Jim Cummins was not only the founder of one of the world鈥檚 best-known gravel-bike races, the Dirty Kanza, but he was also its public face鈥攖he man at the finish line in Emporia, Kansas, waiting to give each returning rider a hero鈥檚 welcome after 200 miles of rutted roads, headwinds, and tire-sucking mud. That is, until June 17, when Cummins posted a video on his personal Facebook page听calling the shooting听of Rayshard Brooks,听a 27-year-old Black man who was听killed听 on June 12听when Brooks听was found sleeping in a Wendy鈥檚 drive through lane,听鈥渏ustified鈥� and inviting anyone who disagreed to 鈥渦nfriend鈥� him. Many followers did so, and even more expressed hurt and anger about the post on social media.听

Cummins鈥檚 reach in the bike world is considerable. The race he dreamed up in 2006 as a solo, self-supported tour of Kansas鈥檚听rolling Flint Hills has since grown into a marquee event听attracting not only top professional racers but amateur riders from听all over the country鈥攖he closest thing the burgeoning gravel scene had to a World Tour. Last year听the Dirty Kanza attracted thousands听of riders to its 25-, 50-, 100-, 200-, and 350-mile events. The race put Emporia on the map as a top U.S. cycling destination, a new and unexpected reputation the 24,000-person town was happy to adopt.听

In 2018, Life Time, a national chain of races and fitness companies, the once scrappy gravel grinder and kept Cummins on as its 鈥渃hief gravel officer.鈥� Until that post went up. Within 24 hours, Life Time had 鈥減arted ways鈥� with Cummins, according to the senior vice president Kimo Seymour. The company describing his Facebook comments as 鈥渋nappropriate and insensitive,鈥� and clarified its听mission of making gravel racing 鈥渁 more inclusive and progressive place where all feel welcome and represented.鈥�

Cummins declined an interview, but in a statement shared with Road Bike Action, he , 鈥淚听chose my words poorly鈥� and 鈥淸I]听hope that, some day, I can听help to heal the wounds that I have caused.鈥� But his words landed during a summer marked by civil rights protests and in a cycling world grappling with a historical lack of inclusivity, particularly for Black and Indigenous riders.听

His dismissal also reignited another听long-simmering, racially charged controversy surrounding the Dirty Kanza.听

Race director LeLan Dains has a long history with both this region of听Kansas and the race. An Emporia local, he first competed in the 200-miler in 2008听and joined the four-person staff five years later. Then听someone approached the event team about the problematic nature of the name of the race itself, which some argue is a racist slur against the听Kaw people native to the land on which the race is held.听Translated as the 鈥�,鈥� the Kaw were given the name 鈥淜anza,鈥� or 鈥淜ansa,鈥� by early French traders and other European settlers. But听it鈥檚 the pairing of 鈥渄irty鈥� with the tribal name that many argue turns the race鈥檚 title into a historical racist stereotype.听

Dains says that there were no ill intentions behind the name of the race. 鈥淲e named it 鈥榙irty鈥� for the gravel roads and the dirt you get on your legs and body when you ride them,鈥� he says, 鈥渁nd 鈥楰anza鈥� for the state, which gets its name from the Kaw tribe.鈥澨�

Still, over the years, Dains says members of the organization made several unsuccessful attempts to contact the Kaw Nation鈥檚 leadership for their thoughts on the name.听

In 2019,听Cummins听was finally able to meet with Lynn Williams, chair of the Kaw Nation Tribal Council. The two convened at Kaw Nation headquarters in Kaw City, Oklahoma, on February 26 of that year听and ultimately agreed that the name would stay as is. Seymour says, 鈥淭he last time we spoke, Williams said the Kaw Nation took no offense to the name.鈥� (Williams did not respond to requests for comment.)

But continuing criticism听raised the question of whether Williams鈥檚 decision accurately reflected her community鈥檚 feelings as a whole. In fact, according to by听Bicycling, a few months before he met with Williams,听Cummins was forwarded an email on November 9, 2018, 鈥渟igned by 45 members of the Kaw Nation, along with academics, advocates, and allies鈥� saying that听鈥渢he name was offensive to many people in or associated with the Kaw Nation,鈥� James Stout wrote for听Bicycling. (Dains says he鈥檚 not 鈥減ersonally aware of a petition that potentially contained 45 members of the Kaw Nation.鈥�)

In April of 2020, Christina Torres, the founder of听, an independent publication focused on 鈥渟haring knowledge and the stories of BIPOC and FTW [femme, trans, and women]听folx in cycling,鈥� launched a urging the race to change its name. The issue felt personal to Torres, as an avid cyclist and a Kawaiisu Shoshone-Paiute descendant of the Tejon听Indian Tribe, she . 鈥淭he Kaw Nation of Kansas, now of Oklahoma, has survived adversity and today is a federally recognized, self-governing tribe seeking to recover its cultural heritage and land,鈥� . 鈥淭o preface the Kanza people with 鈥榙irty鈥� shows a disconnect of America鈥檚 legacy of anti-Indigenous violence.鈥�

The petition drew more than 1,200 signatures鈥攎any from Indigenous people across the country鈥攁nd the attention of the team in Emporia. In response, Cummins issued in April 2020 revealing his 2019 meeting with Williams听and said that the race name would not be changing. The statement also clarified his听intentions behind choosing its name. Though Williams鈥檚 signature appears on the open letter, her voice seemed to be absent.

At the time, the Dirty Kanza wasn鈥檛 the only gravel event confronting the impact its name might have on Indigenous groups. In late 2019, Bobby Wintle, founder of the gravel race in Oklahoma, announced that听he had changed the race鈥檚 official title to .听Wintle VeloNews that when he first named the race, he was 鈥渦naware that the name held negative connotations for many still living today.鈥� The Oklahoma land rush听was named as such because a , effective April 22, 1889, allowed 50,000 white settlers to seize two million acres of Indigenous land. (The land run of 1893 saw settlers take a further six million acres.)听鈥淥nce our small crew and myself realized that the correlation with the original land run of 1889 was offensive to others, we had to make a change,鈥� Wintle said in .

To many, the Dirty Kanza was one more example of the way Native-derived names often ignore the voices of the very people they purport to honor, raising the question of who gets to grant permission听to use those names. 鈥淥ne person from the Native community saying, 鈥業 think it鈥檚 OK鈥� is no different than someone saying, 鈥楾hat鈥檚 not racist, because I have a Black friend,鈥欌�� says artist, gravel rider, and Indigenous activist Gregg Deal. 鈥淵ou鈥檙e talking about an entire community of people, which means there are different ideas and schools of thought.鈥�

Deal bemoans the fact that Indigenous people aren鈥檛 given agency or authority in matters so deeply tied to their culture. 鈥淧eople will tell you straight to your face, 鈥業t鈥檚 not offensive, that鈥檚 not the intent,鈥欌�� he says. 鈥淢ost Americans in that school of thought feel like they get to decide what鈥檚 offensive, what鈥檚 not offensive, and what鈥檚 an honor, what鈥檚 not an honor. But that can鈥檛 exist without a true dialogue or relationship of some kind.鈥澨�

That dialogue is finally being attempted on more of a national scale. Just this week, the NFL鈥檚 Washington, D.C., team announced plans for a to replace its long-protested racist one, California鈥檚 Squaw Valley Ski Resort reportedly for a less offensive moniker, and Yeti Cycles they鈥檇 stop using the word 鈥渢ribe鈥� in their marketing.

