Strangers, Sunsets, and the Spirit of America

This week’s post is a little different.
I wanted to take a moment to focus on something that often gets overlooked, the incredible kindness that exists all across America, if we only slow down enough to notice it.

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When I reached Wrightsville Beach, North Carolina, the end of my ride across America,
I thought I’d feel exhausted. Instead, I felt overwhelmed with gratitude.

Gratitude for the incredible people I met along the way. For strangers who offered meals, a place to rest, or a simple smile when I needed it most. For those who opened their homes, shared their stories,  and reminded me that kindness is alive and well.

And for the friends, family, and supporters who encouraged me from afar. Your messages, prayers, and financial help made this journey possible. Every mile was powered not just by pedals, but by your belief in me.

The scenery across this country was breathtaking, but it’s the people who made it unforgettable. From coast to coast, I saw the best of humanity: generosity without expectation, compassion without condition.

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I’ll never forget Rough River State Park in Kentucky. It was Labor Day weekend, and the narrow mountain road leading there was packed with holiday travelers. Fast, impatient, and dangerous for a cyclist.

After several tense miles, I decided it was simply too risky to continue. I turned around and rode back to the small town I’d left that morning, planning to head out again early the next day when the roads were quieter.

Frank and Dan

In the parking lot of a small convenience store, I noticed a man sitting in his truck. His name was Frank. I pulled up beside him and started a conversation. We talked about the heavy traffic, and he said, “You could get hurt or worse on that road this weekend.”  He looked over his shoulder, then back at me and said,
“Come on, I’ll get you up there.”

He helped me load my bike and gear into the back of his truck and drove me the 12 or so miles to the state park. The evening I arrived, he paid for my campsite and offered me $20 to eat at the park’s buffet. When I hesitated, he insisted I take it. I thanked him sincerely, and we said our goodbyes.

That same evening, after Frank had gotten me safely to the park, another cyclist rolled in, Billy Mason, towing a small trailer behind his old bike. We greeted each other, and before long we were deep in conversation. Billy was a Kentucky native, a veteran, and homeless.

He told me that earlier in the day, he had stopped at a small restaurant and offered to clean the floors in exchange for a meal. The restaurant staff thanked him and gave him two Ziploc bags of spaghetti to take with him. As we sat talking, Billy reached into a small bag, pulled one out, and offered it to me. I told him thank you, but that I was fine. I’ll never forget that moment, a homeless gentleman offering me one of his meals. WOW!!!

We stayed up for hours under the stars talking about life, purpose, and the road ahead. Then Billy said something I’ll never forget:
“I don’t have much, but I want to give you something.”

I told him that wasn’t necessary, but he insisted. He went to his trailer, gently unwrapped a banjo from several old blankets, leaned against the wall, and began to play as he sang a Willie Nelson song. Soft, soulful, and full of heart.

When he finished, he looked at me and said,
“It’s not much, but it’s all I have.”

That moment stopped me in my tracks. It was raw, honest, and beautiful. A reminder that kindness doesn’t come from abundance; it comes from the heart.

We shook hands, and gave each other a hug. Two travelers from very different walks of life, connected in that moment by music and gratitude. We stayed up a while longer talking quietly before turning in for the night.

The next morning, while I was still in my tent, I heard someone gently tapping on the outside. I unzipped the flap and there was Frank, smiling and saying, “Come on, let’s go get you some breakfast.” He drove me to a nearby spot to eat before seeing me off on the next leg of my journey.

When the journey ended, I decided to donate my bike (affectionately named BobNick, in honor of my brother Bob, who I was riding in memory of, and my son Nick), who had enlisted in the military — to a local bike shop. The manager told me they work with local groups so they could pass it along to a veteran who needed it.
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It felt right knowing that the bike, and the story behind it, would keep rolling forward, carrying with it the spirit of love, loss, and hope that inspired every mile.

Two Wheeler Dealer Bike Shop - Wrightsville Beach, NC

“Keep doing good where you are. You never know whose life you might change with one small act of kindness.”

So as a new week begins, here’s my reminder to you...look for kindness, offer kindness, and take time to appreciate the beauty around you.

Join the conversation:
Leave your comments below. Share your own story of kindness, or a moment of reflection that changed your life.