Earlier this Summer I spent 45 days riding the (GDMBR) from Antelope Wells, NM, to Banff, Alberta. The 2,700-mile journey was the longest trip Iā€™ve ever takenā€”human powered or otherwiseā€”and hands-down the most impactful. Thereā€™s nothing quite like traveling by bike, passing through some of the most beautiful parts of North America, and relying on nothing but yourself and your gear.

Adding to the magic of the ride was the GDMBRā€™s storied history. The started mapping the route in the 1990ā€™s, and while it can be done solo and at a leisurely pace, itā€™s best known in the context of the , an annual competition that turns the GDMBR into a grueling, ultra-distance race course. Racers typically finish in around 20 daysā€”though the record, , is now 13 days, 2 hours and 16 minutes.

All bikepacking trips tend to be pretty gear intensive, but thatā€™s especially true on the Divide given how long and remote it is. The route consists mainly of dirt and gravel roads, and cell service is spotty. Itā€™s typically two to three days between resupply points, which makes packing and planning crucially important. I also chose to do the trip with a lightweight bikepacking setup rather than heavy panniers, which seriously limited the amount of stuff I could bring.

In an effort to maximize efficiency, Tour Divide racers go to great lengths to make sure their bikepacking kit is absolutely perfect. I wasnā€™t racing, but any time spent dealing with mechanicals or mucking with gear that isnā€™t working properly is time you could be riding or resting, so I wanted my setup as dialed as possible.

Hereā€™s a breakdown of the gear I used to get myself from the Mexican border to Canada on my bikeā€”plus some insights as to what worked and what didnā€™t. For the sake of organization, Iā€™ve split this review into a few parts:

• Bike and components
• Bikepacking bags
• Sleep setup
• Electronics and navigation
• Others odds and ends

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Bike and Components

After a lot of deliberation, I chose to ride my trusty on the trip, and couldnā€™t be more happy with my choice. I swapped out the larger, 3-inch tires for a set of smaller and faster-rolling (which is what the vast majority of folks racing the Tour Divide use). I also swapped the dropper post for a rigid one, a choice that paid off in both weight savings and reliability. Even on long stretches of washboard and rocky train, the 29×2.6-inch tire (paired with the bikeā€™s carbon frame, fork, and wheels) made for a surprisingly comfortable ride.

One major change I made was swapping the suspension fork for a rigid one. Trekā€™s shares the same frame as the Stache, so the fork transferred over. That allowed me to bolt on two , where I carried two 1.5L Nalgene water bottles. But, more importantly, the swap let me use Trekā€™s 1120 front cradle. In the past, Iā€™ve used a handlebar roll on my bike, but the cradle allowed me to simplify things and strap a lightweight dry bag to the bike with two . I was able to fit more gear up front on the bike without interfering with brake and shifter cables or the steering, and there was absolutely zero play in the setup.

The GDMBR is a very long route, and oftentimes people run into comfort issues like hand numbness and shoulder and neck pain. To combat that, I added and a set of . I also added a pair of to the mix. All of that gave me four really solid hand positions that I was constantly switching between, and I didnā€™t have any comfort issues.

Bikepacking Bags

My bag setup was very similar to what I used on the Colorado Trail in 2019. One big update: adding the . This seat bag was incredibly spacious, and it allowed me to cram significantly more stuff in it than Iā€™ve been able to with dropper post-compatible bags in the past. It mounts to the bottom of the bikeā€™s saddle, and attaches via a clever pin system with an added strap. It never so much as wiggled, yet it popped off the bike in seconds at the end of the day.

I also used a , which was specifically designed to house a . I was able to fit my Jetboil, plus some heavier items like my repair kit and a small bike lock, without issue.

In addition to the other bags, which let me store the rest of my kit while maintaining weight distribution, I also carried a small where I tried to keep lightweight stuff like drink mixes, freeze dried meals, and charging cables, and generally keep as much weight off my back as possible. That strategy has worked for me in the past, and worked wonderfully on the Divide.

Sleep Setup

• +

I chose to bring gear Iā€™ve used for years, like my bag and pad, because I trust them and know theyā€™ll keep me comfortable. After all, sleep is important for recovering after 8 to 10 hours on the bike every day. My was overkill when I started in Southern New Mexico in early June, but I needed every last bit of the warmth by the time I ran into snow around the Colorado border.

I spent a lot of time researching and testing tents for the trip since Iā€™d be spending so much time in one, and ultimately settled on the . I prefer a freestanding tent for the ease of pitching, and the Copper Spur is one of the best Iā€™ve ever used. It was plenty roomy for my 6ā€™4ā€ frame thanks to vertical bathtub walls at the head and foot, and the massive vestibule had plenty of room for all my gear during the storms I rode out. There were several times when I had to quickly pitch just footprint and fly because Iā€™d misjudged the weather, and I was able to pitch the tent itself from underneath the fly, keeping me and most of my stuff dry in the process. The Copper Spur had great airflow, so I never dealt with the condensation issues that often plague single-wall setups. At just over 2 pounds, thereā€™s no weight penalty, either.

Clothing

• and

The real hero of my trip was my . It was the perfect layer both for deflecting sun amid boiling midday heat and staving off the cold on chilly evenings. I wore it every single day for 45 days, and it never failed me. The hood is generous enough to fit over a bike helmet, and the lightweight material has yet to show any serious signs of wear.

I also brought a full rain suit, and Iā€™m glad I did. Youā€™re almost guaranteed to see the full spectrum of weather on the Divide, and the and were the perfect blend of lightweight packability and serious waterproofing. It rained a lot on my trip. A lot of folks I met brought just a rain jacket in an effort to save weightā€”and kicked themselves the whole time.

Electronics and Navigation

I used my phone and a as my primary navigation devices. I upgraded to an right before my trip for a couple of reasons: The battery life, which Apple says offers up to 29 hours of video playback or 95 hours of audio playback, is significantly improved over my older iPhone 13, and the camera is far better, as well. I also went with the Pro Max for the larger screen, which gives you more real estate when using mapping apps. Although I never had to use it, I also upgraded because I wanted the SOS feature as a backup.

I mounted my phone to my bars using and , which kept it extremely secure while on the bike but let me quickly pop it off when I went into a store. I was blown away by how secure it was on technical terrain, and I never had an issue in 2,700 miles.

The other crucial piece of gadgetry was my . It served as my primary communication with my wife and family members whenever I didnā€™t have cell service (which was a lot of the time). I was most impressed by the battery life: even with location tracking turned on, I only needed to recharge it a handful of times in 45 days of constant use.

Other Odds and Ends

• 1.5L Nalgene bottles
• in frame bag
• and bladder
• Chain lube and rag

What Would I Do Differently?Ģż

• Carry a full-size multi-tool from the get-go. (I replaced my mini Leatherman with a larger version about halfway through my ride.)
• Pack an extra shirt and pair shorts for in-town days and rest days.
• Replace bearings and pedals before the ride.
• I swapped the road helmet and glasses I wore originally for a and glasses in Salida. I wish Iā€™d worn them the whole time for more coverage and the visor.
• Pack waterproof gloves for rainy-day riding.
• Bring a wall charger.

I originally packed a lightweight, synthetic t-shirt and running shorts, but ditched them early in the ride when my friend met up with me. In hindsight, I wish Iā€™d hung onto those, because it wouldā€™ve been really nice to change into them while doing laundry or resupplying during a town stop. The point being: on a long trip like the GDMBR, a few luxuries are worth the extra weight.

