I’ve biked more than 1,300 miles across the U.S. I’ve never been so proud to be American

In a little town called Wisdom, Montana, I was a sight to behold. There was no shower at the free campsite I was staying in that evening—or any drinkable water. I stumbled into the only market in town looking for Nutella, which they were out of. But the man who owned it kindly showed me around, and he let me use their well water sink in the back to fill up my bottles. He pointed me to an all-cash bar, where I would find WiFi so that I could use my phone, which didn’t have service.

I was exhausted. I was hoping to have a single beer and use my phone to figure out where I’d be sleeping the next day. When I walked in, I felt welcomed with open arms. The bartender greeted me warmly and with a joke, and a man across the bar, who was on a fishing trip, bought my beer when he heard me say I was biking to Virginia. We all hovered around the television, watching the World Cup. A man wearing real-life spurs and a cowboy hat strolled in for a sandwich. When I went back to my campsite, another camper invited me to share dinner with him and his family.

“I needed this trip,” I remember telling the man who bought my beer. I needed to see the kindness in people.

When you are biking through a town, it doesn’t matter what you believe or how you voted. You need water and food. You need a safe place to rest your head. You need to feel dry and warm. And I’ve seen people drop everything to accommodate and make sure I’m okay.

Before this trip began, I lived and breathed through the investigations I got to work on at Fortune Magazine. It’s the accountability journalism I’m most proud of—the exposure of wrongdoing or harm I get to bring to light that can make a difference and lead to real change. But that work is also difficult. It wears on you if you let it. I am constantly reminded about the inclination in people to take advantage of others, to cover something up, to avoid getting into trouble, to take. It never takes me long to find examples of this.

In the more than dozen interviews I’ve done along this trip—in stores, or in their homes—it’s clear others are feeling some kind of heavy weight, too. Many people have deep concerns about the current direction of the country and openly worry about all kinds of things: rising gas prices, how out of reach buying a home feels for their kids, the growing political and emotional division, the lack of care for the environment.

I resonate with so much of what scares people—across parties and state lines.

But as I pedal through this country, inch my inch, I don’t feel the weight of any of it like I did before. I’m incredibly optimistic. It’s hard not to be when you are seeing the best in people every day.

The people who live in this country are beautiful. They honk and give you a thumbs up as you get close to the top of a big climb. They walk over to you after you finish your ride, handing you a beer, and inviting you to join them for dinner. They open their store, even if it’s closed, to make sure you have something to eat. They invite you to sleep in their backyard, in their church, in their outdoor sauna, or in their guest room. They give you a lift in the snow or the rain when you can’t feel your fingers. They are curious and excited—and love the idea of an adventure.

All of the strangers I’m meeting along the way are the fabric of this country—ruthlessly independent and kind and filled with a desire to make more for themselves and their families.

People here can start over and create something new—and they do all the time. There is Fatima Chavez, from Guadalajara, who opened a Mexican restaurant in Wisdom, Montana, in a garage after her husband passed away, and makes some of the best barbacoa I’ve ever had (I passed cyclists for three days afterwards who had all gotten recommendations to try it). Or Janelle Seekins, one of the first people I interviewed on this trip, who started over in Astoria, Oregon, after her boyfriend threw her out of a car on the highway outside the small town she grew up in Colorado. Or Jalet Farrell, who opened a donation-based bike hostel in a church in Mitchell, Oregon—one of the most well-thought-out and joyous places I’ve ever stayed. Or Ken Booth, who sells trinkets he and his wife have discovered in yard sales over the years, who was so proud of the 1836 American flag he had found on the wall. Or Nona Smith, who at 86 had just opened up a little market in Stites, Idaho, five weeks before I rolled in, and had her first credit card transaction while I was there.

I’m proud to be American. I’m proud of our mountains and beaches and deserts and expansive national parks people are so excited to drive across the country to see. I’m proud of how the topography and culture and accents can change over just a few miles. I’m proud of our rodeos and french fries and craft beer and country music. I’m proud of the small town restaurant that sells Chinese food, Mexican food, and American food—all from the same kitchen, and none of it very good—because in the United States, and even in a town of only a few hundred people, residents expect variety, because America is such a diverse country.

We debate and argue about everything all the time—race, religion, politics, education, technology—because we believe that having opinions is a privilege and that things can always, and should, continue to improve. People are genuinely curious and excited and proud about the things that make us different.

I feel like I’m having the same conversation all the time: this country has so much to offer, and there is still so much opportunity for anyone who wants it. Meandering through the mountains and parks, you feel it in the air. But mostly, you feel it in the people.

I was following the trek of a British cyclist across the world, Ben Clark, on Instagram, who just wrapped up the last leg of his trip in Boston. I loved one thing he wrote as he finished up his ride right here in the U.S. after having biked across 23 different countries: If you want to hate America, watch the news. If you want to love it, get on a bike.

I couldn’t agree more.