Exhausted after a hot, grueling climb over Lost Trail Pass in Montana, we stopped for lunch: peanut butter and jelly sandwiches prepared directly on the pavement! That roadside picnic captured the essence of Bikecentennial—a 4,250-mile bicycle odyssey across America in the summer of 1976, billed as “the grandest touring event in the history of the bicycle.”
Half a century later, we came together to relive an extraordinary adventure that, for many of us, remains a defining experience of our lives. Last week, 67 of us gathered in Missoula, Montana, to celebrate Bikecentennial’s and Adventure Cycling’s Golden 50th anniversary. We were among the 4,200 cyclists who had crossed the country in 1976 to celebrate America’s Bikecentennial.
How did such an undertaking begin? In the early 1970s, Dan and Lys Burden and Greg and June Siple bicycled from Alaska to Argentina on Hemistour, an incredible journey featured in National Geographic magazine. Along the way, they conceived a bold idea: celebrate America’s Bicentennial by organizing a massive cross-country bicycle tour and establishing a new bicycle route across the nation. That extraordinary vision became reality in the summer of 1976.
Becoming a Bikecentennial Guide
When my good friend Scott Fischer and I heard about the tour, we jumped at the opportunity to become guides. Even though we were seasoned bicyclists, we had to pass a weeklong guide-training course organized by the American Youth Hostels near Tillamook, Oregon.
The course covered safety, bicycle mechanics, food, packing, and group dynamics. We finished with practice tours along the rugged Oregon coast, each trainee taking a turn leading. Scott and I passed and were assigned our groups: his departed June 1 and mine followed on June 10, 1976. We would spend the summer camping, carrying our own gear, and riding with people we had never met.
The 4,250-mile route began in Reedsport, Oregon, and ended near Yorktown, Virginia. Designed to showcase the country’s scenic beauty, it favored “blue highways” and low-traffic back roads. Along the way, we crossed ten states, traveled through 22 national forests and two national parks, and tackled mountain ranges, plains, and everything in between. Detailed maps and guidebooks introduced us to local history, culture, and trip logistics. As one cyclist famously observed, “I learned more about my country on this ride than most people do in a lifetime.”
Meeting My Group: Good Chemistry From The Start
I met my group in Reedsport Oregon the day before our June 10 departure. They came from California, Indiana, Kansas, Maryland, Montana, North Carolina, Oregon, and Wisconsin. We were 15 riders – ages 15 to 35, comprised of 12 men and 3 women. My assistant leader was Becky Gordon, who had just the right temperament and personality to complement mine.
Our group’s mettle was tested almost immediately. On our first day, we rode north along the Pacific coast before turning inland onto a narrow logging road that climbed steeply along the Smith River through Oregon’s Coastal Range. We covered just 32 miles before reaching Smith River Falls Recreation Area, where we pitched our tents.
The next morning, cold, steady rain drummed against the tent fabric. I wondered how I was going to persuade everyone to crawl out of their sleeping bags and climb Oxbow Divide in such miserable weather. Then I heard singing, laughter, and a crackling fire. Our cooks for the day, Jim and Brian, two 18-year-olds from Kansas, were preparing hot cereal and singing songs in the pouring rain. While the rest of us were contemplating the misery ahead, these two were already making the best of a difficult situation.
That was the moment I knew we had an exceptional group. We hadn’t yet covered 50 miles, but we were already becoming a team.
Over the next 82 days, we pedaled through Oregon, Idaho, Montana, Wyoming, Colorado, Kansas, Missouri, Illinois, Kentucky, West Virginia, and Virginia. We crossed the Coast Range, Cascades, Rockies, Ozarks, and Appalachians, climbing ten mountain passes along the way. The scenery was spectacular, the physical demands high, and the experiences unforgettable.
Consider White Bird “Hill” in Idaho. Calling it a hill was an understatement. We climbed nine miles and negotiated 13 switchbacks, ascending from the tiny town of White Bird at 1,581 feet to the summit at 4,245 feet—a gain of 2,664 feet.
But the climbs were only half the story. Descents could be exhilarating—and terrifying. On Oregon’s Santiam Pass, as we descended from the Cascades into Central Oregon, the landscape changed from a wet, temperate coniferous forest to a drier pine forest.
