolled in like doubt. Every climb, every sunrise, every aching push forward became a conversation with the limits I thought I had.

I wasn’t just racing a clock. I was chasing a question that had been quietly building inside me for years: How far can we really go when we strip everything back and trust in our own strength?

For 25 days and 7 hours, I lived in motion. I rode through pain, through awe, through silence. I saw entire landscapes change while I remained the same—and yet somehow, entirely different.

And when I finally rolled into Washington D.C., muscles trembling, chain grinding, the city lights ahead—I broke. The tears came suddenly, without shame or warning. Not from pain, but from the overwhelming clarity of it all. I had crossed a continent, but more than that, I had crossed into a part of myself I had never touched before.

This is the story of that crossing—of chasing human potential across the open road, and finding pieces of myself scattered all along the way.

The Route & The Race:

Short legal route with 3 check points

My journey began on the fog-lined coast of Astoria, Oregon. Day 1 was gentle—a ride into rhythm, winding through forests to Gresham. But soon the terrain sharpened. By Day 2, I was carving through canyons toward Maupin. On Day 3, I reached Mitchell, Oregon — Checkpoint 1, a tiny town tucked in Oregon’s painted hills. It was almost 3pm, but the gravity of the race began to settle in.

Oregon’s high desert gave way to long climbs and wide silence as I pushed through Dayville and onto Ontario. Idaho’s Garden Valley and the quiet ascent to Challis brought solitude, while the ride to Rexburg served as the gateway into the rugged terrain of the Rockies.

Entering Wyoming, the landscape turned raw and untamed. On Day 8, I reached Moran, Wyoming — Checkpoint 2, nestled near the base of the Tetons. The views were breathtaking, but the terrain unforgiving. From there, the race took on a new rhythm—harder, colder, steeper.

The route rolled across wide Wyoming plains to Casper and Lusk before shifting into the mental game of Nebraska. Here, the land stretched flat and featureless, and small towns felt miles apart. After Valentine and Ainsworth, I passed through Norfolk and Blair before entering Iowa.

By Day 17, I arrived at the Mississippi River and crossed into Burlington via the historic bridge — Checkpoint 3. That crossing marked more than a state line—it was a powerful psychological milestone. I’d made it halfway across the country.

From there, the rolling hills of the Midwest gave way to steady grinding through Illinois and Ohio. The final stretches into Cumberland and Washington, D.C. felt suspended in time—quieter, more internal. Every pedal stroke was now a memory in motion.

Gear & Bike Setup:

For a race like this, your bike isn’t just equipment — it becomes an extension of your body. Every choice matters, because over 5,400 kilometers, even small inefficiencies become big problems.

I rode a Scott Addict Gravel bike — lightweight, responsive, and rock-solid across all kinds of terrain, from smooth tarmac to rough shoulder gravel. It handled the diversity of the route with confidence and comfort, even when my body didn’t.

My setup was dialed thanks to the incredible support from Wolfi’s Bike Shop, who helped me with servicing and provided key spare parts at a discount. Having a trusted shop behind me meant peace of mind on the road.

For bags, I went Tailfin & Cyclite:

• Tailfin Aeropack (rear)
  

• Tailfin Panniers (2 x 5L) for daily use items
  

• Tailfin Frame Bag and Top Tube Bag for tools, snacks, and on-the-go essentials
  

• Cyclite Aerobar Bag — perfect for food and medicines.
  

The setup was nearly perfect. Everything stayed balanced and accessible, with minimal drag and no shifting issues even over rough surfaces. If I were to change anything, I’d carry more water capacity—especially for the remote and exposed stretches across Idaho, Wyoming, and Nebraska, where resupply options were sparse and the heat unforgiving.

All in all, this setup allowed me to stay self-sufficient—exactly what you need when racing the clock across a continent.

Pre-Race Blues:

As the race approached, excitement gave way to anxiety. In the two weeks leading up to the start, I struggled with intense pre-race nerves—so much so that I ended up making multiple hospital visits just to manage the anxiety. My body was ready, but my mind wasn’t convinced.

After a grueling 22-hour flight to Portland, I ran into a hotel dispute on arrival and had to scramble for a new place to stay, exhausted and disoriented. It wasn’t the calm lead-up I had hoped for. But there was a bright side: I met a few fellow riders before the race, and those early connections gave me something to hold on to.

Then came the start line. And just like that—the anxiety disappeared. As soon as the wheels turned, it was just me, the bike, and the road. Everything else faded. The fear, the noise, the uncertainty—it all fell away.

Training & Preparation:

A ride like this doesn’t just begin in Astoria—it begins months, even years, before the first pedal stroke. I spent a full year training for this race, building not only the physical endurance to ride day after day, but the mental resilience to keep going when my body begged to stop.

My weeks were structured around intensive threshold blocks during the weekdays—sessions that pushed me deep into the red—and long endurance rides on weekends that simulated the fatigue and pacing I’d face on the road. It wasn’t just about fitness—it was about adaptation: teaching my body how to recover quickly, fuel efficiently, and ride smart.

I was fortunate to have expert support. Coach Niel Copeland guided me through each phase of the build-up, balancing intensity with recovery, and helping me train with intention, not just volume.

