USA Part 2 | Biketour Journal from Pueblo to New York City

Intro

Part 2 of my journal covering my coast-to-coast bike tour of the USA.

From Colorado's mountains, the final leg of my coast-to-coast journey took me across the Kansas plains, with a mix of weather and landscapes. I found shelter from storms in unexpected places like a public toilet, enjoyed refreshing all-you-can-drink fountain sodas on hot days, and appreciated the shading trees of Missouri's Katy Trail. Illinois brought warmer temperatures, while Ohio's bike paths and Pennsylvania's lake shores offered pleasant riding, including glimpses of Amish country with horse-drawn buggies parked outside local grocery stores. The journey culminated in the iconic Niagara Falls and the historic Erie Canal Trail, before reaching the vibrant energy of New York City.

Recap of week 154 to 165

Leaving behind Colorado’s rugged mountain passes, I entered the vast, golden plains of Kansas, where the wind was both an ally and an adversary. The road was long and straight, but the kindness of small-town shopkeepers, church hosts, and fellow cyclists made the days feel rich with connection. Storms became a recurring theme, forcing me into shelters ranging from church basements to public toilet buildings, each experience a reminder of nature’s unpredictable force.

Missouri brought a welcome change of scenery with rolling hills and the famous Katy Trail, where shaded paths and riverside campsites offered a peaceful ride. I found unexpected joy in small-town diners, live music at campsites, and the unwavering generosity of strangers—like Jon, the campground owner who handed me $100, insisting I use it for a motel when needed.

Crossing into Illinois, the heat intensified, pushing past 40°C (104°F), making shade and water my most precious resources. Warmshowers hosts became lifelines, offering meals, stories, and much-needed rest. In Indiana and Ohio, I celebrated the Fourth of July kayaking on Lake Monroe, biked scenic trails through quiet farmland, and encountered strangers who gifted me more money, food, and even a donut recommendation.

With Tropical Storm Beryl looming, I pressed eastward on smooth bike paths, tracing the Erie Canal and skirting the shores of Lake Erie. The lake’s vastness, almost oceanic in scale, was a breathtaking contrast to the plains I had crossed weeks earlier. A detour to Niagara Falls left me awestruck, a reminder of nature’s sheer power.

The final stretch into New York was both exhilarating and surreal. Rainstorms forced an unexpected motel stop, my first in months, before the Hudson River led me into Manhattan’s bustle. From Times Square’s neon glow to the Brooklyn Bridge’s steel embrace, the journey ended in a city teeming with energy.

Looking back, the thousands of miles weren’t just about the landscapes I crossed, but the people who defined them. Strangers who became friends, Warmshower hosts who opened their homes to a weary traveler, and fleeting moments of generosity - each one etched into the fabric of this adventure. This wasn’t just a bike tour; it was a journey through the heart of America.

Plains, storms, and the kindness of the Midwest

Leaving behind the mountains of Colorado, the landscape flattened, and the open plains of Kansas stretched endlessly ahead. The road was straight, the wind unpredictable, and the horizon seemed infinite. Yet, the vast emptiness was punctuated by small moments of warmth—kind shopkeepers, welcoming churches, and impromptu roadside conversations that turned strangers into friends.

Kansas greeted me with golden fields and a relentless sun, but it also introduced me to a rhythm of simple joys: bakery treats in tiny towns, shade under sprawling cottonwoods, and the quiet hospitality of churches and city parks. The town of Ness City came with a warning from the local sheriff—storms were rolling in. That night, as thunder cracked across the sky, I found myself huddled inside a city park shelter, waiting out the downpour.

As the heat swelled above 40°C, Kansas turned into a land where the sun seemed to stretch endlessly. But amid that crushing heat, the local public pools became a much-needed oasis. Almost every town park had one, and it was here that I reconnected with the joy of simple pleasures. Fellow cyclists I met along the way would often congregate around the pool, seeking the cool refuge the water provided. The showers, often free for anyone passing through on a bike, were a godsend after a long day on the road. The combination of the intense heat and the near-constant wind created a harsh environment for cyclists, but the cool water in the pools offered a refreshing pause from the grueling journey.

While riding through Kansas, I followed the Adventure Cycling Association's pioneering route, a historic path that many cyclists take on their cross-country journey. As I pedaled through the wide-open plains, I started to meet more cyclists on the same route. Our paths would converge as we shared similar routes, camped in the same city parks, and took shelter from the storms that often rolled through the area. It was comforting to know that we were all facing the same challenges: the heat, the wind, and the unpredictable weather.