Jim and Brian, our irrepressible Kansas duo, were riding just ahead of me. We were coasting at about 50 mph when Brian suddenly veered off the pavement onto the gravel shoulder. Instead of crashing, Brian began skidding through the gravel as if he were slalom skiing—except he was on a heavily loaded touring bicycle. After roughly 20 yards, he miraculously swerved back onto the pavement, wearing a broad smile.
Descending 11,539 elevation Hoosier Pass, Colorado – the highest of our journey – however, did not turn out well. Marty was coasting downhill while carrying a Boda Bag on his rear rack, secured with a bungee cord. During the rough, high-speed descent, it came loose and wedged between the bicycle frame and rear wheel.
The bike stopped abruptly; Marty hit the pavement and suffered a broken wrist. Thankfully, he was wearing a helmet, which helped protect him from a serious head injury. But his tour was over.
Although Marty’s disappointment was profound, he refused to let the accident separate him entirely from the adventure. As we progressed eastward, he took weekend trips from his home in West Virginia to reconnect with us. Later, he organized a major party for us in Blacksburg, Virginia.
Determined to Ride Every Mile
And then there was Jim’s mild but damaging crash in the hot, windy expanses of Wyoming. The conditions here were so punishing that we had agreed to start riding at sunrise to beat the heat. One morning, at 5:30 AM, still sleepy Jim inadvertently crashed into a fellow cyclist standing on the road at low speed. Jim and the other cyclist were fine, but Jim’s bike was not. The crash severely bent his front wheel.
I inspected the damage and concluded that the wheel was beyond repair. I suggested that Jim catch a bus to the next town with a bike shop and meet us there. But Jim would have none of it. He was determined to ride every mile of the route.
We tried to straighten the wheel using spoke wrenches, but weren’t making much progress. Finally, in frustration, Jim took the wheel to a barbed-wire fence post, braced it with his knee, and forcefully bent it back toward him. We then returned to the spoke wrenches and worked some more. Miraculously, we got the wheel straight enough to ride. Jim continued on that battered wheel for more than 700 miles, all the way to Newton, Kansas, to a bike shop for repair. Later in life, I was not surprised to learn that Jim worked in a bike shop.
It’s a Family Affair
Not every Bikecentennial group stayed together. The demands of the journey took their toll, and some groups split apart, producing a number of “orphans”—riders left to continue alone. Inspired by the Sly and the Family Stone Song that was popular at the time, I tried to create a family atmosphere on the road. Becky helped set this tone.
Our group lost two members: one dropped out early, unable to withstand the rigors of the trip, and another, as previously mentioned, was sidelined by a broken wrist. We also welcomed two riders from other groups — both of whom added considerably to our “family” atmosphere. Through all the hardships and changes, we built something special. We began as strangers, and became companions and friends.
The Bikecentennial adventure wasn’t just about the riding. It was also about the people and places we encountered along the way. At our 50 mile/day pace we had time to stop, explore, and meet people. Doing so greatly enhanced the journey.
In several small towns in Kansas and Missouri, mayors came out to greet us and personally show us around. One even tried to persuade a physician in the group that accompanied ours to relocate to his town of Johnson City, Missouri. Often, communities hosted dinners for us featuring home-cooked meals, fresh local produce, and live music.
The hospitality was extraordinary. Perhaps it was partly because many of these towns had rarely seen tourists, much less a rolling caravan of young cyclists crossing the country. Whatever the reason, people welcomed us with warmth and generosity.
Fifty Years Later
Bikecentennial was a remarkable achievement, made possible by the imagination, determination, and vision of its founders. They dreamed up an audacious way to celebrate America’s 200th birthday, and thousands of us were fortunate to be part of it.
For me, the rewards went far beyond 4,250 miles of pedaling. There were the mountains we climbed, the spectacular landscapes we rode through, the mechanical disasters we overcame, the breathtaking descents, the kindness and generosity of strangers, and the companionship that carried us through tough conditions. There was also the satisfaction of completing something difficult—and the friendships that outlasted the journey itself. I have a mental movie of the entire trip that I can still replay from memory. I’m probably not the only B’76 rider who can do this.
Bikecentennial left much more than memories; it spawned Adventure Cycling which has been “inspiring, empowering and connecting bicycle travelers for half a century.” Bikecentennial also dedicated the first cross-country bicycle trail. Adventure Cycling has since dedicated eight more, criss-crossing the U.S. in multiple directions, including a north:south Continental Divide trail for mountain biking.
Last week’s reunion in Missoula brought it all back. Dave from my group summed it up: “It was the best summer ever.” We nodded our heads in agreement.