Looking back, I wouldnā€™t have changed a thing about my bike setup, and I think a hardtail is absolutely the way to go for a trip along the GDMBR. Despite having a reputation for being a relatively mellow route from a technical standpoint, I canā€™t imagine doing it on a gravel bike. I chatted with lots of riders along the way who saw my setup, and they wished theyā€™d gone with wider tires and flat bars in lieu of their skinny rubber and drop bars.

The kit I brought with me worked so seamlessly that it faded into the background and let me focus on the ride. More than any other trip Iā€™ve taken, this one reinforced the idea that life is about experiences, not stuffā€”but the right gear can definitely make those experiences better.

The post I Biked from Mexico to Canada. Hereā€™s the Gear I Relied On. appeared first on ŗŚĮĻ³Ō¹ĻĶų Online.

Picture the Peruvian Andes: rugged peaks, 16,000-foot passes, remote landscapes, and adventure opportunities abound. But for two ambitious bikepackers, the areaā€™s allure was about more than just its natural beauty. When athlete and photographer and endurance athlete and documentarian decided to traverse the Qhapaq Ƒan from La Paz, Bolivia, to Cusco, Peru, they were following a desire to learn more about the locals and themselves. Over 37 days, the pair was immersed in heritage, culture, and historyā€”an experience they agree was thanks to the slow simplicity of bikepacking. Hereā€™s their take on the experience.

ŗŚĮĻ³Ō¹ĻĶų: What is the Qhapaq Ƒan, and what inspired you to bikepack it?

Leonardo Brasil: I was born and raised in Brazil and was lucky to have lived in Colorado, USA, for ten years before moving back to my hometown of Rio de Janeiro. Since I never owned a vehicle, I found my passion for bikepacking while living abroad as a natural evolution of my curiosity to experience different cultures and see places. Exploring South America, the continent that Iā€™m from, was the next obvious step. My goal was to understand a bit more about our Hispanic neighborsā€”since Brazil is the only Portuguese-speaking country over thereā€”and to experience their way of life both as a human on this earth and as a photographer and storyteller.

Adam Andres Pawlikiewicz Mesa: Translated from Quechua, the ā€œRoyal Roadā€ once united all Andean communities from Colombia to Chile in an intricate road system of more than 18,600 miles. Constructed by the Incas over several centuriesā€”and partly based on pre-Inca infrastructureā€”this extraordinary network navigates one of the worldā€™s most extreme geographical terrains. It links the snowcapped peaks of the Andesā€”at an altitude of more than 19,600 feetā€”to the coast. Along the way, it runs through hot rainforests, fertile valleys, and absolute deserts. In 2014, it became an UNESCO World Heritage site. As a bikepacker and documentarian, I wanted to celebrate this rich history and to celebrate this part of my identity and ancestry in a way that made sense to me.

What was your favorite experience on the Qhapaq Ƒan?

Leonardo: For the most part, locals speak Aymara in the mountains of Bolivia and Quechua in Peru, and Spanish is their second languageā€”just as is mine. Being able to share a bit about my life with the people I met and to learn about their culture in return was an invaluable experience. One particular moment comes to mind: It was around day ten, when we left Sorata and began the long climb on the Ruta de las Tres Cordilleras. We arrived at a town called Pocobaya around 4 p.m.ā€”around when we normally began looking for a camp. We asked a local if we could camp on their soccer field. A few hours later, after we had set up our tent, all the kids began to show up to investigate us. They were curious about everythingā€”our bikes, our tent, how we made food on our tiny stoves, and why I ā€œdidnā€™t talk properly.ā€ But one common interest united us all: soccer.

Adam: One of my favorite experiences on the Qhapaq Ƒan was about two weeks into the journey. We happened upon a few ranchers with their alpaca near the small village of Inca Capaturi. I noticed from afar that they were appearing to be shearing the fur of the animals. Eventually, we realized that they were actually processing the animals, right there in an open field. Curious, I wanted to engage, but since we were in such a remote area, we approached cautiously. It ended up being a family endeavor, and everyone welcomed us into the experience. Nelson, one of the ranchers, shared that in this part of the world, the natives save the blood of the animals and, later on, pour the blood at the entrance of the mines to bless passage and bring good luck to the miners.

How did you select your kits for such a long bikepacking expedition?Ģż

Leonardo: We carefully chose each piece of our gear with two important qualifications in mind: the durability to withstand the abuse of a monthlong traverse in desolated territory and the versatility to adapt to the ever-changing weather we expected to face at 16,000 feet. We carried very light cycling kits. For clothes, we relied on essential pieces:

• : Soft, breathable, and quick-drying, this hoodie was perfect for everyday wear.
• : Made from a breathable softshell fabric, these shorts delivered all-day comfort with thigh venting zips for further ventilation and saddle reinforcements for durability.
• : These packable waterproof biking pants offered unmatched comfort in the saddle and reliable protection whenever the weather would turn.
• : Insulated with 700 fill power 100 percent recycled down, this reliably warm jacket was the perfect layer for nights at camp.

We also carried the for comfortable warmth in the varying high-alpine conditions. Hereā€™s a video of on our expedition.

Along your journey, what was the greatest challenge you faced, and how did you overcome it?

Adam: Our greatest challenge was the injury I endured at nearly 17,000 feet. About 30 miles from the finish of our planned route and just after summiting a rocky mountain pass, I crashed. We bundled up at the top as it began to hail. We were excited for a large descent after eight hours of pushing our bikes uphill. Leonardo was ahead of me as I photographed from behind. I excitedly started riding after him but quickly lost control and clipped a large boulder to my right. In an attempt to correct, I pulled the bike left and immediately flipped over my handlebars, landing in a field of screeā€”my left wrist absorbing the impact. I heard a crack, and a surge of pain radiated through my whole body. Leonardo rushed to me. And as we began to investigate, we realized that I had fractured my wrist. Over the next 48 hours, we pushed our bikes to the nearest path-turned-road until we arrived at a town that offered a bus to Cusco.

What advice would you give to someone whoā€™s interested in planning a similar adventure?

Leonardo: Be open-minded. Things are not going to go as plannedā€”they rarely doā€”and the best approach anyone could have in these situations is to adapt and move on. What would you do if you slash your tire beyond repair in the middle of nowhere on the fifth day of a monthlong expedition? What would you do if you unexpectedly ride for six days without finding a single tienda to resupply and you are running dangerously low on food? What would you do if your partner crashes and breaks his arm at nearly 16,000 feet and the next town is a day away? You canā€™t plan for all possible scenarios, and you need to be okay with that. Thatā€™s the beautiful nature of adventure.

Adam: Set an intention, but similar to Leonardoā€™s advice, remain flexible. The fuel for these adventures is the desire to learn more about yourself and the world around you. With that in mind, the ā€œdestinationā€ or ā€œgoalā€ is rather flexible. As long as you grow from the experience, it’s a win in my book.

More than 40 years since our founding, continues to find inspiration in the untamed spirit of the mountains where we climb, the friendships we forge on the peak, and our enduring mission: to grow our community of mountain people and equip them for adventure.

We are committed to putting people at the heart of what we do. From our partners and athletes to our staff and everyone who has used and loved our gear, we are a global community that goes beyond mountains and crags, and itā€™s up to us to make sure itā€™s inclusive, diverse, and growing.

The post Bikepacking the Oldest Historic Road in Latin America appeared first on ŗŚĮĻ³Ō¹ĻĶų Online.

Welcome to Tough Love. Weā€™re answering your questions about dating, breakups, and everything in between. Our advice giver is Blair Braverman, dogsled racer and author of and . Have a question of your own? Write to us atĢżtoughlove@outsideinc.com.