Torres declined an interview, and while she didn鈥檛 provide her reasons, the naming saga had become heated and sometimes personal.听Once Cummins issued his open letter, many thought the issue was settled: the Kaw Nation had granted an ostensible stamp of approval on the race name. This prompted a fair amount of online backlash to the petition. Commenters unleashed their usual gripes about cancel culture, some of which spilled over into personal criticism of Torres. 鈥淪top looking for ways to be offended!鈥� read one听of the tamer responses on Instagram.听

And then came Cummins鈥檚 June 19 Facebook post, which renewed the听push to change the race鈥檚 name.听Activists began a second petition.听Titled , the petition is a 鈥渃ampaign to end the use of the slur 鈥榙irty Kanza鈥� as the event name of DIRTY KANZA (DK) in Emporia, KS.鈥� The authors听have decided to remain anonymous听but听are described as a 鈥渦nited collective of Indigenous advocates, cyclists, people of faith, educators, elders, youth, local Kansas residents and builders of a just world.鈥� I reached out to the authors听through an intermediary, and they declined to comment. As of today, the petition has been signed by more than 6,500 people.听

This time, the team in Emporia was ready to listen. In a June 22 , race organizers committed to changing the name. Dains confirmed over the phone on June 24 that they were in the process of landing on a new race title, which they would announce in 鈥渆ight to ten weeks.鈥澨鼿e added that the petition had accelerated the decision, but that the name-change conversation had remained open for some time.听

鈥淲e know now more than ever that words have meaning,鈥� Dains says. 鈥淎t the time we made that announcement in unison with the Kaw Nation, we felt we were right in continuing with the name. But at the end of the day, we can be legally 鈥榬ight,鈥� or听we can be kind. We鈥檙e going to choose to be kind and change the name.鈥澨�

For many, that change can鈥檛 come fast enough. Support for the petition and further demands鈥攊ncluding more acknowledgement of the Indigenous groups who have long opposed the name and have had their complaints ignored鈥攃ontinues to grow after the announcement, even among past riders and winners. Amity Rockwell, the winner of last year鈥檚 race, requests for the organizers, including a name change and a BIPOC athlete-sponsorship program.听

The decision to change the name is a 鈥済ood move, in good faith,鈥� says Deal, adding that it鈥檚 one 鈥渢hat won鈥檛 change the hard, grueling nature of the race.鈥� It鈥檚 a move toward better accountability to the Indigenous communities whose names and images have long been appropriated to represent the outdoors.听But it鈥檚 not the finish line. That will come into sight, Deal says, when Indigenous people are given true agency听over the use of their names and symbols, and when bike races create more opportunities and accessibility for riders of color.听

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In March 2015, then 19-year-old Ed Pratt left his home in Somerset, England, on a mission to become the first person to circle the globe on a unicycle. Three years and 21,000 miles later鈥攁fter crossing Europe, the Middle East, Asia, Australia, New Zealand, and the U.S.鈥攈e rolled back to his starting point and a cheering 500-person听crowd, successful in both his final dismount (he was worried about that) and a new record.听

https://www.youtube.com/embed/fJTwj0T4Ee8
Check out an听episode of Unicycling Across America.

Along the way, Pratt fought fought crosswinds through Australian deserts, almost got hit by a car that was听spinning on ice in Kyrgyzstan, and performed karaoke to Meatloaf鈥檚 鈥淧aradise by the Dashboard Light鈥� at a Tibetan New Year party. He documented his听adventures and misadventures听in his entertaining YouTube series听听and is still dropping new episodes of his travels across the U.S. Pratt also raised close to $400,000 for , a UK-based charity that provides school supplies for underprivileged kids around the globe.

Before he set out, Pratt said he was confident he could ride up to 40 or 50 miles a day. The main challenge was finding a way to carry all his gear, and鈥攁s he quickly discovered鈥攔eplacing all the stuff that broke or wore down over time. He shared his 12 gear essentials with 国产吃瓜黑料.

Bike

鈥淯nicycles are all fixed gear, so the biggest variation is wheel size. The largest you can get is 36 inches, which is better for long rides because you鈥檙e not pedaling as much to go the same distance. I chose the 听unicycle,听because it鈥檚 one of the lightest and most durable on the market. Unicycles are pretty unstable things鈥擨 probably dropped it at least once or twice a week.鈥澨�

Tire

鈥淭here are only about three or four tires to choose from in this wheel size. I went with , a typical mountain-bike width, which was the best-of-both-worlds option between a road slick and a tire with a lot more grip. The Nightrider has tread but also works well on roads. I used five tires over the course of the trip鈥攅ach one lasted about 5,000 miles.鈥澨�

Frame Bags

鈥淵ou can鈥檛 just go out and buy unicycle panniers, so I turned to the man who once held the record for longest unicycle trip, , to make them. They鈥檙e not great, because they鈥檙e not waterproof and not particularly durable鈥擨 had to do a lot of maintenance on them听and even get them completely remade midtrip. But the front and back bag were the right size and shape. They didn鈥檛 rub my knees and made use of the limited space I had.鈥澨�

Frame Rack

鈥淭he challenge was figuring out how to actually attach the panniers to the unicycle. My granddad created an aluminum frame for attachment. He鈥檚 built everything from a grandfather clock to a scale model of a fire engine, so if anyone was going to create a custom unicycle luggage rack, it was him. He came up with a very good design鈥擨 could even break it apart if I needed to fly.鈥�

Sleeping Bag

鈥淚 went through three sleeping bags. The first was a , which was a three-season down bag. Down is light and warm, but it always eventually clumps up and then isn鈥檛 as effective in the cold. So I replaced it with another down bag from a Chinese brand, a , and then later got a 听in the U.S., which I still use.鈥澨�

Sleeping Pad

鈥淢y sleeping pad was a , my fourth of the trip. They鈥檙e really lightweight and comfortable, but the seams fatigue听after about six months, and you have to start patching them.鈥澨�

Tent

鈥淢y first tent, the , did alright. The poles were thin, and the pegs were like toothpicks, but it was nice having something so lightweight. Eventually, the fabric started to break, and a dog ripped into it in Turkey. Then it got blown over on top of a sand dune in China and was never the same. So after a year and a half, I bought an , which held me the rest of the trip. It鈥檚 a good tent with a reasonable amount of space.鈥澨�

Shoes

鈥淚 only used one type of shoe for the entire trip: 听mountain-bike shoes. I went through four pairs. They鈥檙e a bit heavy, and your feet get听a little warm, but they鈥檙e good at gripping the pedals, and听the high cuffs听give you that confidence that you won鈥檛 turn an ankle when you come off the bike.鈥澨�

Camera

鈥淚 started my journey with a , which was alright for photos and a little bit of video. I went through two and then broke another one in Kyrgyzstan. I was just using the stuff too hard. Dust would get in and break the lenses. I was also doing a lot of time-lapse videos, which puts a lot of strain on the motor of the camera.鈥澨�

