November 1st, 2025 | by Duncan Covey
We have thoroughly enjoyed and lived vicariously through Duncan’s adventure riding around the world (yes, the whole world!). Duncan started his adventure in England on April 6th, 2024 and pedaled around the globe, wrapping up on July 26, 2025. In today’s Quench’d story, Duncan shares the adventure across the US, the fourth continent he crossed. What he thought would be somewhat of a cruise through the country, ended up being a bit more exciting than he expected. Read more of Dunan’s stories: his recap of his adventure through The Stans and his reflections on why he wanted to ride a bike around the world before he even started.
As I rolled into Auckland, ticking over 26,000 km of two wheeled adventure, I felt a strong sense that despite the vast distance remaining to complete an around the world bike ride, the “adventure” had to be all but over. The preceding 12 months (virtually to the day!) had seen me cross snowy mountain passes in the French and Swiss Alps and wind between the glorious snowy peaks of the Dolomites. I’d managed to shake off a would-be mugger trying to steal my bike, complete with all my belongings, on the Italy-Austria Border, only to find myself staring up the business end of a drug smuggling shepherd’s shotgun in the suitably named Accursed Mountains in Albania. Fuelled by sickeningly sweet, black teas, I’d outrun vicious wild dogs in Greece and Turkey, before rolling into Georgia for a fascinating first taste of ex-Soviet culture. I’d traversed the seemingly endless, inhospitably barren deserts of Kazakhstan and Uzbekistan to reach the ancient Silk Road into Kyrgyzstan, where I spent a brief week recovering in a small mountain hospital from pneumonia. I’d ridden through utter pandemonium on my way out of India’s New Delhi, only to reach further chaos in Nepal, heightened by extreme weather through the tail end of the monsoon season. The dampness continued as I pedalled south, chased through Southeast Asia by the receding monsoon, finally reaching drier climes as Australia’s Nullarbor Plain passed below my wheels before a dramatically different landscape and culture up the more developed east coast.
We have thoroughly enjoyed and lived vicariously through Duncan’s adventure riding around the world (yes, the whole world!). Duncan started his adventure in England on April 6th, 2024 and pedaled around the globe, wrapping up on July 26, 2025. In today’s Quench’d story, Duncan shares the adventure across the US, the fourth continent he crossed. What he thought would be somewhat of a cruise through the country, ended up being a bit more exciting than he expected. Read more of Dunan’s stories: his recap of his adventure through The Stans and his reflections on why he wanted to ride a bike around the world before he even started.
As I rolled into Auckland, ticking over 26,000 km of two wheeled adventure, I felt a strong sense that despite the vast distance remaining to complete an around the world bike ride, the “adventure” had to be all but over. The preceding 12 months (virtually to the day!) had seen me cross snowy mountain passes in the French and Swiss Alps and wind between the glorious snowy peaks of the Dolomites. I’d managed to shake off a would-be mugger trying to steal my bike, complete with all my belongings, on the Italy-Austria Border, only to find myself staring up the business end of a drug smuggling shepherd’s shotgun in the suitably named Accursed Mountains in Albania. Fuelled by sickeningly sweet, black teas, I’d outrun vicious wild dogs in Greece and Turkey, before rolling into Georgia for a fascinating first taste of ex-Soviet culture. I’d traversed the seemingly endless, inhospitably barren deserts of Kazakhstan and Uzbekistan to reach the ancient Silk Road into Kyrgyzstan, where I spent a brief week recovering in a small mountain hospital from pneumonia. I’d ridden through utter pandemonium on my way out of India’s New Delhi, only to reach further chaos in Nepal, heightened by extreme weather through the tail end of the monsoon season. The dampness continued as I pedalled south, chased through Southeast Asia by the receding monsoon, finally reaching drier climes as Australia’s Nullarbor Plain passed below my wheels before a dramatically different landscape and culture up the more developed east coast.
Duncan on the leg of his journey through The Stans
Duncan on the leg of his journey through The Stans
All this said, by the time I’d ridden north across New Zealand, riding hard to evade the rapidly encroaching winter rolling in uninterrupted from the Antarctic, it felt like a relatively straightforward task ahead. As far as I was concerned, the experiences I’d survived during the first 12 months of the project were ready to be written into a book and the remaining miles would be entirely different. I’d imagined the USA to be a far easier prospect, a nation I predicted to be similar in culture to home in the UK, where the riding would be fairly flat and the ease of the English language would see me through from Los Angeles, CA to Charleston, SC.