My boyfriend of three years is never satisfied: no adventure is long enough, technical enough, challenging enough, etc. It exhausts me.Ģż

He and I bonded over our love for bikes. I raced on the road, and he did ultra endurance bikepacking and mountain biking. We both mountain bike together often, but itā€™s not enough. Recently heā€™s been asking me to support him with longer adventures, and Iā€™ll do it because I love him, but I have no interest. For example, who wants to drive five hours to drop someone off, then drive five hours back home alone to get back to all the other responsibilities we have?Ģż

He said we have nothing in common, which is untrue (see above), but for whatever reason, he canā€™t seem to respect my wishes when it comes to doing these major adventures. Either Iā€™m being selfish by not supporting him, or heā€™s upset because I donā€™t want to do the same thing as him, even if I try my best to compromise.Ģż

When we first got together, I was clear about how I like to enjoy my hobbies, and after spending my twenties pushing myself, Iā€™m ready for a slower pace. I have always openly expressed that I have no desire to dig deep again. Honestly, even doing an overnight bikepacking adventure seems exhausting and expensive, and with quarterly and HOA fees, pets, career commitments, and all the other adult things, I just canā€™t (and wonā€™t) do it. I love him, but he acts like a petulant child; heā€™ll get upset, declare that I donā€™t love him or support him, and threaten to leave. Iā€™m not sure if I should laugh or cry, because either way we both lose and itā€™s just ridiculous. These hobbies are meant to be fun, right?Ģż

All of this is compounded by the fact that he feels stuck and bored and exhausted by the simple and slower aspects of life. So Iā€™m left here, scratching my headā€¦ when is it ever enough? Am I being a buzzkill? Have I lost my sense of adventure? Or am I not being supported by my partner? Am I being selfish, or is he?

I really donā€™t like that he accused you of not loving him, and said you have nothing in common; that seems extreme, untrue, and designed to hurt. At the same time, I can understand how, if you bonded over bikes, it might feel jarring to him if you suddenly donā€™t seem into them anymore. I have to wonder: have you lost interest in biking, or have you lost interest in biking with him? Itā€™s easy to see how an activity that you once loved could become stressful and annoying if youā€™re constantly being pressured to go harder than you want to go, rather than enjoying things at your own pace.

Your situation reminds me a lot of the dogsledding world, which is the sport I know best, because itā€™s very common for one partner to want to mush, and the other not toā€”but mushing is such an all-consuming lifestyle that it ends up dictating a lot of the couplesā€™ choices, including where they live and if they, say, have indoor plumbing. I know a number of mushing spouses who have strong boundaries when it comes to what they are and arenā€™t willing to get involved with: they might put a firm no on helping with dog chores or having more than a few dogs in the house, but be happy to cheer at races and cuddle with puppies and retirees. Still, their lives (and finances) are shaped by their partnersā€™ passion. Mushing is all-encompassing in a way that few other lifestyles are (perhaps living at sea would be comparable?), but it might be a useful parallel to consider. If you know youā€™re unhappy being the partner of an adventurer, or the partner of this adventurer, then itā€™s better to face that fact sooner rather than later. But if youā€™d be happy to enjoy your quiet life at home and cheer him on from afarā€”as long as the dynamic feels loving and mutually supportiveā€”then thatā€™s something you can work toward if youā€™re both willing to try.

There are plenty of loving, long-term couples with separate interests, and thereā€™s absolutely no reason that you have to do everything together in order to be happy. You can find creative ways to support each otherā€™s hobbies without actually participating in them: in your case, you might ask him for stories when he gets back, send him articles he might like, go out and take pictures if heā€™s biking near your home, or pack some special foods for his adventures. Similarly, if you have an interest that he doesnā€™t shareā€”letā€™s say gardening, for exampleā€”he doesnā€™t need to garden with you in order to be supportive. But it would be lovely if heā€™d notice and comment on how the garden is growing, show extra excitement and pride when it comes to eating things youā€™ve grown, and offer to water the plants when youā€™re away.

For this reason, it seems like your conflicts are more about expectations and communication than about your respective pastime preferences. Youā€™d be well-served by seeing a couplesā€™ therapist, if you havenā€™t already. Iā€™m sure things are more complicated than what youā€™ve described in your letter, and an expert could help you get to the bottom of the conflict. It might take a while, and effort on both your parts, for a new balance to shake out, and you both have to decide if you want itā€”but if you both choose to commit, then I think youā€™ll be able to work this out.

The post My Partner Is Looking for Bigger ŗŚĮĻ³Ō¹ĻĶųs, but Iā€™m Ready to Slow DownĢż appeared first on ŗŚĮĻ³Ō¹ĻĶų Online.

If you love biking along backcountry roads and trails, why not just keep going? Why not indeed. Simply pack camping gear and ride as far and as long as you want. Thatā€™s the beauty of bikepacking, and why has launched a new line of gear designed specifically to support the growing sport. We spoke with , a ¹óĀįƤ±ō±ō°łĆ¤±¹±š²Ō Friend and adventure cyclist and advocate based in Durango, Colorado, about bikepacking, the new S/F gear, and her top advice for beginners.ĢżĢżĢżĢżĢż

ŗŚĮĻ³Ō¹ĻĶų: Whatā€™s special about bikepacking?

Sarah Swallow: Bikepacking offers a unique opportunity to explore and immerse myself in experiences and natural landscapes often inaccessible by other means of transportation. Every trip is an eye-opening journey that takes me away from everyday life while bringing me closer to myself and my surroundings. The sport provides perspective on life and an understanding of my physical and mental capabilities. I gain inspiration from the natural environments I travel through, and Iā€™m always humbled by lessons from the adventure. Bikepacking is not an escape but an embracing of reality that always leads me to a newfound appreciation of my life and the world around me.

What are your favorite bikepacking adventures?ĢżĢż

My favorite bikepacking trips include a combination of land and water adventures. For example, I love bikepacking in Baja California, Mexico. One minute Iā€™m sweating it out pedaling a technical dirt road through date palms or otherworldly cacti characteristic of the diverse Sonoran Desert. The next minute, Iā€™m boogie boarding in the Pacific Ocean or snorkeling and exploring life beneath the surface of the Gulf of California. Because I am traveling by bicycle, I can often get to remote beaches that most folks canā€™t reachā€”a little private slice of paradise for the night. Itā€™s nice to mix up the routine of a bike tour with some extracurricular activities. While cycling is my primary love, swimming and water activities are a close second!

How and where did you test the new ¹óĀįƤ±ō±ō°łĆ¤±¹±š²Ō bikepacking gear?

Iā€™ve tested the ¹óĀįƤ±ō±ō°łĆ¤±¹±š²Ō bikepacking gear on all types of trips: monthlong expeditions in South America; the Tour Divide; scouting and developing new cycling routes in Sonora, Mexico; on my favorite bikepacking loops in the San Juan Mountains in Colorado and the Sky Islands in southern Arizona; and just commuting around town in Durango Colorado, and Tucson Arizona. The gear is versatile for everything from big expeditions to commuting around a city.