Mapping App

鈥淚 used an app on my phone called , which creates open-source maps that are completely free and downloadable. I never used it to route from A to B, I鈥檇 just look at a map and figure out a route as I went so I could make choices when the road split.鈥澨�

Inflatable Globe

鈥淚 couldn鈥檛 carry many extras, because I wanted to stay as light as possible, but I did carry . It was good to bring out around kids听or just to show people where I came from and where I was going, which was useful in places where I couldn鈥檛 speak the language.鈥澨�

Stove

鈥淢y stove system lasted the whole trip! It鈥檚 a , and you can do anything with it鈥攁ttach gas bottles听or use diesel or petrol [gasoline]. I ran it on petrol听the whole trip, because it was the cheapest and most reliable to get ahold of. The stove was built to be lightweight and modular, so you can easily take it apart and clean it. I鈥檓 sure it鈥檒l last another ten听years.鈥�

The post In Case You Ever Want to Unicycle 21,000 Miles… appeared first on 国产吃瓜黑料 Online.

When Dylan Jouras first agreed to undergo psychedelic therapy, he was apprehensive. But the 26-year-old veteran from San Jose, California, was also ready to try almost anything. It was April 2019, and Jouras was coping with PTSD from two combat tours of Afghanistan that ended in 2012. While deployed, he听sustained traumatic brain injuries, shrapnel to the side of his face, and hearing loss. When he got home, constant听migraines landed him a Percocet prescription, which later developed into an opioid addiction. Jouras was听in and out of recovery听and spent five years sleeping an average of three hours a night. Antidepressants numbed him into a shadow of himself. Then his best friend听died by suicide, which triggered the worst of Jouras鈥檚听memories from combat. 鈥淲e didn鈥檛 think Dylan was going to live through that week,鈥� says Arleen Pietrzak, his mother. That鈥檚 when founder Mike Sinyard reached out to the family, saying听he knew of听a cure for PTSD.听

For Sinyard, 70, promoting psychedelic-based treatments had听become something of a passion project. Although he doesn鈥檛 say whether he has taken magic mushrooms or ayahuasca personally, the bike-industry leader says he鈥檚 seen great success with their听psychoactive use as an emerging treatment for PTSD, addiction, and depression. Now听he鈥檚 launching a foundation called , which is focused on expanding access to psychedelic-assisted therapies.听

Project New Day was actually founded听in 2019, but last Wednesday was timed to immediately follow a pivotal moment in the fight for legalization. On January 28, the city council of Santa Cruz, California, to decriminalize natural psychedelics, making arrests for use or possession of natural psychoactives like psilocybin mushrooms the lowest priority for law enforcement. The听decision听puts the city in the company of听two others鈥擠enver, Colorado, and Oakland, California鈥攂ut Sinyard says he expects legalization to expand to the entire state of California听and eventually Colorado and New York. Advocates from Project New Day were at the city-council meeting in Santa Cruz, ready to coordinate with local groups to provide education and resources on psychedelic treatments.

The power of psychedelics to combat substance abuse and PTSD isn鈥檛 a new cause for Sinyard鈥攊t鈥檚 one he鈥檚 been researching for years as an offshoot of , the foundation he created in 2015 to promote cycling as a nontraditional therapy for ADHD. Outride began with Sinyard鈥檚听realization that a听bike was an effective tool for combating both his and his son鈥檚 ADHD symptoms. But he听says pharmaceutical companies had no incentive to fund studies on cycling鈥攊t couldn鈥檛 be bottled and sold the way Ritalin could. Outride, then called the Specialized Foundation, became an effort to fill in the gaps by partnering with neuroscientists on cycling-based ADHD studies and programs. This year 35,000 kids听across the country听will go through Outride鈥檚 school program, which has since expanded to address obesity, depression, and addiction.

Similarly, Sinyard believes that psychedelic treatments can work in unexplored ways, without the side effects of pharmaceuticals. He told 国产吃瓜黑料 that, after watching people in his life struggle with opioid addiction鈥攁nd growing increasingly disillusioned with the abuses of Big Pharma companies鈥攈e turned to the research of , a Canadian physician who has used the plant-based hallucinogen ibogaine to treat addiction.听鈥淚鈥檇 witnessed it firsthand with the people in my life,鈥澨齭ays Sinyard, speaking of the impact of addiction, 鈥渁nd thought, There has to be a better way to help people reset. That鈥檚 why we called it Project New Day.鈥�

Sinyard started connecting people he knew who were struggling with substance use with researchers doing similar psychoactive interventions. One of those people was Jouras, whose stepdad was at the time interviewing for a position at Specialized. Jouras and Pietrzak were returning听from a frustrating VA appointment with yet another prescription for antidepressants when they got Sinyard鈥檚 call and decided to take him up on the offer.听

To understand how the therapy enabled the combat veteran confront his PTSD, it helps to know how psychoactives work and what usually happens in a session. 鈥淚t鈥檚 not like people who have these issues can take a bunch of mushrooms and go into the woods and be OK,鈥� says Sinyard. 鈥淚t鈥檚 a very precise way of being ready and working with a therapist who can help you.鈥澨�

Dr. Alli Feduccia, Project New Day鈥檚 leading research scientist and cofounder, has been studying therapeutic uses of MDMA, the active drug in ecstasy and Molly, since 2004. She says the drug releases a number of chemicals, particularly serotonin, which quiets the brain鈥檚 fight-or-flight听response to fear. This helps lower unconscious defenses around traumatic memories听so they can be explored in further detail with a mental-health professional. 鈥淪ome people describe it as 20听years of therapy in a short amount of time,鈥� Feduccia says. 鈥淭he discussions are really long鈥攍ike six to eight hours instead of a 90-minute session鈥攕o people can get into a lot of deep material in that amount of time.鈥�

The research outcomes are promising. Feduccia that she helped conduct with the nonprofit (MAPS) from 2004 to 2017: of the 72 participants who received an active dose of MDMA听during therapy, 54听percent no longer met PTSD criteria afterwards. The success rate was more than double that of the 31-person control group, which received similar talk therapy but either without the psychoactive, or with a very low dose. In 2017, the U.S. Food and Drug Administration (FDA) awarded MAPS鈥� work its Breakthrough Therapy Award,听for treating PTSD more effectively than the only currently available pharmaceutical treatment of antidepressants. Two other organizations studying psilocybins for treatment-resistant depression and major depression disorder both received the same award in 2018.听

Some of this research has raised concerns about the potential for negative side effects or abuse. In June 2019, the heads of the National Institutes of Health and the FDA responded to an inquiry from Hawaiian senator Brian Schatz as to their findings on psychedelics. Their听letter states clearly that the organizations aren鈥檛 recommending psychedelic drugs be moved from their classification as Schedule I drugs, or what the as 鈥渄rugs with no currently accepted medical use and a high potential for abuse.鈥� For MDMA alone, the NIH and FDA heads point to inconclusive data and the potential for kidney and brain damage, among other health risks. But MAPS that the letter makes claims based on incomplete, uncontrolled research and animal experiments with too high dosages.听