Nutrition was equally crucial. Thanks to the advice of Vicky Walshaw, I developed a fueling strategy that carried me through the most demanding stretches of the race. From pre-race glycogen loading to on-the-go calorie management, her guidance helped keep the engine running even when everything else was screaming for rest.

Training for this event wasn’t just about legs—it was about systems. Sleep, mindset, fueling, pacing. It all had to work in harmony. And on race days, it did.

Daily Life on the Road:

Out there, life shrinks to something beautifully simple: ride, eat, rest, repeat. Each day began early—sometimes before sunrise—with the quiet sound of gear zipping shut and the first crank of pedals into motion. I spent 12 to 15 hours a day in the saddle, moving through vast and varied landscapes, chasing the next meal, the next mile, the next bit of shelter.

Nothing about the journey was pre-planned 100%. I didn’t have a fixed itinerary or hotel bookings—everything was on the go, guided by weather, fatigue, and where I could find a roof for the night. Most evenings ended in simple roadside motels, the kind with flickering neon signs and soft beds that felt like luxury after a brutal day of climbing or headwinds.

In the Midwest, finding a place to sleep was sometimes a challenge. On more than one occasion, I had to detour over 10 miles off-route just to find a motel. Those unexpected diversions became their own part of the story—extra miles, yes, but also chances to meet people and witness places I would’ve otherwise missed.

And everywhere I went, I met kind, generous Americans—people who offered directions, filled my bottles, or just stopped to ask what I was doing. Their curiosity often turned into quiet encouragement. A stranger handing me fruit at a gas station. A motel clerk offering a discounted rate after hearing my story. These small gestures added up to something bigger: the feeling that I wasn’t alone out there.

The road was long, and often silent. But it was never empty.

The Highs & Lows:

A journey this long naturally brings extremes—moments of awe, and moments that nearly break you. What surprised me most was how closely they often lived beside each other.

The highs were many. The scenery was endlessly changing and endlessly beautiful—towering mountains, wide golden plains, quiet tree-lined roads at dusk. I was constantly reminded how vast and varied America really is. And then there were the people: kind-hearted strangers, warm conversations at gas stations, and helpful hands when I needed them most.

What kept me going, even when I was alone, were the friends and followers who cheered me on through Instagram, Strava, and messages. I’d arrive in a small town, exhausted, and see a notification from someone who’d been tracking my progress. Their words carried real weight. I was riding solo, but I was never unsupported.

But there were lows, too. I had repeated issues with my tyres and the tubeless system. I was heavily depending on bikeshops nearby. The gravel sections punished my hands and legs. The rolling hills—especially in the Midwest and in particular Ohio—were deceptively brutal, a kind of relentless up-and-down that wore me down more than any mountain pass. In the first week, jet lag clung to me, making everything harder than it should have been. My body felt out of sync, sluggish, like it hadn’t quite arrived in the same time zone as my ambition.

And yet—I kept moving.

There’s something that carried me through all of it, something I can’t quite name. It wasn’t just discipline or training. It wasn’t just the dream of the finish line. It felt deeper, quieter—something unknown that kept rising inside me each time I wanted to stop.

Maybe I’ll never be able to explain it. Maybe I don’t need to.

Finishing in Washington D.C

The final morning felt quiet—eerily quiet. I left Williamsport  after sunrise and slipped onto the trail, a ribbon of gravel and dirt winding through trees, past sleepy towns, and along hushed waterways.

Unlike the chaos I expected from approaching a major city, the trails into Washington D.C. were peaceful and empty, like the road itself knew this was the end and wanted to give me space to feel it.

I rode those last kilometers in silence. No music. No distractions. Just the soft crunch of tires, the morning air, and the knowledge that something monumental was coming to a close.

And then, I arrived.

I was in tears. Completely overwhelmed. Not from pain or triumph—but from something deeper. I felt hollow and full at the same time. The journey, the effort, the solitude—it all landed on me at once.

I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t. My arrival was marked not by celebration, but by stillness. A kind of stunned reverence for what I had just done.

Even now, I haven’t mentally recovered. The race may be over, but pieces of me are still out there—scattered on mountain passes, in roadside motels, on quiet Midwestern highways.

Finishing wasn’t loud or dramatic. It was deeply personal. A quiet, tear-streaked arrival at the edge of a dream I’d been chasing for 25 days.

Reflection & Conclusion:

People often ask why? Why ride 5,400 kilometers across a continent? Why put yourself through the pain, the fatigue, the uncertainty?

I still don’t have a simple answer.

What I do know is this: there is something powerful about giving yourself fully to a journey that has no guarantees. About waking up every day with one job—to move forward—and letting that purpose strip away all the noise of life.

Out there, I wasn’t chasing a medal or a podium. I was chasing Presence. Grit. Clarity. I was seeing what’s left when comfort is gone, when you're reduced to motion, and when the only voice that matters is your own.

And what I found was both humbling and expansive. The road taught me patience. The solitude sharpened my awareness. The struggle reminded me how rare it is to feel completely, undeniably alive.

I finished this race, but I don’t feel finished. Something in me is still turning over—processing, questioning, remembering. And maybe that’s the real gift of this journey: not what it proved, but what it awakened.

This wasn’t just a finish line. It was a moment of becoming. A reminder that human potential doesn’t live in comfort—it lives out there, on the far edge of effort, where doubt turns into discovery.

I set out to test my limits.

I think I found something bigger.