About the Gear

A good sleeping bag will make or break you.

Out of everything I packed, my sleeping bag was where I wished I’d spent a little extra money. It was summer when I left the West Coast on my first cross-country bike tour, and I was a kid from Kansas. I imagined long days at peak humidity and sticky, mosquito-embattled nights. I had no idea how bitterly cold it could get at night at elevation—and how much time I would spend every morning unthawing my water bottles over a camp stove. In the mountains, my sleeping bag, a flat fold of polyester better suited to preteen slumber parties, was no warmer than sleeping in a paper bag. The minute I reached a town big enough to have an REI, I blew half my touring fund on a nice, lightweight mummy bag I still use to this day. And thanks to that purchase, I’m alive to tell the tale today instead of buried deep in a hypothermic tunnel in the Cascades.

Pack light—even lighter than you think.

Extra clothes and/or cycling kit, full-sized tools, that harmonica you never learned to play—chances are, you won’t use half the stuff you thought you’d need in advance. The good news is, you can always send extras home, mail yourself stuff to pick up further down the road (like cold- or warm-weather clothes), or have friends mail you things at post offices marked “General Delivery.” Before my first tour, I had no idea post offices even let you do that. I set out with all kinds of odds and ends I didn’t need, and had to hunt for other necessities along the road. But once I’d mastered the art of General Delivery, I had cookies and warm socks waiting for me in every port. Just make sure to find a small-town post office along the route and have your loved ones address mail there to your name, “care of general delivery.” (Smaller towns are less likely to misplace the package.) And make sure you’ll be passing through that town on a day the post office will be open.

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You can’t always trust the map.

When you’re trying to travel light, it makes sense to carry very little food and plan to stop regularly at supermarkets and convenience stores along the way. But every once in awhile, I’d pull up at the only minimart or restaurant within a 50-mile radius and encounter a sign that read, “Closed on Sundays” or “Out of Business.” One of the first rules of the road I learned is to always prepare for services to be closed—even when relying on a new touring guide and not one that’s all weathered around the edges like an old-timey treasure map. I gambled so many times that the single store I needed for a restock would be open—(and lost)—that I learned to carry far more food than anyone could eat in 48 hours at all times.

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Hang your food, dummy.

Do I really need to elaborate on this one? It only took me two or three hand-to-hand raccoon battles to learn this lesson, but it’s one that will stay with me for the rest of my life. Google “javelina” and tell me if that’s something you want to wrestle away from the last of your oatmeal supply in the middle of the night.

Write down tips from other bike tourists.

If you’re riding a well-worn touring route, you’ll probably encounter other bike tourists headed in the opposite direction. Chances are, they’ll want to stop and share some war stories from the road, and hear what you’ve seen in your travels, too. Often they’ve got tips about road detours, places to stay, and pitfalls to avoid. Write this stuff down! Five states later, when you get to that town they mentioned, you’re going to want to remember which campsite they warned you about and what the name of that vegetarian restaurant was. You’re also going to want to get their contact info and whether or not they’re keeping a blog so you can keep up with the rest of their journey after you part ways.

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