Sinyard knows that some of his advocacy sounds unorthodox. He鈥檚 heard it from the families of adult substance abusers for whom he鈥檚 tried to propose psychedelics. But he sees a big distinction between taking prescription drugs on an ongoing basis听and using a hallucinogen several times in a controlled setting. 鈥淭he first response from the parent is, 鈥楾his sounds crazy鈥攖hey already have a drug problem!鈥欌�� he says. 鈥淏ut these aren鈥檛 drugs in the same sense. With an opioid, you take it and you feel nothing鈥攜ou feel on a cloud. But you take the psychedelic plant medicines, and you鈥檙e living through the problem, so there鈥檚 no escape.鈥�

For Jouras, breakthrough wasn鈥檛 immediate. He started with a holotropic breathwork session, a type of rhythmic breathing designed to achieve a natural, almost hallucinogenic state, then moved on to MDMA-assisted therapy with a doctor. In his first MDMA session, he was able to explore and discuss the trauma surrounding his best friend鈥檚 death. By his second session, he could dive into his experiences in Afghanistan and let go of his feelings of self-blame. Now clean, Jouras spoke out about his positive experiences at the Santa Cruz council meeting.听

鈥淚 think this could save thousands of lives if it became legal and mainstream鈥攁nd even improve the quality of them, without the side effects of antidepressants and antipsychotics,鈥� Jouras told听国产吃瓜黑料. 鈥淵ou鈥檙e walking around in this zombie shell of yourself when you鈥檙e on antidepressants. Yeah, you鈥檙e living, but you鈥檙e not really living. With psychedelic therapies, especially mushrooms, it鈥檚 resparking your curiosity听and making it so you want to be back in nature听and connect to people. Psychedelic-assisted therapy got me living again.鈥�

Project New Day expects decriminalization of hallucinogens to spread across the country, so it鈥檚听creating tool kits to educate people on safety issues听and preparing materials about how communities can establish peer-recovery and support groups. It鈥檚听also working to raise awareness about听the research and focusing on getting grants. Board members are particularly excited about the potential for helping veterans and other at-risk populations.听

Sinyard will continue to be a believer鈥攁nd one willing to put his own funds behind promoting the relevant studies. 鈥淭hese are medicines,鈥� Sinyard says emphatically of psilocybin mushrooms and other hallucinogens. 鈥淚鈥檓 not advocating them for partying but for healing鈥擨鈥檓 advocating for the healing potential of these plants given on this earth.鈥�

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In a race for your life from a belligerent madman,听there is no worse getaway vehicle than a recumbent bicycle. Particularly on any sort of climb. At least that鈥檚 what Alan* and I discovered as we crept up a desolate stretch of Arizona highway, necks craning behind us to see if the knife-wielding drunkard was gaining any ground.听

Alan, an amiable psychologist in his late sixties, was the one turning his recumbent鈥檚 pedals as fast as he could. I was on a traditional bike, but as the leader of this group tour across the U.S., I was duty bound to ride at the back, to help with any mechanical issues.听

Not today. Today Max rode at the back. I could see his neon jacket a hundred yards behind us, from where he was trying to close the gap. An hour earlier, from his perch on a picnic table at the edge of the sad RV park we鈥檇 called home for the night, he unceremoniously announced his plans to murder us all. It was 5 A.M., and he was on his second 12-pack of Old Milwaukee, having never unloaded his bike nor set up his tent the night before. Instead, it seems he鈥檇 visited the town liquor store while we slept. Crushed beer cans formed a barrier reef around the table. Something in the morning chorus of sleeping bags being unzipped had stirred Max鈥檚 drunken rage into action. Red-faced, he barked obscenities and sexual slurs, most of them at me. And then came the death threats. Bleary-eyed and not yet caffeinated, I scanned the empty horizon for anything resembling a cell tower and the possibility of a phone signal. Then I took the only course of action available to me: I politely requested that he leave the tour.听

Now we were engaged in the world鈥檚 slowest chase scene with a middle-aged psychopath in high-vis spandex. The rest of the tour鈥檚 participants, a ragtag band of 16 cyclists from all over the U.S., had long since hightailed it from camp to tackle the day鈥檚 first climb. I was out of water and in need of coffee, and my stomach was growling a song about pancakes. But Alan and I kept pedaling, determined to die somewhere more scenic than the side of a baked desert highway, next to an empty bag of Cool Ranch Doritos and the dried-out remains of an armadillo.

It was March 2009. We were just eight days into a guided cross-country bike tour, and things had already started to unravel. The trip, run by a national bike-touring organization, would take us from San Diego to the coast of Florida over the course of two months. Each day we鈥檇 pedal anywhere from 50 to 80 miles. Each night we鈥檇 set up our tents at campsites along the way. But things had gone sideways from day one, when a young man who鈥檇 suffered a severe brain injury in a motorcycle crash years before showed up to tackle the ride on a rusty singlespeed听cruiser. When I questioned the soundness of the bike, his mother stabbed her finger in my chest and said, 鈥淗e can do anything he puts his mind to.鈥� The frame snapped into two pieces that afternoon, one mile into our prologue ride. I scrambled to find him a replacement in time to remain on the tour.

At some point during the first week, I stopped thinking of the group as a band of fellow adventurers and more like cast members on a partially scripted reality show designed to bring out the worst in everyone. This morning hadn鈥檛 been the first hint that Max was cast to be the angry one, or, in reality-TV parlance, the one 鈥渘ot here to make friends.鈥� Earlier in the week, he鈥檇 uncapped a fire hose of rage-fueled expletives the night sprinklers came on underneath his tent. Out of shape and unable to keep up with the other riders, he鈥檇 allowed his exhaustion to slide into simmering resentment that escalated into a brawl with a sprinkler head. But today was the first time he鈥檇 threatened violence against anyone in the group.听

He was hot on our wheels, with a multitool听and nothing to lose. Had anyone considered running background checks on any of these people?听

Believe it or not, bike touring听had once been my greatest love, and not just the conceit for the survival-based elimination show I now found myself living. Four years earlier, when I was a somewhat adrift 25-year-old , I鈥檇 left my home in Portland, Oregon, for a 2,600-mile ride to Missouri with a bunch of used camp gear and a ratty T-shirt that read, 鈥淭wo Wheels, No Rules.鈥� My body felt electrified with possibility as I rolled past the Portland city limits, ready to chase some vague spirit of adventure I felt had long been denied me by the canon of great road-trip novels听that only told stories about men.听

The things I experienced on that trip鈥攖he beauty and bleakness of small-town America, the awe of pedaling up and over a mountain range, saddle sores听that crippled my romantic life for half a decade鈥攃hanged me profoundly, in ways I never expected. Months of having no one to talk to except for elderly roadside gawkers brought out a gregarious, assertive side I didn鈥檛 even know I had. I left Portland a painfully shy queer kid with disheveled hair and a distrust of strangers. I came back wiser, bolder, more openhearted, and with even messier hair.听

But returning to the monotony of daily life was like quitting an antidepressant cold turkey. I spent the next six months in an adventure-come-down fog, broke and dreaming of my next touring fix. My once thrilling job as a messenger no longer felt fun, dangerous, or freeing. It had become as predictable as a morning paper route.