Kansas is infamous for its weather, particularly its tornadoes. With the ever-present risk of severe storms, I relied heavily on a weather app that gave me warnings about potential tornadoes and thunderstorms. When the alert went off, a loud noise would blare on my phone, accompanied by flashing lights and a sense of urgency. It was both a reminder of the power of nature that seemed to lurk over the horizon. I quickly learned to respect the storm warnings and would seek shelter whenever necessary, whether it meant finding a safe building or taking cover in a city park shelter. One night I even slept in a roadside public toilet building - it was the only shelter with walls I could find for miles and bad weather was approaching lightning fast. It wasn’t The Ritz but when you are snug, dry and warm in your sleeping bag, protected from the wind gusts reaching well above 160km/h, you feel grateful and don’t mind the smelly ambience at all. 

The roads in Kansas were often narrow and treacherous, especially with the constant stream of trucks hauling pigs and cows to the nearby slaughterhouses. To avoid the trucks, I would take parallel dirt roads whenever possible, though these roads came with their own challenges. The infamous goat heads, thorny spikes that could puncture even the toughest tires, were a constant hazard. I would often stop to pick out dozens of them that had embedded themselves into my tires. Fortunately, my newly gifted Schwalbe tires proved their worth, as I never had a single flat. It was a small victory for my seemingly goat-head-proof tyres.

On the horizon of Kansas and beyond, there is a distinct visual feature - water towers. On the flat plains, they stand tall on the horizon, signaling that a town or city is approaching. The sight of these towers became a comforting landmark for me, knowing that a small town, with its potential for shade, water, and a place to sleep, was just a short ride away. The water towers, often placed in the middle of nowhere, seemed like beacons of civilization amidst the vast openness of the state.

Kansas is also the setting for one of the most iconic American stories—The Wizard of Oz. The story, while fictional, is rooted in the land of Kansas, where Dorothy's house is swept away by a tornado, carrying her to the magical land of Oz. The idea of Kansas as a place of humble beginnings, a place from which adventure begins, resonated with me as I cycled through the state. The flat land, the storms, and the endless fields felt like they could be straight out of the story, with the promise of something more lying just beyond the horizon.

As I continued my journey through Kansas, I couldn't help but reflect on how bike touring had changed from the open western landscapes to the fertile, farm-covered lands of the Midwest. The openness of the West had given way to a more intimate, grounded experience, where the landscape was shaped by human hands and the towns seemed to hold a deeper connection to the land. It was a change that was both subtle and profound, marking a new chapter in my journey across America.

And speaking of the towns, something unexpected began to happen: I found myself embarking on a food related mission. Kansas, with its frequent small towns, gave me the perfect opportunity to explore the various fast food chains that dotted the landscape. It became a bit of a goal to visit as many different chains as I could, and I made it a point to try one daily. While McDonald's didn’t excite me - being a chain I was already familiar with back in Denmark - I began to sample others that were staples in the Midwest. Eateries like Sonic, Arby’s, Papa John’s Pizza and Diary Queen became favorite stops. Then there was Hardee's, Subway, and Taco Bell's breakfast deal, which I ate far too many of. And who could forget the countless regional burger joints, each offering their take on the American classic, often accompanied by thick milkshakes and crispy fries.

But beyond the food itself, I discovered something new: fountain sodas. This genius invention from the U.S. had me hooked. For just a few bucks, you could drink as much soda as you liked, a bottomless cup that allowed me to stay cool and hydrated throughout the day. The combination of sweet carbonated drinks and the simplicity of a refillable cup made it easy to get through the long, hot days of cycling. I'd often stop at a fast food place for a fountain soda, just to cool off for a bit before getting back on the road.

These small indulgences, along with Kansas' vast landscape and its welcoming towns, added a new layer of comfort to my journey. It was a part of the experience that, while simple, made the long days on the road just a little bit easier to bear.

Further east, in Stafford, I arrived at the Zion Lutheran Church’s cyclist hostel, a sanctuary with showers, cold drinks, and fellow riders from Holland and Germany. The road ahead turned smoother as tailwinds pushed me toward Chase State Fishing Lake - until another violent storm forced me into a public toilet for shelter yet again. However, that night, I managed to clear out the storm before nightfall and I simply rolled out my sleeping gear on a bench not bothering to pitch a tent. 

Soon I would be done with Kansas and cross state borders into Missouri.

The generosity of strangers on Missouri’s Katy Trail

Missouri welcomed me with rolling hills that were a change to the flat, endless plains of Kansas. The landscape seemed to breathe again, and the change in terrain felt like a physical weight had been added to my bike panniers - my legs felt awfully tired after going up and down for hours on end. As I pedaled into the heart of Missouri, I found myself on the famous Katy Trail, a scenic rail-to-trail path that stretches across the state. Originally a railroad line, the Katy Trail was transformed into a biking and hiking paradise, offering cyclists a smooth path through some of Missouri’s most beautiful landscapes. With its 240 miles of uninterrupted trail, it is one of the longest rail-to-trail conversions in the country, and it felt like a gift after the challenges of the flat, sun-baked roads in Kansas.