After a brief layover in Hawaii (what a shame!) where the bike remained firmly in the box in favour of a few days of rest, buried deep within the luxury of a book I planned to finish and give away by the time the riding returned. Despite my best intentions and utmost optimism and positivity about the looming prospect of the fourth continental crossing of the trip, problems started to loom ahead almost immediately upon landing in LA. I rebuilt my bike in a friend’s garage (thanks Francis!) and pedalled north towards Hollywood. With next to no knowledge on the city prior to my arrival, I decided that a region famous for housing the rich and famous was likely to be affluent, thus safe for a wide eyed cyclist - the result of my naivety was a terrifying spin through parts of the town that my better informed friends dubbed “The Tupac Tour”, apparently linking up every part of town mentioned in the infamous rapper’s discography. An eyeopening introduction to my time in the country for sure!
All this said, by the time I’d ridden north across New Zealand, riding hard to evade the rapidly encroaching winter rolling in uninterrupted from the Antarctic, it felt like a relatively straightforward task ahead. As far as I was concerned, the experiences I’d survived during the first 12 months of the project were ready to be written into a book and the remaining miles would be entirely different. I’d imagined the USA to be a far easier prospect, a nation I predicted to be similar in culture to home in the UK, where the riding would be fairly flat and the ease of the English language would see me through from Los Angeles, CA to Charleston, SC.
After a brief layover in Hawaii (what a shame!) where the bike remained firmly in the box in favour of a few days of rest, buried deep within the luxury of a book I planned to finish and give away by the time the riding returned. Despite my best intentions and utmost optimism and positivity about the looming prospect of the fourth continental crossing of the trip, problems started to loom ahead almost immediately upon landing in LA. I rebuilt my bike in a friend’s garage (thanks Francis!) and pedalled north towards Hollywood. With next to no knowledge on the city prior to my arrival, I decided that a region famous for housing the rich and famous was likely to be affluent, thus safe for a wide eyed cyclist - the result of my naivety was a terrifying spin through parts of the town that my better informed friends dubbed “The Tupac Tour”, apparently linking up every part of town mentioned in the infamous rapper’s discography. An eyeopening introduction to my time in the country for sure!
The Imperial Dunes in California
The Imperial Dunes in California
After the flights between Auckland and LA, I was itching to get going but was delayed waiting for deliveries of spare parts and new kit to replace my tired and broken supplies from the attritional road already travelled. Eventually, I managed to locate the final package and rolled away from the bright lights of the west coast, into the peace and familiar comfort of riding the bike up into the hills. Much to my amusement, my second day finished in the dark, skirting around the immersive thump and vivid strobe lightshow of Coachella Festival.
After the flights between Auckland and LA, I was itching to get going but was delayed waiting for deliveries of spare parts and new kit to replace my tired and broken supplies from the attritional road already travelled. Eventually, I managed to locate the final package and rolled away from the bright lights of the west coast, into the peace and familiar comfort of riding the bike up into the hills. Much to my amusement, my second day finished in the dark, skirting around the immersive thump and vivid strobe lightshow of Coachella Festival.
My illusions of an easy spin back to the finish in London rapidly evaporated as I found myself lugging a 45 kg bike through the thick sand of the southern part of the Pacific Crest Trail – a striking landscape but not one best experienced in carbon shoes with a backbreakingly heavy anchor in tow. It was during one of the ever lengthening rests through southern California that I realised that the brand new rack I'd waited for in LA had snapped, leaving my panniers rubbing against my rear tyre, as a very effective, very expensive handbrake. A hasty repair with a long bolt found discarded on the roadside and generous lashings of tape and my westward progress continued. Tyres buzzed over tarmac as I crossed the Imperial Dunes, before sinking into soft sand once more as I navigated a series of tracks to avoid the Interstate into Arizona. All seemed to be going smoothly until a lapse of concentration found me lying in the dirt, holes in a brand new white jersey (a silly choice for a very grubby adventurer in retrospect...), wondering if the stars appearing above me were a part of the spectacular sunset or a result of my overzealous approach to off-road riding. I slept where I landed that evening, struggling to get out of my kit with a grated shoulder and some audibly crunchy ribs. Not what I came for.