On the road, I pedaled all day and wrote in my journal into the night, detailing my misadventures by the glow of a headlamp inside some of America鈥檚 sketchiest campsites. Each day was different and surprising. Would I find rustic, shaded forestlands to sleep in, or an abandoned Lions Club park by the side of a seven-lane interstate? Might I encounter a smooth, winding descent alongside a river, or a series of 19-percent-graded climbs guarded by feral pit bull mixes? How long could the human body subsist on peanut butter and banana sandwiches alone? Better yet, how long could I continue to go without showering before being added to some sort of national-parks watch list?

Back in Portland, dreams of the open road haunted me. The mountains. The desert. The crush of gravel听under my tires. The satisfaction of tracing my finger across a map and realizing my legs could take me anywhere, given enough time and carbo颅hydrates. Even the memories of waiting hours by truck-stop pay phones for my girlfriend to call me back struck me as timeless and romantic. As I shuttled documents to and from law offices and courthouses, I mentally relived those long, sweeping downhills and misty forest back roads鈥攂asically, I fantasized that I was Jack Kerouac with a helmet mirror.听

It was while deep within this state of longing that I found myself susceptible to some truly bad baby-boomer advice. Not of the 鈥淕o back to school and get a degree in something practical鈥� variety. That would have been helpful. This was more like an empty platitude someone鈥檚 mom might鈥檝e been wowed by because it was delivered by a charismatic stranger sitting next to her on a plane.

OK, it was my mom. She called shortly after her flight landed, eager to share.

鈥淒o what you love and the money will follow,鈥� she said.听

It was one of those nuggets of wisdom you only hear from people with monetizable assets鈥攐r the right ratio of talent, luck, and privilege to have landed a dream job that actually came with a paycheck. But in the swampy darkness of a Portland winter, the idea resonated. I adopted it at face value. There had to be a way I could get paid to keep hauling everything I owned across the country by bike. After all, I didn鈥檛 need a lot of money to follow from doing what I loved鈥攋ust enough to support my cat while I searched for America out on the open road. That spring of 2006, I signed up for a bike-touring leadership course.

Being an outsider in the touring world would work in my favor for landing a job. I was young and female in a scene dominated by kind-eyed, gray-bearded men in zip-off cargo pants. I came to the course preloaded with my funniest bike-messenger anecdotes and a talent for lightning-fast flat-tire fixes. A month later, I was offered my first gig leading a tour.

When I picked up the phone, all I could hear was screaming and sirens. I was in Spokane, Washington, sweaty from the effort of unloading 44 duffel bags from an oversize box truck. A pack of cyclists were gathered around me, anxious to get their bags and take showers at the end of a long day of riding. 鈥淭here鈥檚 been an emergency,鈥� my coworker finally said over the sound of a woman鈥檚 wail. My heart began pounding. Still, I hoped: a few broken bones, a concussion, a ruined vacation at worst. 鈥淒rive back here and find the other tour leaders,鈥� he instructed me. 鈥淎nd put Arthur鈥檚 bag back into the truck.鈥�

I was working my first cross-country tour as a leader, and we鈥檇 left Seattle five days earlier. The format of the trip was different than usual for the touring company, which typically ran small self-supported excursions: groups of about a dozen participants who rode, camped, and cooked together, with a professional leader planning and organizing it all. On this trip there were 40 riders, and I was one of five leaders. It was supported, which meant there was a luggage truck and vans to haul water and food. It was my job to drive one of those vehicles three out of four days, and ride on the fourth day.听

I took to the role with enthusiasm and a fervent conviction that I would do anything to make the trip a success for the participants, who had been promised more of a luxury experience than the standard pannier-laden ride. But the two-month trip was doomed. When I drove back to meet the other leaders after that phone call, I learned that one of the riders had been struck by a car and killed, on the side of a long, mostly flat stretch of Washington highway. The screams I鈥檇 heard on the phone were from the woman riding next to him鈥攖he two had been happily making small talk right until the moment of impact.听

It was one of the worst days of my life. On the previous day, I had gotten to know Arthur, and now he was gone. I couldn鈥檛 shake the feeling that I was responsible by virtue of my role as a coleader, though I was nowhere near the site of the crash when it happened.听

The rest of the trip was a disaster. The group was understandably traumatized. Many of the riders agreed that leadership was to blame for choosing a heavily trafficked road. My colleagues and I scrambled to make things right, hustling to find safer side roads to ease fears. We drove the route each night and spray-painted arrows on all the new turns. No longer would we ride every fourth day or take a day off鈥攏ow our days and nights were spent driving, researching, spray-painting, and serving as targets for the justifiable fears and less grounded, petty complaints of the shell-shocked clients. When the trip was over my body fell apart, and I was waylaid for weeks with illness and grief.听

For some reason, I went back. Over the next three years, I led three smaller self-supported cross-country rides. There were no follow vehicles, and I could actually pedal my bike every day. All were months long, with no escape time to be alone. And all pushed my resolve not to quit in diverse and challenging ways.听

Many of the people I met on those tours changed my life for the better, and I鈥檝e stayed in touch with them to this day. But the troublemakers were as bizarre as they were inescapable. There was the man who told me in explicit detail why he hated lesbians so much, on the second week of a three-month tour鈥攏ot recognizing that he was delivering his manifesto to one. There was the mysterious tent urinator, who found a way to pee on the side of another man鈥檚 tent every night for six straight weeks (and whose identity is an as-yet uncracked case). The man who always took photos of me changing flat tires to send home to his wife, because 鈥渟he was never going to believe that a woman could do this.鈥� The woman who had never ridden a bike before the trip. The daily hitchhiker who 鈥渄idn鈥檛 do climbs鈥� and thumbed for rides up hills. The racer who wanted everyone else to ride farther and faster each day. The relapsed gambling addict who snuck into town every night and couldn鈥檛 be trusted with group funds. The sexual harasser who hounded me daily with lewd comments unfit to print. And in every group, there was always one person who tried to rile up a mutiny because he wanted out of the cooking rotation.听

It was hard to know who these people were in their daily lives, when they weren鈥檛 pushing their bodies to the limit and sleeping on the ground. I had to imagine that the mysterious tent urinator wasn鈥檛 similarly taking out his frustrations on a coworker鈥檚 office chair. Maybe all that misdirected rage could be chalked up to exhaustion, homesickness, and electrolyte imbalance?听

I wasn鈥檛 at my best, either. I had to do all the planning and campsite reservations each night, pedal all day, stop to help everyone who had a physical or mechanical problem, hand over all my food and water if someone needed it, and continue to put out group-dynamic fires once we鈥檇 reached the campsite. As a young woman (and, on some trips, the only woman) who was barely half the average age of the groups I led, I struggled to command authority. I faced the classic conundrum of trying to lead while being female. Not wanting to seem 鈥減ushy鈥� or 鈥渁ggressive,鈥� I tried to be 鈥渇un鈥� and 鈥渃hill鈥� instead. That didn鈥檛 inspire confidence from the older male participants, who would talk over me while I 颅delivered map notes for the next day鈥檚 ride. When tensions arose, I typically (and ineffectively) defaulted to unrelenting chipperness and a handful of platitudes about the spirit of adventure to patch things up.听

Ultimately, I realized that my job wasn鈥檛 to ride my bike; it was a service position with round-the-clock expectations for less than minimum wage. The outdoor industry calls this getting paid in sunsets鈥攚hich wouldn鈥檛 actually sound so bad if those sunsets weren鈥檛 being blocked by a pair of full-grown adults fighting over whose turn it was to wash the group spatula. I had wanted freedom and adventure. What I got instead was too much responsibility.