The Katy Trail itself is steeped in history. The path follows the route of the Missouri-Kansas-Texas Railroad, which was built in the mid-1800s to help transport goods and people through Missouri. The railroad played a crucial role in the region's economy, but as rail travel began to decline in the 20th century, the line was eventually abandoned. In 1990, the state of Missouri began the transformation of the rail corridor into a recreational trail, creating one of the most beloved biking routes in the United States. Cycling along this historic trail felt like stepping back in time, surrounded by echoes of the past and the rustling of leaves in the trees.

Pedaling beneath the shade of towering trees, I felt a new rhythm to my journey. The trail wound its way past riverbanks, farmlands, and small towns. Along the way, I met several other biketourers, and it became clear that the Katy Trail drew in cyclists from far and wide, offering both solitude and community in equal measure.

In Rocheport, a charming town nestled along the Missouri River, I took a break and indulged in a hearty breakfast of biscuits and gravy - a local favorite that quickly became one of my go-to meals in the Midwest. The combination of flaky biscuits smothered in rich sausage gravy was a perfect way to fuel up for the day ahead. After all, long days of cycling on the Katy Trail required substantial amounts of fuel, and this dish fit the bill.

The humidity in Missouri was heavy in the air. As I cycled along the Katy Trail, the air grew thicker and more oppressive with each passing mile. The lush greenery of the region created a sense of being enveloped in a jungle-like atmosphere, and the thick, damp air clung to my skin. The presence of the Missouri River added to this feeling - its slow-moving waters winding through the landscape, casting a misty haze over the trail. Camping next to the river felt almost surreal, like being in the Amazon Jungle. The constant hum of insects and the chorus of animals filled the air as the humidity wrapped around me like a heavy cloak. The oppressive heat of the summer was still present, but it was the added moisture in the air that truly tested my endurance.

It was during this time that I learned a crucial lesson: there is a world of difference between dry heat and humid heat. I had become accustomed to the dry heat of the West, where the air was crisp, and the sweat on my skin evaporated quickly. But in Missouri, with its thick humidity, I found myself constantly damp. No matter what time of day it was, the sweat lingered on my skin and would never dry out completely - or at least that’s how it felt. The high humidity was a drain on my patience. I began to truly understand the resilience required to endure such conditions, and I found myself yearning for the dry heat I had left behind in the West.

But despite the challenges of the humidity, the Katy Trail offered an unexpected sense of camaraderie. I began meeting other biketourers more frequently, and we would often camp together at night, sharing stories of our journeys and the challenges we had faced. At Cooper’s Landing, a popular spot for cyclists, the simple act of setting up camp turned into a lively celebration. With live music playing in the background and cold beers in hand, the campsite became a gathering place for cyclists to relax, unwind, and share their experiences. It was a reminder that even in the midst of a solo biketour, there were moments of joy, friendship, and community that made it all worthwhile.

The kindness of strangers continued to be part of my journey. In Marthasville, Jon, a friendly campground owner (KT Caboose), surprised me with a farewell envelope containing $100 - “for a motel when you need it,” he insisted. The gesture left me speechless and it would be put to good use later on.

Crossing into Illinois, a chance encounter with Waffle House introduced me to another hearty American breakfast: scattered, smothered, covered hashbrowns, while Warmshowers hosts in Wood River provided food, stories, and a much-needed respite from the heat. The Midwest, despite its unrelenting summer heat, had a way of softening its edges through the generosity of its people and I would soon leave it all behind to venture north towards the great lakes.

Chasing historical trail experiences on my way to the East Coast

Indiana and Ohio followed, with sleepy farm roads, shaded bike paths, and small-town charm. I celebrated the Fourth of July with my Warmshowers hosts in Bloomington, kayaking on Lake Monroe before watching fireworks explode over the water. In Columbus, a passing cyclist handed me $40 and a recommendation for Amy’s Donuts—another small, unexpected act of kindness that left a lasting impression.

As I neared Ohio, Tropical Storm Beryl loomed on the horizon, threatening to upend my carefully mapped route. But the paved bike paths of the Ohio to Erie Trail made for smooth, scenic riding, guiding me through forests and farmland. In Dayton, a Warmshowers host welcomed me with open arms, while in Akron, I camped near the old towpath trail, following the remnants of America’s canal era.

As I moved through Ohio and closer to Lake Erie, I also found myself passing through Amish country. For several days, I cycled through this fascinating region, observing the Amish community’s way of life. It was like stepping back in time. The Amish, known for their simple, traditional lifestyles, still rely on horse-drawn buggies to get around, and I often saw them heading to local stores, supermarkets and even Walmarts in their buggies, dressed in distinct, modest clothing with traditional bonnets and hats. It was a sight I had never encountered before, and I found myself fascinated by their commitment to a way of life that rejects many modern conveniences. The Amish have a long history in the U.S., having first arrived in Pennsylvania in the 18th century from Europe. Their strong religious beliefs and desire for a simple, humble existence led them to create their own communities, where they still maintain their traditions to this day. The Amish are often known for their farming and craftsmanship, and seeing their work up close was a reminder of the roots of American culture and the power of maintaining one’s heritage.

