Contributor: Scott and Sarah Dontanville
My wife and I embarked on an unforgettable journey along the TransAmerica Trail a couple of years ago, a 4,200-mile tandem bicycle tour stretching from the rugged coasts of Oregon to the historic shores of Virginia. This cross-country route, primarily designed for slow travel adventurers, winds through backroads, national forests, and small towns, offering a raw and unfiltered view of America’s heartland.
As we navigated our way, we encountered countless moments that restored our faith in humanity. Strangers became friends, offering help without hesitation—whether it was a shared meal, a bike repair, a place to rest, or a kind word. But one encounter, in a campground laundromat, stood out as a testament to the enduring kindness of people.
It was in a small town, somewhere in Montana, where the rhythm of the journey had us pausing to tend to practical needs. While washing clothes, I struck up a conversation with a fellow traveler named Faulkner. He was a lanky Norwegian who had been riding solo for some time. His eyes sparkled with the enthusiasm of someone who’d seen the world’s goodness up close. As our clothes spun in the dryers, he shared a story that left an indelible mark on my heart.
Faulkner recounted a rainy day just outside Portland, Oregon, where the Pacific Northwest’s relentless drizzle had turned the ground to mud. He’d set up his tent in what he described as a “sketchy” area—perhaps too close to a rough part of town or an isolated spot that felt unsafe. As he wrestled with his gear, disaster struck: a tent pole snapped, leaving his shelter useless. Duct tape, the traveler’s go-to fix, failed against the wet conditions. Determined, Faulkner rode to a nearby hardware store, only to find they didn’t have what he needed. Undeterred, he tried a second store, where the owner, a grizzled man with a warm demeanor, took an immediate interest in his plight.
“Follow me,” the owner said, leading Faulkner down an aisle to a pipe that was the perfect diameter for a makeshift tent pole. When Faulkner saw that it needed cutting, the owner took him to a pipe-cutting machine in a cluttered back room. As Faulkner worked, the owner’s daughter, a young woman, overheard his worries about the unsafe camping spot. She suggested three alternative locations—safer parks or campgrounds nearby. Grateful, Faulkner set out to explore her recommendations, but after careful inspection, none felt right. By late afternoon, still damp and unsure, he returned to the hardware store.
The daughter was gone, but the owner was still behind the counter, getting ready to close. Faulkner shared his fruitless search, and without missing a beat, the owner stepped out again and said, “Follow me.” This time, they stopped at a key-cutting machine. To Faulkner’s astonishment, the owner made a key to the store itself and handed it over. “You can spend the night here,” he said, his voice matter-of-fact but kind. “Just leave the key under the mat when you go—or keep it as a memento.”
In the laundromat, Faulkner reached beneath his shirt and pulled out the key, dangling from a simple string around his neck. His smile was radiant, stretching wide enough to light up the room. That key wasn’t just a practical solution; it was a trophy of human connection, a tangible reminder of a stranger’s generosity. As he spoke, I could feel the weight of his words, the joy of a moment that felt like something from a bygone era—yet it was real, recent, and raw.
My wife and I have been fortunate to witness this kind of neighborly love not just on the TransAmerica Trail but in all corners of the world. Faulkner’s story, though, holds a special place in our hearts. It’s a reminder that adventure reveals more than landscapes—it uncovers the goodness in people. To find it, you just need to hit the road, open your heart, and let the world surprise you. If that’s not possible, join our blog for our upcoming tandem tour across Europe. We do all the pedaling, and you come along for the pleasure.
Follow Scott and Sarah’s adventures on their blog, Tempertandem