My illusions of an easy spin back to the finish in London rapidly evaporated as I found myself lugging a 45 kg bike through the thick sand of the southern part of the Pacific Crest Trail – a striking landscape but not one best experienced in carbon shoes with a backbreakingly heavy anchor in tow. It was during one of the ever lengthening rests through southern California that I realised that the brand new rack I'd waited for in LA had snapped, leaving my panniers rubbing against my rear tyre, as a very effective, very expensive handbrake. A hasty repair with a long bolt found discarded on the roadside and generous lashings of tape and my westward progress continued. Tyres buzzed over tarmac as I crossed the Imperial Dunes, before sinking into soft sand once more as I navigated a series of tracks to avoid the Interstate into Arizona. All seemed to be going smoothly until a lapse of concentration found me lying in the dirt, holes in a brand new white jersey (a silly choice for a very grubby adventurer in retrospect...), wondering if the stars appearing above me were a part of the spectacular sunset or a result of my overzealous approach to off-road riding. I slept where I landed that evening, struggling to get out of my kit with a grated shoulder and some audibly crunchy ribs. Not what I came for.
Onwards out of the sands and into the mountains, I rolled through Prescott where I shared a few miles with Mark, a follower who, along with his wonderful wife Sarah, generously invited me into the family’s home for an overnight pit stop of food and a proper bed, not before a much needed shower. The next morning I headed off into the hills, feeling that it was too soon to have made the most of a chance encounter with yet more wonderful people. After a brutal couple of hours, I heard an all too familiar crunch as my roadside rack repair finally gave up the ghost, leaving me stranded in the mountains with kit to carry, just no way to ride the bike. The only option was to walk and push the bike, using one hand to keep moving in the right direction and the other to hold the broken rack (and its bulging, overloaded pannier) off the wheel in a bid not to fill my rear tyre with carbon fibre splinters. Some five hours later, I emerged into the small town of Camp Verde for a well deserved litre of chocolate milk before reuniting with Sarah who’d come out on a rescue mission. I’d need to sit tight for about a week to get some spare parts delivered so Sarah and Mark insisted I return to spend it with them rather than climbing the walls of a budget, small town motel. Over the next few days, I learned to plait hair and make bracelets with their three young daughters and immersed myself into family life. I hadn’t realised at the time but this type of family normality was something I’d been missing and craving during the months away from home, so by the time my broken components were replaced, I too felt rejuvenated for the ride ahead.
Onwards out of the sands and into the mountains, I rolled through Prescott where I shared a few miles with Mark, a follower who, along with his wonderful wife Sarah, generously invited me into the family’s home for an overnight pit stop of food and a proper bed, not before a much needed shower. The next morning I headed off into the hills, feeling that it was too soon to have made the most of a chance encounter with yet more wonderful people. After a brutal couple of hours, I heard an all too familiar crunch as my roadside rack repair finally gave up the ghost, leaving me stranded in the mountains with kit to carry, just no way to ride the bike. The only option was to walk and push the bike, using one hand to keep moving in the right direction and the other to hold the broken rack (and its bulging, overloaded pannier) off the wheel in a bid not to fill my rear tyre with carbon fibre splinters. Some five hours later, I emerged into the small town of Camp Verde for a well deserved litre of chocolate milk before reuniting with Sarah who’d come out on a rescue mission. I’d need to sit tight for about a week to get some spare parts delivered so Sarah and Mark insisted I return to spend it with them rather than climbing the walls of a budget, small town motel. Over the next few days, I learned to plait hair and make bracelets with their three young daughters and immersed myself into family life. I hadn’t realised at the time but this type of family normality was something I’d been missing and craving during the months away from home, so by the time my broken components were replaced, I too felt rejuvenated for the ride ahead.
The temperatures dropped as I climbed out of Arizona and onto the Continental Divide in New Mexico – a welcome reprieve with significant amounts of climbing on the books each day. I was glad to be back on the road and working away at the big goal of riding around the world, but as my altitude increased, so too did the discomfort in my ribs from relentless days of laboured breathing. I stopped to set up camp one evening in Pie Town, right up on the top of the divide and settled into the sleeping bag for a chilly night in the tent. The following morning, when I woke in near darkness and wondered why the tent was about to collapse, I discovered that six inches of snow had fallen during the night, making everything make sense! I packed up, donned almost every item of kit left in my panniers, and sliced a couple of thumb-holes in an old pair of socks for extra warmth, before starting my descent. Storm after storm rolled through as I battled my way down off the Continental Divide, with energy vanishing as quickly as the short lived teasers of blue sky between the showers of snow, then hail, then rain. Eventually, I reached the town of Socorro, a small city to the south of Albuquerque and resigned to take a rest day in an attempt to clear the fluid that was building in my lungs. Wishful thinking on my part – a hospital visit a couple of days later confirmed that having broken some ribs in the crash a couple of weeks before, I’d failed to clear enough nasties out of my lungs and eventually contracted pneumonia for a second time. Gutted. I spent the next week necking antibiotics, consuming every healthy piece of food in the Walmart next door and slept a lot, mostly to escape my bad mood for the repeat misfortune.