Pennsylvania welcomed me with more rolling hills and the promise of something truly special: the shores of Lake Erie. This massive body of water, with its endless expanse and wind-tossed waves, felt more like the ocean than a lake. As I approached, I couldn't help but be struck by its size, and I marveled at how, for centuries, these Great Lakes have played such a vital role in shaping the history of the United States. Back in the 1800s, the Great Lakes were a crucial transportation route for settlers heading west. Before the transcontinental railroad, it was the lakes that provided the most efficient way to move people and supplies across the vast expanse of the country. Boats and ships would travel from the eastern ports to the lakes, and from there, they could continue down rivers like the Ohio and Mississippi, all the way to the Gulf of Mexico. This waterway system, connecting the East Coast, the Great Lakes, and the heart of America, was instrumental in the expansion and development of the United States.

Along the shores of Lake Erie, I took my time, visiting quaint towns and indulging in sweet yummy ice cream, watching sunsets. There was something peaceful about those small, quiet moments—especially as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a warm glow over the water. The evenings were spent camping under the stars, with the soothing sound of the waves lapping at the shore as my soundtrack. Lake Erie’s waters, though calmer than the ocean, still had the power to make me feel like I was at the edge of something vast and mysterious.

A short detour from the lake led me to Buffalo, where I couldn’t resist visiting the iconic Niagara Falls. The sheer power of the water cascading over the falls was nothing short of awe-inspiring. I stood there for a while, taking in the beauty and might of the natural world, before continuing on my journey. Niagara Falls was a reminder of the incredible natural wonders the U.S. has to offer, and it made me reflect on how lucky I was to witness it firsthand during my travels.

After leaving Buffalo, I headed toward the Erie Canal Trail, which would carry me deeper into New York state. The Erie Canal holds a special place in U.S. history, as it once connected New York City to Chicago through a network of canals, allowing boats to travel between the Atlantic Ocean and the Great Lakes. Built in the early 19th century, the canal system was a monumental feat of engineering, complete with locks that lifted boats up the river and into Lake Erie. It was a lifeline for trade and commerce, connecting major cities and helping to fuel the nation’s westward expansion. As I pedaled along the Erie Canal Trail, I passed through old canal towns, where remnants of the past were still visible. The locks, some of which were still operational, stood as silent sentinels of an era when the canal was a bustling trade route. I camped by the canal several times, with the sound of water rushing through the locks lulling me peacefully to sleep each night.

The Grand Finale and the road into New York City

I continued to follow the Erie Canal Trail, which would turn into a larger trail path system called the Empire State Trail - this path would eventually lead me straight into downtown New York City. It felt like I was cycling through time, connecting with the past while moving forward into my own journey. The canal, the Amish country, and the Great Lakes - each part of the route had its own story to tell, and together they created a rich tapestry of history and culture that made my ride through Pennsylvania and New York a truly unforgettable experience.

The last stretch of my coast-to-coast journey was surreal. The familiar hum of the Hudson River guided me into Manhattan, where the towering skyline felt almost dreamlike after months of open non-urban landscapes. I stopped at Times Square, took in the Statue of Liberty from afar, and rolled into Brooklyn. I needed an end goal marker and I couldn’t think of anything better than choosing the Statue of Liberty. The deal I made with myself was this: Once I could spot the statue, that would mark the end of my bike tour around the world. What a magic moment it was when I reached that spot where I saw the torch of the statue peaking through some tree leaves. Three years of biketouring had come to an end. I had cycled around the world. My last couple of days in NYC were spent hanging around Brooklyn with an old friend, eating pizzas and watching the Manhattan skyline. I didn’t have many days before my return flight home to Denmark. I went to a local bike shop to get my bike boxed for the airplane. They knew I had just completed my journey and greeted me with gifts, bike tools, a trophy and balloons that congratulated me on completing my journey around the world. I couldn't have asked for a better end.

I loaded up my boxed bike into an Uber to leave for the airport. I sat in the car watching the city pass by and I reflected on the thousands of miles I cycled in this great country. The vast deserts of the West, the plains of Kansas, the rolling hills of Missouri and the historical Erie Canal - each stretch of road had left its mark. But more than the landscapes, it was the people who made this journey unforgettable: the Warmshowers hosts who welcomed me, the strangers who shared meals, the cyclists who offered advice and encouragement.

All of this wasn't just a story about a bicycle, a trip across America and a journey around the world — it was an unforgettable once in a lifetime story created by every person and place I encountered along the way.