Cycling From Seattle to Portland, I Realized Long Rides Are Meant to Be Shared

I shivered as I lay on the concrete driveway in Vader, Washington. My Wahoo read 129 miles—still 77 miles from the finish line of the longest ride I’d ever attempted in my life. It was 10 a.m. on day two of Seattle to Portland, an annual 206-mile road ride organized by Cascade Bicycle Club.

This year’s reboot, after two years of virtual events, was an opportunity to capitalize on the pandemic bike boom and diversify its ridership. Cascade reached out to affinity groups, including North Star Cycling, Asian Bike Club, Gruppetto Cycling Club, and my own organization, All Bodies on Bikes. In the end, Seattle to Portland attracted around 5,400 cyclists.

This year’s event attracted around 5,400 cyclists

At All Bodies on Bikes, our plan was simple: Offer discounted registration to our affiliated riders and meet up at the starting line. I kicked off the ride with four other self-identified All Bodies on Bikes riders, though eventually everyone found their own pace.

The first 102 miles sped by. With day one completed, I camped at the designated middle point, a community college in Centralia, Washington. I set up my tent in a field full of other brightly colored tents with riders of all ages and genders as we all shared stories from the day. By 6 p.m., the beer garden had run dry, so most of us called it an early night. The 5 a.m. rollout would come around before we knew it.

Typically, Blonsky prefers to ride alone. This time was different.

In the morning, facing another 104 miles to Portland, I made a crucial error in judgment: I opted to ride alone. Much of the time, I prefer to ride this way. I’ve grown to enjoy hours in the saddle alone with my thoughts, at my own pace, over hundreds of miles of gravel through Kansas, Colorado, Washington, Oregon, and my new home state of Arkansas.

I rolled out of the field just after sunrise and headed into historic downtown Centralia. My plan was to bang out as many miles as I could before the sun came out in full force. After that I hoped to catch up with friends or make riding buddies. I felt sore and tired, but my body was doing exactly what I asked of it—at first.

The first 20 miles paralleled the interstate. Intermittent bollards dotted the pathway. As I plodded along, a fast-moving peloton came up behind me and overtook me on the left. I pedaled alone for seven more miles past the interstate. I started to feel lonely and began to search for a friendly face. Without company to distract me, my thoughts became consumed with self-doubt and pity. Can I do this ride? Why am I even out here trying? I’m going so slow I won’t be there until midnight. My knee hurts. My butt hurts.

Blonsky once received crucial advice: “When you get sad or unhappy on your ride, you need to eat. Take a break and eat something.”

During my training for Unbound Gravel, a race in Emporia, Kansas, I’d gotten some advice from Meg Fisher, a former Paralympian and good friend: “When you get sad or unhappy on your ride, you need to eat. Take a break and eat something.” While I couldn’t solve the problem of riding alone, I could definitely eat something. And that’s where I found myself, lying on the ground at the rest stop in Vader, eating cold pickles and potatoes, questioning if I could keep going. Riders passed me by, nearly every person part of a pack. I was not doing this right.

Every minute I lay there, more and more lactic acid built up in my legs and precious time ticked away. My mental will to finish deteriorated. My thoughts turned dark again. How long would it take to catch a ride to Portland from here? If I intentionally crashed, could I get a free ride to the end?

I realized that I could keep going alone, knowing that each mile would get harder as I sunk deeper into my self-induced funk. Or I could find new friends to ride with. After all, I’m not exactly a stranger to most people.

My entire professional life revolves around making people feel welcome, included, and empowered on a bicycle. As the cofounder of All Bodies on Bikes, my name has become synonymous with inclusive bike rides. So why in the world did I try to do this ride alone? As it turns out, long rides are meant to be shared—and no matter how much I think I like to be alone, 200 miles is way too many to do solo.

Long rides, Blonsky came to realize, are meant to be shared.

Once I admitted that I needed to ride with people, I wasn’t alone for much longer. I heard my old friends Alison and Ginny, who I used to join every Monday night for gender-expansive rides in Seattle, shout my name as they rounded the corner into the rest stop. The three of us rolled on toward Portland.

But by mile 62, nagging thoughts entered my mind again: I still had to pack my bike and catch a flight at 7 a.m. the next morning. At the pace I was going, I’d hit the finish line at 7 p.m., and then I still needed to break down my bike for travel.

As we pulled into the next rest stop, I came up with a plan. I’d catch a ride into Portland with someone, happy with my 164-mile ride. It wouldn’t be the full distance, but this was by far the longest road ride I’d ever done.

While Ginny and Alison refueled at the rest stop, I slowly circled the parking lot looking for a friendly face. It wasn’t long before I came across the Bike Works 15-passenger van, with a bike rack on the back. Bike Works is a community bike organization in Seattle. It’s where I took my first bike repair class. The crew was at Seattle to Portland supporting a group of riders from North Star Cycling Club and the Asian Bike Club (ABC).

Blonsky hitched a restorative 14-mile ride from the Seattle-based community organization, Bike Works.

The Bike Works support folks didn’t ask any questions as I begged for a ride to Portland. They grabbed my bike, loaded it onto their rack, and assured me that I wasn’t a burden as I climbed into the van, exhausted and in kind of a bad mood. Seconds later I was fully zonked out in the second row.

I woke up 14 miles down the road as we pulled into the next rest stop. I don’t know if it was FOMO or the best power nap in the world, but when I woke up, I was ready to ride. We unloaded my bike and I was off again, slowly pedaling south. After a stretch of nearly 30 miles on the side of a highway, I crossed the St. John’s Bridge into Portland. By the time I rode over the finish line, celebrations were ending and the food trucks had mostly run out of food. I collected my finisher souvenir and headed to the hotel.

I left feeling satisfied with my ride, proud of the distance I rode, and never needing to do it again.

Seattle to Portland, a 206-mile road ride, has been running every year since 1979—except for 2020 and 2021, due to the pandemic.

Two weeks after Seattle to Portland, I flew to Richmond, Vermont, for another cycling event. Rooted Vermont is a gravel race that is also dedicated to fostering a more inclusive environment. It was a much smaller event, but it had some admirable practices for inclusion that all organizers could learn from.

Rooted reserved half of its 800 registration spots for women and nonbinary cyclists. Instead of being surrounded by a monochromatic sea of Lycra-clad guys, I shared the start line with members of Melanin Base Camp, Queens and Kings Ride Together, and the Houston-based Gravel Collective.

Rooted held a BIPOC shakedown ride, a Women’s Forum (Disclosure: I was a keynote speaker), and discussion groups. They provided financial support for underrepresented communities. By Sunday, when it was time for the actual ride in Vermont, all of the participants had been hanging out together for nearly two days. In that time, we created our own inclusive gravel community.

Is that asking too much of a road event? Possibly. It is a different format and a much bigger crowd. But inclusion is more than just inviting community affinity groups. It’s fostering these communities. Centering us. Learning from one another and doing better together each time we ride. The invitation to the starting line is just that: a start.