What makes S/F bikepacking gear different? What are your favorite products?Ģż

The ¹óĀįƤ±ō±ō°łĆ¤±¹±š²Ō bikepacking gear is different because each product is a creative and multipurpose solution to bikepacking equipment. Some unique offerings from the product line: a waterproof seat pack, a tote for the cool cave pannier, and a that doubles as a wearable down poncho. In addition, the gear is fashionable and designed with high-quality, durable, and environmentally conscious material that will withstand the use and abuse of years of bikepacking in all weather and terrain. My favorite product is the , which is much more than just a hip packā€”it also converts into a lightweight backpack. I use the Expandable Hip Pack in backpack mode as my carry-on when traveling to bikepacking trips, in hip pack mode while I am riding, and in backpack mode again while resupplying in town. I also use the hip pack on my daily mountain bike rides to carry snacks and an extra water bottle, and then I swap it into backpack mode to pick up a few items at the grocery store on my way home after the ride.

What are the ¹óĀįƤ±ō±ō°łĆ¤±¹±š²Ō Ride Outs?

The ¹óĀįƤ±ō±ō°łĆ¤±¹±š²Ō Ride Outs are opportunities to go on a beginner-friendly bikepacking overnight trip with a community of like-minded individuals. The Ride Outs are a great time to try your first bikepacking trip in the company of others, meet fellow bikepackers, talk gear, and get inspiration for future trips. Three Ride Outs are scheduled this year: Boulder, Colorado, on August 26-27; Asheville, North Carolina, on September 16-17; and Costa Mesa, California, on September 30-October 1. Iā€™m excited to attend the Ride Outs in Boulder and Costa Mesa.

Whatā€™s your top advice for people just getting into bikepacking?

Getting into bikepacking can be overwhelming initially, so try not to get bogged down in the details and nuance. Use what you have or borrow some bags, throw in whatever gear you currently own, and get out for your first tour! Youā€™ll quickly figure out what works for you and what you like and donā€™t like. Then you can gradually acquire gear and refine your setup as time and budget allow. Here are my top tips for new bikepackers:

Plan ahead, but not too much. Have a route and note its distance, elevation, and food and water resupply points.Ģż

Embrace the unexpected. We live such rigid, goal-oriented lives that it can be challenging to be flexible and adaptable and to embrace the unexpected changes that can happen during an adventure. Bikepacking can be less stressful and much more fun if we let loose a little.Ģż

Donā€™t rush it. Take a lot of breaks, go for mid-ride hikes and swims, explore, and take pictures! Ditch those gel packs, and bring real food for a picnic, such as hard salami, cheese, crackers, and olives.Ģż

Get out there, no matter your gear. My friend carried a backpack full of her stuff and strapped a full-size pillow to her bike on her first bikepacking trip. She had a blast! You donā€™t need fancy gear to start. Work up to it and use what you have. has tons of general information about bikepacking, gear, routes, events, and stories.Ģż

Start small. A 50-mile route one a bike fully loaded with bikepacking gear will take much longer than an unloaded ride. Plan more time than you think you need for your first few trips. My favorite average daily distance is 25 to 30 miles, depending on terrain (dirt road vs. singletrack), conditions, and elevation.

In 1960, ƅke Nordin founded in his basement in the Swedish town of Ɩrnskƶldsvik. Since then, the brand has stayed true to its mission of developing timeless, functional, and durable outdoor equipment; acting responsibly toward people, animals, and the environment; and inspiring more people to discover outdoor life.

The post Two-Wheeled ŗŚĮĻ³Ō¹ĻĶųĢż appeared first on ŗŚĮĻ³Ō¹ĻĶų Online.

Jonny Moses Soto-Altrogge told his story to producer Sarah Fuss Kessler for an episode of The Daily Rally podcast. It has been edited for length and clarity.

Here in the city, I was working with students of color and all kinds of backgrounds, who were often experiencing being outdoors for like the first time. And often I would hear the students, whether it was climbing or backpacking, say, ā€œThis isn’t for us.” Like, ā€œWe Black people don’t climb, Black people, blah, blah, blah.”

I live in the heart of Brooklyn. If you know anything about Brooklyn, it’s very loud, so you might hear some noise in the background.

I have worked for Outward Bound for almost a decade nowā€”I think I’m on year nineā€”leading all kinds of outdoor programming for young people all with the intention of building resilience, and teaching students about responsibility and communication and leadership.

I think there was a particular time during a five-night backpacking trip where we had a group of students from the city. There was this weird period of YouTube that there were clowns in the woods pranks that were happening. I remember students being like, “Yo, there’s no clowns out here in these woods, right?” And then another student was like, “That’s why we Black people don’t come to the woods. Like, we gonna get killed out here.” They were doing it humorously, but there was some actual fear embedded in that, you know?

The history of the fear that Black and brown folks feel and express about being in the woods or wilderness is as long as the history of this country is. First of all, Black and brown folks literally toiled the lands, created the foundation for our industries. But then there’s also this connotation of being slaves, being killed in the woods, being tracked in the woods, being lynched on trees. Of rural people, or the folks who have the shotguns, don’t want you here, don’t go near them.

At the end of the trip, one of the students who I really connected with a lot told me that for his career, he wanted to be a wilderness first responder. He wanted to go out and train to help save people in the wilderness. And this is a kid from Harlem.

That kind of keyed me in. How can we make that happen more often? How can we eliminate some of that fear? That fear is real. I felt that fear. But, how do we claim the space? Because they deserve it, too.

I was like, I want to do a big trip. I don’t know what that means or what that looks like yet, but I want to do a trip. At some point I identified that I wanted to bike the Continental Divide, so that young students of mine, or like mine, could see people like me doing this big outdoor trip and be like, “Oh, you know what? That’s kind of cool. And maybe these things are for me. Maybe Black people do do these things.”

Plus I just wanted to kind of kick my own ass for a while.

So the Great Divide mountain bike route originally stemmed from Banff to Antelope Wells, New Mexico, which is right on the border of Mexico in the United States. It runs 2,700 miles approximately. Something like 200,000 feet of elevation gain overall.

I started the ride on June 22nd, 2019. I think I was shooting for six weeks.

I remember those first few pedals, my body and inside was screaming like, Ahhhhhhh, we’re doing it! It’s going down, it’s legit.

The vastness of Banff. Banff feels like it’s fake. It’s so beautiful, it’s so massive. And so to be in this massive, incredible place, starting this massive, incredible ride. At one point on my bike, it was just a little too much. I just started to cry. Not out of fear or nervousness, just at the gravity and grandeur of it all. It just really sunk in. Then the reality of a big bike tour also sunk in, of the pain and the hunger and all those things.

As a Black mountain biker and bikepacker, I had some incredible experiences with other people. And there were experiences that made me feel unsafe.

There was a campground in Montana, that was a state campground. Although there was no one in the campground, there was a family who managed it. I rode up and was like, “Hey, I’m gonna camp here if that’s cool. It’s state ground.” They sent me on my way pretty quickly. Most Black and brown people know that kind of situation. When you’re not wanted in a spot, I’m not gonna push that agenda.

Or there is an experience in Idaho. Just super long, flat, trail through the woods, kind of like a dirt bike trail. I could see in the distance a handful of four-wheelers with shotguns. And the anticipation of that interaction lasted a long time because they were pretty far away.

So eventually I reached them. I just rolled past them and gave them a little wave, and they didn’t say a damn word. And I just kept biking. I turned down my camera, pointed it behind me so I could see if they decided to come after me, but they didn’t follow, thankfully. But the fear that I experienced was real.

I have the potential to go do this amazing trip in the outdoors. I don’t want the power of fear of the folks who might be there and who might wish me harm or who might not love my presence there. I don’t want to give them the power of that fear.

This is my space, this is your space, this is our space.