But let鈥檚 get back to the hill, the madman, and the day I realized I was done trying to make bike touring work full-time. As I stared at the back of Alan鈥檚 head and willed his recumbent cranks to turn faster, I began to realize that no amount of tailwinds, sunsets, and campfire Uno tournaments could make a day like this worth it. If I survived to the end of the tour, I was going back to school to find a job that didn鈥檛 involve mediating nightly septuagenarian conflicts about tent placement.听

Max never caught us鈥攆or an hour I watched as he got closer and then started to recede, before later zooming past us in the bed of a pickup truck, middle fingers extended skyward. For weeks he kept calling me and the bike-touring company, threatening to sue for being ousted from the tour, but there were too many witnesses to what he鈥檇 done to that sprinkler head. I lost sleep worrying he鈥檇 show up along the route packing something more formidable than a Leatherman. But we never saw him again. Two months later, ten of the original 16 of us rolled into Saint Augustine, Florida, and triumphantly dipped our front wheels into the ocean. I flew back home to Portland knowing I would never ride my bike from coast to coast again.听

Getting paid to do what I loved made me realize that I needed to find something new to love. Something useful, perhaps鈥攖urns out there are only so many ways to make money on a bike when you鈥檙e not particularly strong, fast, or good at it. At 30, I went back to school and chose journalism. Instead of life on the road, I began writing about people undertaking their own transformative journeys.听

It鈥檚 been ten years since that final cross-country ride. Today I have a family, a home that isn鈥檛 staked to the ground, and more than three shirts. I鈥檓 also a more relatable friend now that all my stories don鈥檛 end with me sucking the sugar coating off an Advil for the calories, sleeping in a stranger鈥檚 treehouse, or (it was self-defense). The money hasn鈥檛 exactly followed, nor has the dream of endless freedom and adventure that I pedaled away from home in search of. But there will always be some part of me looking back and hoping they might be there, holding tight to my rear wheel, trying to catch a draft.听

*Names have been changed to protect me from retribution. In fact, I鈥檇 probably change my own if 国产吃瓜黑料 would let me.

The post I Loved Bike Touring鈥擴ntil I Got Paid to Do It appeared first on 国产吃瓜黑料 Online.

The day Mike Posner was in eastern Colorado was the best one so far. He had been awake since 3 A.M. and had already walked 16 miles along a thin, two-lane highway with no shoulder when he felt a stab of pain and waited for the shh-shh-shh of confirmation. It was around noon on August 7,听2019. In front of him loomed the Rocky Mountains, which had only materialized on the horizon the previous morning. Behind him听an imaginary dashed line led back to Asbury Park, New Jersey, where the writer and singer of the hit 鈥溾�浓赌携别蝉, that Mike Posner鈥攈ad started his walk across America 114 days before. He scanned the gravel beneath the RV, his support vehicle for the trip, which had pulled over with him for his lunch break, and saw nothing. But听then he heard it: the unmistakable rattling that made all the warnings he鈥檇 received that day from passing strangers feel like dark omens.

For most long-distance hikers, this would have been a low point, a venomous brush with death signifying the end of the road. But Posner had already dipped into the darkest places his mind could go on his 2,851-mile journey, and now he was just thrilled to have a helicopter ride, some air-conditioning, and life-saving medical attention. After weeks of trudging on stiff, aching feet across Missouri and Kansas, through 90 percent humidity, he says his five days in the ICU of a Colorado hospital were听like a luxury hotel stay. But it wasn鈥檛 just that. The Grammy-nominated pop star also had the sense that he鈥檇 found the struggle he鈥檇 left Los Angeles听in search of, or some sense of validation鈥攖he journey was real enough to have almost killed him.

Posner posted a photo of his venom-engorged leg with a buoyant caption: 鈥淪hout outs to this rattlesnake that bit me鈥攈e only made me that much harder.鈥� In other photos from his recovery, he鈥檚 inching a walker across a hospital room in a gown and no-slip socks听and beaming at medical caregivers from behind a full amber beard, curly hair untamed, blue eyes crinkled at the corners in a characteristic look of glee. Never mind the fact that Posner would spend three more weeks in crippling pain, trying to relearn the basics of how to walk (heel first? toe first?)鈥攖he rattlesnake bite had been a good day. 鈥淚 was really in the trenches,鈥� he says, laughing as he recounts the story. 鈥淭his experience put me in the hospital, but I was proud because I was living my life, maybe for the first time.鈥�

By his own account, Posner was on a journey without a cause. Five years ago, he鈥檇 been hanging out in L.A. at a friend鈥檚 jewelry shop, listening to some faux Venice Beach hippie ramble on about chakras, when he overheard another conversation about someone who walked across the U.S. 鈥淵ou can do that?鈥� he interrupted, incredulous, abandoning the hippie鈥檚 long-winded sermon on crystals. 鈥淢y friend just did!鈥� the shop鈥檚 owner told him. And Posner knew right then: I鈥檓 going to do that someday.

Though he remembers that exact moment, Posner maintains it鈥檚 not important. 鈥淲e all have a thousand of those听moments,鈥� he says. We list the things we want to do in the far-off future听or announce a huge goal and get a dopamine-rush reward as if we鈥檝e already pulled it off. What mattered was when he made the actual commitment to walk. He laid out his mission in a series of Instagram posts of this year:

I鈥檓 excited to announce that starting March 1, 2019, I will be walking across America. I will start at the Atlantic Ocean and end at the Pacific ocean. The journey will take me most of my 31st year. You are welcome to join at any time. See you out there, mp

The plan had only come together that week, during the press tour for his third studio album, .听Posner was 30. He was a multiplatinum singer-songwriter with two major radio hits, but success hadn鈥檛 always been easy to sustain. His 2010 debut song听鈥溾�濃�攁n electro-pop earworm recorded in his Duke University dorm room when he was 20鈥攈ad reached number six听on the Billboard Top 100. By 22听he had already released his first album, ,听with RCA Records听and was out on the road with the Vans Warped Tour, playing at festivals like Bonnaroo and South by Southwest听and opening for Drake. Then his recording career stalled. Years went by without producing another hit of that level. Between 2012 and 2015, his record label shelved two albums鈥� worth of his songs.听

Posner says he felt like he was in some kind of artist purgatory. He had always pictured success and fulfilment as a ladder, but it was starting to feel more like a hamster wheel. A 2014 YouTube video titled 鈥溾��听sums up his attitude at the time: 鈥淚 always thought as soon as I got a record deal, I would be happy. But I sure wasn鈥檛. I was still fighting my depression, and the world felt too big, too scary, and I wasn鈥檛 comfortable with everyone liking me so much.鈥� While he was essentially benched at RCA, he started writing songs for other artists, including the hits 鈥溾�� for Justin Bieber听and 鈥溾�� for Maroon 5. In some ways, not getting to record the songs for himself felt like a failure. But taking a break from the spotlight also suited his uncertainty about how much attention he was comfortable with.