The temperatures dropped as I climbed out of Arizona and onto the Continental Divide in New Mexico – a welcome reprieve with significant amounts of climbing on the books each day. I was glad to be back on the road and working away at the big goal of riding around the world, but as my altitude increased, so too did the discomfort in my ribs from relentless days of laboured breathing. I stopped to set up camp one evening in Pie Town, right up on the top of the divide and settled into the sleeping bag for a chilly night in the tent. The following morning, when I woke in near darkness and wondered why the tent was about to collapse, I discovered that six inches of snow had fallen during the night, making everything make sense! I packed up, donned almost every item of kit left in my panniers, and sliced a couple of thumb-holes in an old pair of socks for extra warmth, before starting my descent. Storm after storm rolled through as I battled my way down off the Continental Divide, with energy vanishing as quickly as the short lived teasers of blue sky between the showers of snow, then hail, then rain. Eventually, I reached the town of Socorro, a small city to the south of Albuquerque and resigned to take a rest day in an attempt to clear the fluid that was building in my lungs. Wishful thinking on my part – a hospital visit a couple of days later confirmed that having broken some ribs in the crash a couple of weeks before, I’d failed to clear enough nasties out of my lungs and eventually contracted pneumonia for a second time. Gutted. I spent the next week necking antibiotics, consuming every healthy piece of food in the Walmart next door and slept a lot, mostly to escape my bad mood for the repeat misfortune.
Eventually, my impatience got the better of me and I returned to the road once again, promising friends and family that I’d ride gently – a promise I felt I’d be able to deliver on given a recent conversation with a local confirmed it would be “downhill all the way to England from here”. With a monster tailwind ripping through too, I made rapid progress, posting a few days of almost 200 miles each before resting up in the tent again. I crossed into northern Texas, a brief but incredibly dusty affair, before entering Oklahoma, my fifth state.
Eventually, my impatience got the better of me and I returned to the road once again, promising friends and family that I’d ride gently – a promise I felt I’d be able to deliver on given a recent conversation with a local confirmed it would be “downhill all the way to England from here”. With a monster tailwind ripping through too, I made rapid progress, posting a few days of almost 200 miles each before resting up in the tent again. I crossed into northern Texas, a brief but incredibly dusty affair, before entering Oklahoma, my fifth state.
Outside a general store in Oklahoma
Outside a general store in Oklahoma
I was aware that I was entering the infamous “Tornado Alley” in May, the peak of the tornado season but would just have to keep a keen eye out for emergency alerts and heed the advice to stay safe. Almost immediately, the klaxon alert tone blared from my frame bag declaring the need to get indoors, with the arrival of “baseball-sized hailstone” imminent. This theme continued when not long after I’d left Oklahoma City, further warnings kept me off the road for an enforced rest day as tornadoes roared through - although I didn’t see one from my motel window, videos from the local area were confirmed by the devastation left behind as I continued east. A couple of days climbing the walls of the motel with only a Wendy’s nearby for food had me well rested and well fuelled though – the following day I posted my longest ride of the trip, at a whopping 285 miles on the day I left Oklahoma and entered Arkansas.
As I navigated my way across Arkansas, I became aware of the dramatic change in climate to the dry heat of the first few weeks in the country. The refreshing temperatures of the higher elevation were long gone, with relentless humidity pumping the temperatures higher and higher, between the ever more present downpours. By the time I reached Nashville, the skin on my hands and feet was swollen, blistered and peeling fast. Many months of hard graft had toughened the skin that pressed against my shoes and handlebars but it virtually all fell away, leaving soft, tender skin on the surface to remind me I wasn't on holiday!
After a couple of weeks spent with friends in Nashville, I rolled south to enter Georgia, the penultimate state of the continent. The heat and humidity here were suffocating, alleviated by the apparent abundance and availability of ice in America. I tried to fill my insulated bottles with ice during a morning gas station coffee stop and regularly found ice remaining as I stopped to camp at night, often after three or four refills of tepid water over the previous 12 hours. The cold fluids made all the difference for my ability to push the pedals as temperatures reached almost 40°C with humidity well over 90% at its peak too. Comforts can be few and far between on a project like this so to have ice cold drink water at the top of rolling climbs really was a luxury I’d have suffered without - cheers Bivo!