Because really people show up for you in so many different ways. This guy coming up past me in the opposite direction saw me, turned around, came back, and gave me his gloves. And I had gloves, but these were wool, workmen, outdoor gloves. Heā€™s like, “Hey man, saw you’re cold,” and takes these gloves off of his own hands. That helped keep my hands warm enough to finish the thing I needed to finish, but then also warmed my soul. It was an incredible moment of human connection. That was a huge moment for me.

As I was doing the trip, I was posting about it intentionally to get folks to see it. So throughout the course, as the miles grew, the amount of people following my experience and trip grew as well.

My little documentary that I made about the trip, which is on YouTube. There were students who I would show the video, or pictures, or tell stories to, who had that kind of classic young person reaction of, “Oh man, that’s cool.” Sparking that kind of excitement or imagination for a young personā€¦to me, that was the win.

It was like, Hell yeah. That’s why I did this.

Johnny Moses Soto Altru is a social and emotional coach for New York City Outward Bound schools, and a racial equity consultant for True North education. He’s also the captain of Team Onyx, the first all Black adventure racing team. He lives in Brooklyn with his wife, their son, and their pets.

You can followĢżThe Daily RallyĢżonĢż,Ģż,Ģż, or wherever you like to listen.ĢżĢżandĢżĢżto be featured on the show.

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Challenging solo trips can be immensely rewarding. Just ask competitive bikepackers, who ride grueling courses through the backcountry carrying everything they need to survive. Completing these multiday journeys requires embracing solitude; in fact, for many riders, thatā€™s the appeal. This week we present an episode from the talented team at that features one of the stars of the sport, Lael Wilcox, plus an everyday athlete who latched onto bikepacking at what was already the loneliest moment in her life.

The post What We Getā€”and Donā€™tā€”from Adventuring Alone appeared first on ŗŚĮĻ³Ō¹ĻĶų Online.

Allan Shaw shared his story with producer Cat Jaffee for an episode of The Daily Rally podcast. It was edited for length and clarity.

It was 6 A.M., and I was in a very rural part of the state of Puebla, about 250 or 300 kilometers from Mexico City. I remember getting onto the main road and watching the sunrise. And then I have no memory.

And then it’s 7A.M.. The paramedics received a call that there was a cyclist lying in the road. I was taken to a tiny little town, with more of a clinic than a hospital. It was obvious I really needed emergency surgery.

I never know how to introduce who I am and what I do. I’m a cyclist, traveler, and photographer. I’ve worked as a bike messenger for a long time. I like to use my bike as an instrument to discover and experience the world. I also started a project called Gay’s Okay Cycling, an LGBTQ+ positive cycling brand making predominantly caps, T-shirts, and other apparel, with the idea of energizing and uplifting the LGBTQ+ community in cycling, as well as creating allies and more space for better representation.

When it comes to the accident, there were quite a lot of moments that really stuck out to me, as hard moments of realizing really how serious the situation was.

I think the first sort of really hard moment for me was arriving in the emergency room of the third hospital I was brought to. They were all waiting for me because they knew I was coming from quite far. There was a team of maybe 14 or 15 doctors all standing all around me. I just remember seeing the reflection of the expression in their eyes that told me for the first time, really strongly, this is very serious. You could see in their eyes that they were calculating and seeing all the things that they needed to do. They were very serious facial expressions. That’s when it really hit me for the first time.

I had broken my femur and my pelvis. The pelvis break was pretty serious. I didn’t know this before, your pelvis is the part of your body where all of your main blood arteries and nerves pass from your spinal cord into your legs and your lower body. Messing up that kind of surgery or not responding to it quickly can be a very serious situation.

Also given that I was navigating the whole experience in Spanish, I didn’t always necessarily fully understand what they were telling me they were going to do. So, in the very beginning, it was about letting go of all control and trusting, but also managing a certain amount of fear.

Then the rest of the emotions creep in. You obviously have all these emotions about how sad it is that youā€™ve broken yourself, and the disappointment of all the future plans you had that are not going to happen. Having to process the fact that life was going to change, and it was going to take some time, and a lot of my plans were going to fall through. I prided myself for so long on not having a serious accident. And so there’s this sort of dig to your pride.

One of the frustrating parts for me, I think, is I’m a get up and go sort of person, when I feel like, OK, here’s a problem to be solved, and I’m going to jump on it and go. So with this, I thought, OK, I’ve got to recover. So let’s make the recovery happen. But ultimately, it’s not a quick process. And also you can’t rush it because you have to do it right. Iā€™m going to keep at it, but Iā€™m going to be patient and listen to my body and let it dictate how quickly I go.

When you put all of the bits of the story together and you see where I ended up, and how I am now, and none of the plans I made matter. It would be silly to put so much weight on them, given how lucky I am that the situation worked itself out the way it did. It all pales in comparison to the fact that I’m ultimately OK.

I think my main mantra at the moment is the idea of patience and persistence. This is the game for me right now. I’ve also been using the Spanish term poco a poco a lot, like bit by bit. DĆ­a a dĆ­a. Day by day.

One poco is like three more degrees of bend on my knee a day. That’s what I’m aiming for. My knee on my left leg is very stiff, and once I get back to the point of using it more for walking, I really want to be able to bend it loads. So this is one of my big pocos, a couple of degrees flex on the knee every day.

Allan Shaw is winner of the 2017 North American Bike Messenger Championships, as well as the 2018 European Bike Messenger Championships. A bike messenger for over ten years, Allan is originally from Glasgow, Scotland, but he currently lives in Mexico City. Heā€™s the founder of Cycling. You can find Allan on instagram .

You can followĢżThe Daily RallyĢżon , , , or wherever you like to listen, and nominate someone to be featured on the show .

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ā€œFucking alarm!ā€ Chelsea yelled.ĢżI heard the heart rate monitor go off and turned around to see my wife bent over her bikeā€™s handlebars for what felt like the thousandth time. Halfway up a mountainous dirt trail, she dismounted and decided to walk rather than ride again. We were 80 miles into the longest bikepacking trip weā€™d ever attempted, and we still had more than 2,600 miles left to go.

In October 2020, my wife, Chelsea, and I caught COVID-19. We were lucky: by the end of the week we were upright and functioning humans again. We were able to continue working from home and going about our lives in quarantine. But in week two, complications surfaced for Chelsea that she is still dealing with today.

Chelsea is part of the more than 20 percent of COVID patients called ā€œ,ā€ sufferers who experience a range of symptoms including chest pain, difficulty breathing, neurological issues, and a myriad of other complex ailments. She developed severe heart pain that initially kept her bed-bound, and over a six-month period gradually lessened to allow her to walk without pain. But whenever she exerted herself too much, she was right back where she started.

Now in 2023, we are just beginning to appreciate the scale and severity of long COVID. Experts estimate that it currently affects . The virus spared many athletes and active people from death or hospitalization, but some of them remain unable to attain their pre-disease fitness. The majority of long COVID patients are in their thirties to fifties.

My wife and I arenā€™t professional athletes by any stretch, but trail running and our time outdoors have always been core to our happiness and a big part of how we define ourselves. For a woman who used to run up mountains, long COVIDĢżis a life-altering illness.

ā€œIt was the unknown that was terrifying for me,ā€ Chelsea told me recently. ā€œThere were no warning signs that I had pushed my heart too hard until the next day when I would wake up with chest pain. Did I walk too fast for that bus? Did I carry the groceries too far? Wearing a heart rate monitor was the only way I could keep myself from triggering the pain. Itā€™s frustrating to feel like you can do more but get punished for it later. ā€

Like many long-haulers, Chelsea struggled to get a clear diagnosis from physicians. A year of neurologist, cardiologist, and hospital visits provided no answers other than a vague suggestion of . She was left grasping for a solution to get outside and stay active in a way that her body could tolerate. Mostly she was searching for hopeā€”an adventure and a goal that would prove some normalcy was possible in the face of an ill-defined disease with no cure in sight.