In 2015, Posner moved labels, to Island Records, and then released his second album, ,听the following year. It included the massive hit听鈥淚 Took a Pill in Ibiza.鈥� The song had already been out since April 2015 as a quiet acoustic single, but in July of that year, Norwegian EDM production duo SEEB released a remix of it to massive international success鈥攁nd ultimately, after it made it big in the U.S., a Grammy nomination for 2017 song of the year.

With lyrics chronicling the downsides of celebrity culture, 鈥淚 Took a Pill in Ibiza鈥� describes听Posner wrestling with his relationship to fame. But with a pure injection of club-beat energy to offset all that melancholy introspection, the song hit hard in its reincarnation as an upbeat house banger. The opening showcases听Posner鈥檚 knack for vulnerability: I took a pill in Ibiza to show Avicii I was cool / And when I finally got sober, felt ten听years older, but fuck it, it was something to do. Then, furthering the irony for a hit that would go on to chart in more than 20 countries: I鈥檓 just a singer who already blew his shot / I get along with old timers 鈥檆ause my name鈥檚 a reminder of a pop song people forgot.

His next album, A Real Good Kid,听took Posner into even more personal territory. Recorded from early 2017 through 2018, and released in January 2019, the album was an attempt to process his emotions after a breakup, as well as the 2018 suicide of his friend Tim Bergling鈥攖he Swedish DJ better known as Avicii. But it was anchored by the grief of losing his father, who died of brain cancer in 2017. When his dad was diagnosed in 2016, Posner moved from L.A. back into the house where he grew up,听outside Detroit, to care for him. The first song on A Real Good Kid,听titled 鈥溾�濃�攖he day his father died鈥攃loses with a recording of Posner鈥檚 father鈥檚 voice: 鈥淚 love you so much. You鈥檙e gonna put that into a song?鈥�

鈥淚 had to go to the studio every day, and I was trying to just show up and record all the songs and do a good job, and I was sad,鈥� Posner told NPR about the album.

The recording came out to largely favorable reviews admiring its depth and authenticity听and Posner鈥檚 seemingly newfound maturity. 鈥淭here鈥檚 always been a melancholy edge to Posner鈥檚 innocence mission, but his light soulful rasp, gently thumping grooves and upbeat optimism always gives away his unique club kiddishness,鈥澨齱rote .听鈥溾�楢 Real Good Kid,鈥� however, portrays what a few years… and several tragedies… can do to a man, and how he thinks of that now-ragged axis of life, love and responsibility.鈥�

In one of the album鈥檚 most traditionally poppy songs, 鈥淢ove On,鈥� Posner chronicles those two years of tragedy and grief, with a title that doubled as his personal resolution. His voice sounds sunny and full of hope. But once the album was out, Posner had an ache in his stomach. He searches for the words to describe it to me, settling on 鈥渆xistential despair.鈥� 鈥淚 felt empty,鈥� he says. He started to dread promoting the album, or as he put it, 鈥渄oing sets between Shawn Mendes and other artists that are ten听years younger than me, and traveling around the world trying to convince program directors and radio stations that they should play my song more than Ariana Grande鈥檚.鈥�

鈥淚 just realized my responsibilities to promote the album are based on complete bullshit鈥攖hey鈥檙e based on maximizing my income听and my record label鈥檚 income, and maximizing my fame, and hoping that turns into more income,鈥� Posner says he remembers thinking around the end of last year. 鈥淚 couldn鈥檛 bring myself to do any of that stuff. I felt stuck. I was explaining it to one of my best friends, and he said, 鈥榃hat do you want to do?鈥櫶齛nd I said, 鈥業 want to walk across America.鈥欌��

听took form quickly. Posner hired two logistics managers to help him plan a route and take turns driving a Fleetwood Jamboree RV and preparing meals. After he announced the trip, he was inundated with comments from his manager and others close to him, who wondered why he was walking across the U.S. Some asked if听he was on a quest to further the grieving process that began with the album. But when I spoke to him, he resisted that easy narrative, saying those deaths served as more of a push to do the walk than as听inspiration.

鈥淲hen people die, it鈥檚 just a reminder that you鈥檙e gonna die too, dude鈥攜ou鈥檙e next,鈥� he says. 鈥淚n the meantime, you should start doing the things that are important to you now. This is it. This is your life. Look around, here it is.鈥�

Posner envisioned the walk as a party. He would perform what he calls 鈥渘inja shows鈥� along the way: free shows in parks to audiences of assembled fans in bigger cities on the route, like Allentown, Pennsylvania, and Columbus, Ohio. He would release a new, prerecorded song at every state border he crossed, teaming up with big names like Wiz Khalifa, Ty Dolla Sign, and Talib Kweli. People would join him to walk alongside鈥攁 throng of walkers would assemble behind him like he was the Forrest Gump of party jams, and he would practice 鈥渄eep listening鈥� to their stories and problems. He would be present in the moment and in his struggles in a way that was tough when you live in an overstimulating city and a huge component of your life is self-promotion.

In January, he released a bold itinerary for the walk, including the cities he would pass through and his daily schedule, which involved waking every day at 4 A.M., walking 20 miles in total, and meditating and doing yoga in the mornings and evenings.

At first, when he took his initial steps away from the beach in Asbury Park, the walk did appear to be an itinerant social gathering. Posner was excited. He had 30 or so fans striding alongside him. He had his support driver to drop in and check on him. And he had his phone鈥攚ith music, podcasts, and Instagram鈥攖o keep him entertained. By the end of his busy first day, he was completely worn out. His trek had taken him a grand total of eight miles, less than a third of 1听percent of the distance he needed to cover. 鈥淚 pulled up Google Maps, and it just looked like I was still on the ocean, like I hadn鈥檛 moved at all,鈥� he says, laughing. Still, he fell into bed exhausted by the effort.

To drop into Posner鈥檚 aggressively chipper Instagram from those early days is to get the impression that walking across the country is all mindful meditation, endless positivity, and campfire guitar sing-alongs, with the occasional motivational platitude in acoustic-jam form to spur you forward. Times were chill, he says鈥攈e spent a lot of the hours听just walking with people听and hanging out. On his 31-day trek across Pennsylvania, he played a few concerts听and did a few news interviews. Already in good shape from daily yoga and strength training, he worked his way up to 15 to 20 miles a day as his body adapted to the distance.

The narrow Midwestern states ticked by even faster: Ohio in about two weeks, Indiana in eight days, Illinois in eight days. Now there were more frequent milestones to celebrate. Posner kept his promise to release a song at every border, dropping acoustic covers and new, prerecorded collaborations. Along the way, he continued to meet up with fans, who would message him via social media,听and he had dinner in the homes of roadside strangers, who invited him over with no idea that the friendly, wild-haired man was a famous pop star.