I was aware that I was entering the infamous “Tornado Alley” in May, the peak of the tornado season but would just have to keep a keen eye out for emergency alerts and heed the advice to stay safe. Almost immediately, the klaxon alert tone blared from my frame bag declaring the need to get indoors, with the arrival of “baseball-sized hailstone” imminent. This theme continued when not long after I’d left Oklahoma City, further warnings kept me off the road for an enforced rest day as tornadoes roared through - although I didn’t see one from my motel window, videos from the local area were confirmed by the devastation left behind as I continued east. A couple of days climbing the walls of the motel with only a Wendy’s nearby for food had me well rested and well fuelled though – the following day I posted my longest ride of the trip, at a whopping 285 miles on the day I left Oklahoma and entered Arkansas.
As I navigated my way across Arkansas, I became aware of the dramatic change in climate to the dry heat of the first few weeks in the country. The refreshing temperatures of the higher elevation were long gone, with relentless humidity pumping the temperatures higher and higher, between the ever more present downpours. By the time I reached Nashville, the skin on my hands and feet was swollen, blistered and peeling fast. Many months of hard graft had toughened the skin that pressed against my shoes and handlebars but it virtually all fell away, leaving soft, tender skin on the surface to remind me I wasn't on holiday!
After a couple of weeks spent with friends in Nashville, I rolled south to enter Georgia, the penultimate state of the continent. The heat and humidity here were suffocating, alleviated by the apparent abundance and availability of ice in America. I tried to fill my insulated bottles with ice during a morning gas station coffee stop and regularly found ice remaining as I stopped to camp at night, often after three or four refills of tepid water over the previous 12 hours. The cold fluids made all the difference for my ability to push the pedals as temperatures reached almost 40°C with humidity well over 90% at its peak too. Comforts can be few and far between on a project like this so to have ice cold drink water at the top of rolling climbs really was a luxury I’d have suffered without - cheers Bivo!
The good fortune of meeting kind folk around the world continued in Georgia where I spent a wonderfully rejuvenating few days with the Wright family who had been sharing my journey with their two young sons who remembered a remarkable amount from the stories shared online. A few days passed by teaching their dog to retrieve balls from the same lake I’d been throwing the boys into when before I knew it, it was time to continue riding. I was on a three-month visa and the end of my time in the country was approaching fast, having lost riding time to rest from sickness. After a final push through the final week of the American road trip portion of the project, I rolled into Charleston, SC to see the Atlantic stretch out before me – the same ocean I grew up with on the doorstep in Cornwall. I was welcomed into the final family home of the trip here where by incredible coincidence, it turned out that they had family in the same tiny cornish village I started my schooling in!
At this point, I once again felt like the adventurous part of the project had truly come to a close with only a short sprint across western Europe from Lisbon to Girona to Dieppe (before a ferry back to the UK) remaining – riding that I expected to be familiar from similar trips in the past. I should have learned by this point that adventure is always far from over, with a wonderful array of experiences still in store but you’ve read more than enough for now so be sure to keep an eye out for the book, where the full story is told.
Thanks for making it this far – until next time, go well! DC
The good fortune of meeting kind folk around the world continued in Georgia where I spent a wonderfully rejuvenating few days with the Wright family who had been sharing my journey with their two young sons who remembered a remarkable amount from the stories shared online. A few days passed by teaching their dog to retrieve balls from the same lake I’d been throwing the boys into when before I knew it, it was time to continue riding. I was on a three-month visa and the end of my time in the country was approaching fast, having lost riding time to rest from sickness. After a final push through the final week of the American road trip portion of the project, I rolled into Charleston, SC to see the Atlantic stretch out before me – the same ocean I grew up with on the doorstep in Cornwall. I was welcomed into the final family home of the trip here where by incredible coincidence, it turned out that they had family in the same tiny cornish village I started my schooling in!
At this point, I once again felt like the adventurous part of the project had truly come to a close with only a short sprint across western Europe from Lisbon to Girona to Dieppe (before a ferry back to the UK) remaining – riding that I expected to be familiar from similar trips in the past. I should have learned by this point that adventure is always far from over, with a wonderful array of experiences still in store but you’ve read more than enough for now so be sure to keep an eye out for the book, where the full story is told.
Thanks for making it this far – until next time, go well! DC
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