Somewhere in the gloom of 2021, Chelsea stumbled across a webpage for the , a 2,700-mile, mostly unpaved ride from the Canadian Rockies through the mountains of the U.S. to the Mexican border. Itā€™s one of the longest endurance gravel bike routes in the world with nearly 150,000 feet of elevation gain. Sitting in her PJs, still barely able to walk up a flight of stairs, she decided this was a rational goal.

We spent 2021 slowly increasing our training, finding the precise heartbeats per minute (135 BPM) that would allow her to push her body but not send her back to bed-bound recovery. It was an agonizingly slow process. First, we tried little things like walking home from the grocery store, then doing soĢżwhile carrying bags. Weā€™d add in small five- to ten-mile bikeĢżrides, only to overdo training and send her right back to square one. But finally, in July of 2022, after several successful, slow 200-300 mile practice trips with fully loaded bikes, we packed our bags and set off on this wild journey.

The route starts in Banff, Alberta, and the first day brings riders past Kananaskis Country and the beautiful Mount Engadine Lodge, which is the placeĢżwhere Chelsea and I were married. We began the ride on our five-year anniversary, and planned to meet her parents at the lodge for a late afternoon lunch to celebrate.

Chelsea started struggling less than an hour after we set off. She couldnā€™t keep pace like we had on previous training rides. Then the heart pain started. Stuck under the imposing views of Mount Rundle between Banff and the lodge, unable to pedal more than 15 minutes without stopping, we realized we werenā€™t going to reach the lodge. We hobbled our way off the route and back to gravel roads hours behind schedule. We didnā€™t call Chelseaā€™s father, but hisĢżtruck appeared in the distance. He parked, got out, and hugged her without saying a word, sensing the pain and fear and disappointment that she had been going through all day.

As we settled down in camp that night, we took a serious look at our contingency plans and discussed scrappingĢżthe entire adventure for safetyā€™s sake.

Chelsea was terrified sheā€™d misjudged the whole trip. ā€œI was worried about making it to the American border, let alone the Mexican one,” she said. ā€œGiving up on day one felt like surrendering to the idea that I would never get better.ā€

I thought we should cancel. We had emergency provisions and GPS trackers, but what if she becameĢżbed-bound in a tent? On the other hand, what if we canceled and her morale was crushed?

We decided that not trying was worse than risking failure.

The next morning was a somber one as we packed up and headed out into an unknown future. As we left camp and started walkingĢżour bikes up Elk Pass into British Columbia, we met two cyclists at the top of the climb. Theyā€™d heard there was a mother grizzly with two cubs on the route, and we decided safety was better in numbers. With our merry band assembled, we careened down the trail singing and shouting at the top of our lungs like school children on sugar. It was rejuvenating to see ChelseaĢżhappy and alive in the mountains in a way that two years of COVID had stolen. Her spark was back.

Days trickled by and we made progress. We eventually made it toĢżMontana, 430 miles down the trail, stumbling into Holland Lake after a 95-degree day in the sun. As we emerged vaguely cleaner, we met a pair of cyclists weā€™d spend the next few weeks hopscotching with on our way south. Drying around the fire that night, we learned that they were also battling the aftermath of COVID.

Gitty, from the Netherlands, was another long-hauler. She contracted COVID in April 2021, but instead of heart issues, sheā€™d been suffering from shortness of breath, lung complications, and persistent tinnitus.

ā€œI was full of energy and looking forward to riding the GDMBR, but that changed after I got long COVID,ā€ Gitty explained. ā€œIt took me a long time to get my fitness back and I was afraid I couldnā€™t keep up, especially at the high altitudes along the route. It caused me a lot of stress. And while we took it easy and didnā€™t get as far as we planned, cycling the GDMBR after COVID has made me more positive about the future.ā€

Gitty was cycling with her husband, Jan Jaap, a brawny guy who muscled his bike down the trail like a viking steering a ship. We rode with them for several days as he led our group up gravel ascents and down mountain passes. JanĢżand I often got carried away and sped ahead of our partners, only to sheepishly remember that we were there for support and bring our pace back down.

It was hard to dial back the pace at times. Iā€™d get frustrated and remind myself that my partner was having a hardĢżtime. Then, Iā€™d feel a rush of guilt for losing my patience. Chelsea felt it more acutely: like she was being held back by something she couldnā€™t control.

ā€œIn the beginning of the ride I worried constantly about slowing us down,ā€ she said. ā€œBut I realized even if I had to walk up every hill, or if we only made it halfway, it was being back on the bike and with my partner that really mattered.ā€

We met cyclists overcoming obstacles of all kinds: rheumatoid arthritis, diabetes, persistent injuries, among other ailments. They persevered because they loved nature and pushing themselves in the outdoors regardless of physical restrictions.

Near the southern end of Wyoming, 1,400 miles in, we found our balance. Chelsea, while still limited, hit a grooveĢżwe could comfortably ride at all day. Iā€™d follow behind and belt Queenā€™s Greatest Hits, likely scaring off more than just the bears. And we reminded ourselves of our expectations: we werenā€™t there to race, we were there to reconnect with the outdoors and to be in the wilderness.

We filled our long days learning about the birds of the Rocky Mountains and counting how many we could spot while riding. We bathedĢżin frigid streams and fell asleep to the sounds of Elk bugling. We huddled under cliffs and watched lighting wreak havoc on the desert around us. We feltĢżcold, hot, tired, hungry, awestruck, and the entire range of human emotions that reminded us we were alive. We embraced slow.

As we neared the finish line at the Mexican border, Chelsea still worried about her health issues, but her confidence had grown and these concerns weighed less on her.

ā€œDespite all the fears along the way, the end was bittersweet,ā€ she told me after our ride. ā€œI had finally found a piece of my old self and I didnā€™t want to stop.ā€

As we drove the 2,700 miles back to our home in Canada, all she could talk about was what adventure came next.

The post What Bikepacking 2,700 Miles Taught My Partner About Limits and Living with Long COVID appeared first on ŗŚĮĻ³Ō¹ĻĶų Online.

In the summer of 2019, Tomas Quinones, a Portland-based artist, quality assurance engineer for the mapping app , and enthusiastic long-distance cyclist, was undertaking a seven-day bikepacking trip, covering some 360 miles of remote high desert country in Southern Oregon, not far from the Nevada border.