As the walk progressed, Posner says he complained about the rain, the heat, and his aching body to friends, but his Instagram was still sunshine and chestnuts of road wisdom, like, 鈥淚鈥檓 not walking to show people who I am. I鈥檓 walking to find out who I鈥檒l become.鈥� Julian Roy, one of Posner鈥檚 two walk managers and a fellow musician, says that inside the RV, they听shared stories of playing music and adventure travel. 鈥淭here was a lot of focus听but also extreme silliness, because you have to have both sides when you鈥檙e doing something intense like this,鈥� says Roy.

Then he hit Missouri. It brought heat, humidity, and mosquitoes听and offered little shade. But the flooded roads beside听the Missouri River, which slices across the middle of the state, presented the biggest obstacle. After record rainfall this听spring, the governor had issued a state of emergency. In听July, Posner found himself fighting his way through waist-deep water along the Katy Trail. To avoid the worst areas, his straight-shot route folded back on itself, and for days, Posner walked in the opposite direction鈥攁 soul-crushing detour. The temperatures soared into the upper nineties, with 80 percent humidity. As he struggled, he told himself everything would be OK if he just made it to the Kansas border. It became a mantra: Just make it to Kansas, just make it to Kansas, just make it to Kansas.听

Walking across the state border, Posner cried with relief. But the next day, the alarm went off at 4 A.M. like always. 鈥淚 just started to fall apart,鈥� he says. 鈥淢y body, my mind, my spirit, they thought I was done because I had made it to Kansas. I was limping. I got to this point where if I wasn鈥檛 actively thinking, Walk!,听my mind would drift, and I would realize I was just standing in the road.鈥� Posner had to force his body to move from one patch of shade to the next鈥攅very part of him was done. 鈥淚t was the lowest I ever felt on the walk and I honestly didn鈥檛 know how the fuck I was going to finish,鈥� he wrote about the experience on Instagram. He struggled with the sense that he was giving it everything he had, and it just wasn鈥檛 enough.

There鈥檚 a motivational speaker named David Goggins who鈥檚 often cited as 鈥渢he toughest man alive,鈥� a former Navy SEAL who鈥檚 competing in ultramarathons and ultra-distance cycling races essentially off the couch, treating them as mental challenges rather than pure physical ones. From Goggins鈥檚 social media, Posner discovered the concept of false finish lines,听or creating an imaginary end point that causes your body, mind, and spirit to react as if you鈥檝e already reached your goals.

If Posner鈥檚 quest was an effort to find something more authentic inside himself through struggle, he was now successful. The party was over. The cockiness he had in those early days, back when he was cruising across a new state border every week and thinking things like, This shit is easy! I got this! was gone. Even his social-media posts took a turn. The trademark chipperness was replaced by sweat, sunburn, and frustration. The physical and emotional exhaustion of occupying a body that walks 15 to 20 miles a day was setting in.

By the time he鈥檇 trudged out of Kansas toward the Rockies and directly into the baby rattlesnake鈥檚 path, he had learned two lessons: There are no real finish lines, just 鈥渃heckpoints鈥濃�攖hat鈥檚 the word he started using when he听hit milestones like state lines.听And always include a 鈥渘o matter what鈥� clause in the contract when you come up with a big goal. That鈥檚 how Posner knew the rattlesnake wouldn鈥檛 stop him, even if it meant taking nearly a month away from his journey to heal.

鈥淚f you crack the door open and say, 鈥業鈥檒l do it unless this happens or that happens,鈥� before you know it, the door will keep opening,鈥� he says. 鈥淚f you say, 鈥業nstead of 24 miles, I鈥檒l walk 20 today,鈥� soon the alarm goes off and you just take the day off. And then, before you know it, you鈥檙e just like, I鈥檒l take a bike or a motorcycle, and then before you know it, you鈥檙e just staying on the couch and you鈥檝e failed.鈥�

But Posner did not give up or catch a ride. After healing from the snakebite, he returned to his route and began to walk again. The incident had shaken him, though. So, too, had meeting a man running across the country, 40 miles a day, unassisted by a support team. 鈥淚 felt like a wuss next to him,鈥� Posner says. 鈥淗e was sleeping on the ground, he didn鈥檛 even have a tent. But what was really impactful to me is he didn鈥檛 have headphones, he was just alone with his thoughts.鈥�

Inspired, Posner started walking without headphones and distractions听and asked his fans not to join him along the walk anymore. He had been taking a more or less direct route, walking a mix of back roads and highways. On narrower, busier streets, cars were clipping him with their vehicle side-view mirrors on occasion. It felt too dangerous to bring others along for that. Now he was covering up to 30 miles a day, with no time for anything else. Just walking, eating, and sleeping.

鈥淯nplugging made the journey a lot deeper, because I went to places in my mind that I didn鈥檛 know were there,鈥� he says. 鈥淚 tapped into my superpowers, as I call them. The trip is supposed to be hard, so you鈥檙e just riding these up-and-down waves. At some point, I figured out how to get through a low to the next high with only myself.鈥�

Prior to the trip, he had been to every state听but only to a major city within each border. Now he was seeing how much more was out there:听the mountains, the desert, empty dirt roads. In Arizona, he walked across the Navajo Nation. Roy remembers this part of the trip as the most inspirational, as the two walked with Navajo tribe members and learned more about their lives and traditions.

Back in Pennsylvania, Posner came up with an ego-driven vision of ending the walk with thousands of people crowded around him, to really 鈥渂low it up,鈥� he says. He thought he would emerge from his 鈥渉ippie-dippie, freewheeling journey as some type of bearded guru. I was still looking for validation from other people,鈥� he says. But as he crossed his final border, into California, the vision changed. 鈥淚 realized the person I was now, I didn鈥檛 want that at all,鈥� he says. He wanted to walk on his own, to sprint into the waves of the Pacific with an audience of only his closest friends and family, and feel what he felt without having to explain it to people like me, a journalist who wants him to articulate exactly how he felt.

Posner once described the comedown after leaving the stage at a big concert: you connect with thousands of fans and then discover yourself on your own after the show, standing in silence. I asked him if the end of the walk was a similar kind of letdown: to paraphrase Posner鈥檚 own lyrics, he was about to step off that roller coaster and be all alone.

He says he didn鈥檛 see it that way. He feels like his walk was a process of coming to terms with something he had long suspected since his first album, when he realized the fame he thought would finally make him happy made him feel no different than he had before. 鈥淎t the time, it made me ask myself, OK, if fame and success isn鈥檛 what life is about, then what is?听That鈥檚 what I realize my job is now鈥攖o go to the fringes of society, to walk across America, to live a life where my waking hours aren鈥檛 spent in pursuit of material goods. To go see what鈥檚 out there and report what I find.鈥�

Too many people see happiness or enlightenment like the end zone on a football field, he says鈥攍ike you can just dance across the line and spike the ball in celebration that you鈥檙e done. But in reality, it鈥檚 a day-by-day decision of who you鈥檙e going to be.

On the last day of the walk, Posner ran across the sand at Venice Beach, California, and dove into the ocean to the cheers of gathered friends. He of himself afterward, captioning it simply, 鈥淢y name is Mike Posner and I walked across America. Keep going.鈥� It was just the beginning of whatever comes next for him. It wasn鈥檛 even the best day on his trip.

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