His trip had been punctuated with the usual minor random setbacks and sketchy moments that bedevil the adventurer. Heā€™d lost his shoes, and was riding on a pair of Bedrock sandals. Heā€™d heard a low growling outside his tent one nightā€”a mountain lionā€”and gripped his only defense, a small fixed-blade knife. His water supply was sometimes uncertain. But there had also been those moments of unexpected grace: a couple parked on the side of a dirt road that offered to share their lunch; or the guy in the pickup truck who pulled up alongside Quinones and quizzed him about his sandals. ā€œHe was like, ā€˜hey are you doing a mountain bike ride, cool!ā€™ā€ recalls Quinones. ā€œThen he said, ā€˜Here, have a beer!ā€™ And I thought, itā€™s ten in the morning, but sure, a nice early beer.ā€

On the penultimate day of his trip, he was riding down a dusty track when he came upon what he first thought was a cow, sprawled across the ground. It turned out to be a man, slipping in and out of consciousness on the desert floor. The man was clearly dehydrated; Quinones had a hunch he might be diabetic. He tried to give him some water, with little success. A cursory examination of the manā€™s nearby campsite turned up a pistol in a pillowcase. ā€œMy mind went to some pretty dark places,ā€ he says. ā€œLike, was this a drug deal gone bad?ā€Ģż

Quinones, who had done a bit of training as a volunteer in a search-and-rescue group, tried to rationally sift through his options. The nearest paved road was a good bike ride away. He thought about climbing a nearby ridge in the fleeting hope of getting a signal, but wondered if his sandals would be up to the task (heā€™d also been hearing plenty of rattlesnakes). He thought about trying to flag down whatever was kicking up dust on the horizon, but it turned out to be just cows. Finally, he decided to send an SOSā€”his first everā€”on his SPOT location tracker. ā€œI didnā€™t really know what to expect,ā€ he says. ā€œI knew from experience that when the SPOT has to send up any notification, it can take 20 minutes.ā€

On that day, the fates spun a propitious web of geosynchronous orbits, terrestrial emergency response, and a particularly prepared cyclist, and an ambulance arrived within an hour. As Quinones would later learn, the man whose life he saved, Greg Randolph, was a 72-year-old retired Air National Guard technician and keen backcountry explorer whose Jeep had gotten wedged in a hole in a dry creek bed. Heā€™d been in the desert for five days. He was out of food, water, and was, in fact, diabetic, without medicine, and in the early stages of a coma. Quinones says for all the strangeness of the situationā€”ā€œitā€™s such an unlikely scenario to come across a person laying in the middle of the roadā€ā€”he never had a doubt about what he would do. ā€œThere was no hesitation, I had to do something. Thereā€™s literally no one else out here thatā€™s going to find this guy,ā€ he says. ā€œWithin the next 24 hours, heā€™s going to be jerkyā€”the buzzards will be eating him.ā€

Quinones, whoā€™d received little gestures of help over the course of his trip, paid it forward, with interest.

Odds are, if you have spent any time in the wilderness, you too will have experienced these gestures of kindness from strangers, or given them yourselfā€”even if they were nothing so dramatic as the aid rendered by Quinones. As a keen and longtime cyclist, I have always been amazed that when I have had some mechanical issue, or simply been stationed on the side of the road to check my phone, alone or even in a group, another passing cyclist will almost inevitably ask: ā€œYou alright?ā€

Once, in Californiaā€™s Marin County, I was out on a bike ride, in a fairly remote area, when I got a flat tire. I realized Iā€™d foolishly forgotten to pack my tools and tubes. My cell phone showed zero bars. Soon though, a woman pulled up in an old Ford pickup. ā€œYou need help?ā€ She gestured for me to throw my bike in the back, and drove me to the nearest town. It later struck me that I couldnā€™t remember the last time Iā€™d gotten a ride from a stranger; in fact, it may have been the first. The woman, it turned out, was a native of Denmark, and I remembered wondering if this was more common behavior there.

Hitchhiking is one of those things, notes sociologist Jonathan Purkis in his book , that is presumed to be obsolete, killed off by sensationalistic reports of highway violence, so-called ā€œlitigation culture,ā€ as well as neoliberalismā€™s ethos of, as Purkis writes, ā€œfavoring of individualistic and consumer-driven attitudes toward social problems.ā€ Even Lonely Planet, that original Bible of the hippie trail, now posts disclaimers like: ā€œhitchhiking is never entirely safe and we cannot really recommend it.ā€ Indeed, very little in this world is ever entirely safe.ĢżFor that pickup driver, I might have been a harbinger of violence; less statistically likely, she might have been a serial killer with a fetish for lycra. Both of us agreed, in that moment, to put these thoughts aside and engage in what Purgis, quoting French philosopher Jean Baudrillard, calls ā€œthe power of the gift without return.ā€

What is it about being outside, in nature, that seems to prompt people to want to help? The first, and perhaps most obvious, explanation, is that in the wild there may not be any other help. In what psychologists term the ā€œdiffusion of responsibility,ā€ or the ā€œbystander effect,ā€ the more people who are in the presence of someone needing help, the less likely any of those people are to actually provide it. They might think others will help, they might be unsure of what to do, or the mere fact of others not doing anything provides a modeling cue for them not to do anything. When Quinones found Randolph, there were no bystanders. ā€œIf I had seen this guy in downtown Portland, where thereā€™s a lot of homeless people, I probably wouldnā€™t have batted an eye,ā€ he told me. ā€œBecause I see it all the time.ā€

But another idea, one that has been receiving an increasing amount of research attention, is that there is something about nature itself that seems to promote what psychologists call ā€œprosocialā€ attitudes. As a in The Journal of Environmental Psychology suggests, exposure to nature can prompt feelings of transcendenceā€”a sense of connection to other people, to the world around you, to the cosmos. ā€œExperiencing transcendence,ā€ the authors write, ā€œis associated with less of a focus on the self as a distinct and uniquely important individual, while simultaneously increasing focusing on entities outside the self, including nature and other people not necessarily part of oneā€™s immediate social groups.ā€ In that study, researchers interviewed subjects in a parking lot, before or after they set out on a hike. In exchange, they were given the chance to enter a drawing for an iPad or to make a small donation to charity. People were more likely to make the donation after they hiked than before. There was one exception in which charitable giving shrank: when people, in a separate study, were asked to first write about a time they felt distinct from others.

These findings have been replicated elsewhere. In , people who watched a five-minute clip of Planet Earth were more generous in an experimental economic game; in still another study, people gazing up at tall trees were more likely to provide help than people looking at a tall building.Ģż To sum up all these experiments: when you feel cosmically smallā€”standing in front of a vast gorge or in the middle of a silent forestā€”you are more likely to act big.Ģż

Altruism is often underplayed in narratives about humans in nature, which have privileged notions of frontier self-sufficiency or Emersonian self-reliance. But the first thing Thoreau did when he went to build his cabin in Walden was borrow an ax from his neighborā€”and the land he built it on belonged to his buddy Emerson. It is tempting to read books like Into the Wild as homages to rugged individualism, but viewed through another lens, the story of Christopher McCandless is one of repeatedly getting help from, or giving help to, the myriad strangers he meets (the last person he saw gave him a pair of rubber bootsā€”and wanted to give him more).

Perhaps the greatest concentration of kindness from strangers in the wild is the ā€œtrail magicā€ experienced every year on the Appalachian and Pacific Crest Trails. ā€œTrail magic, in its most basic senseā€”random acts of kindness from strangersā€”has been going on since people started hiking the trail,ā€ says Justin Kooyman, Associate Director of Trail Operations at the Pacific Crest Trail Association (PCTA). ā€œEverything from the ride into town, to paying for a hikerā€™s meal, to offering someone a place to stay.ā€

Hikers helping hikers, in light of the previous arguments about nature and prosociality, makes sense: when youā€™re one of a relatively handful of people in the midst of trying to get through a hard task in challenging wilderness, it would be hard to resist someoneā€™s direct appeal for help. But what about the many non-hikers who participate in trail magic? ā€œFrom what Iā€™ve seen on the trail,ā€ Kooymans says, ā€œthere just seems to be a pretty genuine appreciation, respect, and desire to support people who are in the middle of a pretty hard endeavor.ā€ĢżĢż

Troy Glover, a professor of Recreation and Leisure Studies at Canadaā€™s University of Waterloo, has examined the phenomenon of trail magic on the Appalachian Trail. One theme he kept seeing repeated in hikerā€™s accounts, apart from the surprise of receivingĢż what he calls ā€œnonnormative kindnessā€ out of the blue, was the almost utopian sense of community that emerged on the trail, one that was often hard to leave behind. Many of those former thru-hikers, Glover notedā€”often experiencing a post-trail letdownā€”became trail angels themselves. ā€œThe hikersā€™ gratitude for their receipt of trail magic,ā€ he says, ā€œled them to contribute to an already established norm of upstream reciprocity.ā€

As thru-hiking has increased in popularity, including on the Pacific Crest Trail, there has almost been an overabundance of helping behavior, which has led to challenges for the PCTA. Unattended food, for one, and the bears it brings. But there are also reports of large encampments stationed at the trailheadsā€”equipped with lawn chairs, solar showers, food and drink, and what Kooymans calls a ā€œparty-type atmosphere.ā€ This, he says, ā€œcan really detract from the more natural, undeveloped environment that many people are going out to experience.ā€ Heā€™s wary, he says, of ā€œfinger wagging,ā€ but the idea is there: keep the magic in trail magic.

When we venture into the wild, we become vulnerable. ā€œBeing in a vulnerable position,ā€ writes Purgis in Driving with Strangers, ā€œmakes you look at the world differently.ā€ It can also change how people view you; to admit or reveal vulnerability can bring out the best in others. In her book , Rebecca Solnit chronicles how people living through natural disasters, contrary to falling apart, actually come together, strongly. ā€œIn the suspension of the usual order and failure of most systems,ā€ she writes, ā€œwe are free to live and act another way.ā€ Similarly, in the wild, where we are stripped of our normal possessions, surroundings, and identities, we seem more willing to go that extra mile for someone; itā€™s in nature, ironically, that we can learn new things about humanity.

Ģż

The post Why Being Outdoors Makes Us Want to Help Strangers appeared first on ŗŚĮĻ³Ō¹ĻĶų Online.

Bikepacking equipment has evolved rapidly over the last five yearsā€”the latest racks and bags make it possible to ride rough trails without worrying about leaving a Hansel and Gretel-esque trail of gear behind you. What follows are some of the newest bikepacking accessories to hit the market, all designed to make it easier to take the road or trail less traveled.

Aeroe

All the way from New Zealand, really doesnā€™t mess around when it comes to bikepacking, and not just the gravel road variety. The quick-load, cradle-style carriers hold down their waterproof bags with four possible locations on the bike to potentially transport up to 48 liters of gear.

Are you serious about riding singletrack but have a full-suspension frame? Then check out the ($129). The intelligent design uses attaches to the rear triangle of the bike with simple silicone straps that tighten down over a large surface area for fast installation and removal.

In total, the stainless steel rack can carry up to three of the watertight bags; center, left, and right, using the glass reinforced nylon cradles. On its own, the rack is only 641 grams and has a carrying capacity of 16 kilograms. Then thereā€™s also the 471 gram handlebar mounting ($79), which can hold five kilograms using the same style straps and similar mounts as the rear rack. Thereā€™s also a hard-backed, quick-mount pod system for the most stable ride.

As for the bags, they come in two unique colors to easily distinguish their sizes: orange for the ($59) and black for the ($69), respectively. The fully welded, waterproof TPU material uses a roll-top closure with a traditional plastic buckle, plus extra loops on the face to tie down more accessories.

Best of all, Aeroe offers free worldwide shipping when their products are purchased through their website and estimate arrival between seven and ten business days. To show that Aeroe stands by their products, the Spider Rear Rack is covered by a two-year warranty and has a 30-day, money-back guarantee.

Tailfin

Based in the U.K., builds racks and waterproof cargo bags that have endless mounting possibilities. Backed by a five-year warranty, Tailfin’s premium-level bike packing offers lightweight options for those gram-counters, including some eye-catching carbon components. Modularity and adaptability is the general theme with their equipment that can be bolted on almost anywhere to your bike.

Storage begins with the 1.7 liter ($40), but there are three- and five-liter options too. The side of the packs have cutouts to weave the gear strap into and really cinch down your gear. Thereā€™s also the hook strap that pulls the excess volume snug to the top of the pack, further adding to the security. One of the neatest features built into the five liter Cargo Pack is an air vent that can be opened and closed with the turn of a dial to compress the volume that isnā€™t being used.

Each of these packs strap into Tailfin’s anodized alloy (from $70) using coveted water bottle spacing. Available in two sizes, this system uses slots that the gear straps thread into with the larger one coming equipped with a base to vertically support the load. They are narrow enough to avoid contact with even the narrowest Q-factor setups without compromising load stability.

If youā€™re looking to maximize on-bike storage, the Cargo Cage bolts to ($65) or ($40) clamps that wrap around the fork lowers between 37 and 45 millimeters in diameter. Youā€™ll spend $30 more, but save 23 grams per clamp by choosing the fancy carbon clamp. Tailfin states that the loads shouldnā€™t exceed three kilograms per side for trail riding, or five kilograms for on road use.

The newest addition to the lineup is Tailfinā€™s Ģż (from $75) that attaches without any fixed hardware, so if your frame doesnā€™t have downtube bottle bosses, youā€™re in luck. This option is a touch more expensive because of the mounting bracket is built into the bag. Underneath are two concave rubber pads to grip the frame without the worry of scratching it up and are cinched down with mini TPU straps. The smaller pack is also narrow enough to place on the top tube and keep out of the line of fire from the front tireā€™s spray. Tailfin grants free worldwide shipping on orders over $340.

EVOC

are the masters of the bike travel bag, but they also produce bomber cargo bags for on the bike, a few of which use the lightning fast and sleek BOA dial attachment. All of the bar, frame, and seat packs are available in neutral two colors; Carbon Grey or Loam.

Starting at the front, the ($150) is the larger of the two models with a capacity of five liters, doubling the capacity of the smaller version. A few details that make this bag a standout are the two BOA loops with rubberized pull tabs, the dial itself that can easily be tightened on the fly, plus the roll-top closure at either end to keep your goods totally dry.

Moving to the middle of the bike, the ($50) holds one liters of goods and has enough positions for the Velcro straps to find their way to all corners of the frame, depending on the suspension design. A nice touch that EVOC includes are frame protection stickers to save your paint and on the inside, a mesh pocket will ward off any rattling items. To finish it off, YKK takes care of the water resistant zipper to fully flip the bag wide open.

On short travel bikes, the space under the seat can be used for stuffing lighter items, such as a sleeping bag and extra clothing and EVOC designed an elegant solution for ratcheting down their (from $110). Available in three sizes (size large shown here), it uses the roll-top closure to reduce unused volume and make the pack watertight. Like the handlebar bag, the BOA loop has a rubber looped tab to wrap around the seat post and uses two additional velcro straps to grab onto the seat rails to hold your gear tightly.

Apidura

If any of those products arenā€™t enduro-specific for you, then the waterproof one liter ($65) from Apidura could be a sleeker choice for day to day useā€”heck, even slap one on a downhill bike to stash some sunglasses or tools in for some park laps. If the Backcountry Frame Pack, isnā€™t enough storage, then there is also a alternative ($108).

Designed to work with steep or more square top and down tube joints, the one-liter pack is reversible in orientation and uses three straps to cinch down on your frame. Inside, thereā€™s another one to lock down larger items that might rattle on descents. Youā€™ll find a zipper on either side, as well as a port at the front, should you wish to run any cabled lights.

This article originally appeared on our sister site, Pinkbike, as part of their coverage.

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