Back in the summer of 2017, a wild idea took root in the world of bikepacking: a coast-to-coast bicycle race across America, not on smooth pavement, but on the rugged, dirt-and-gravel spine of the Trans-America Trail (TAT). The American Trail Race (ATR) was born that year, a self-supported ultra-endurance challenge that sent 13 riders pedaling from Cape Lookout, North Carolina, to Port Orford, Oregon—nearly 5,000 miles of backroads, over 300,000 feet of elevation, and some of the most remote terrain the U.S. has to offer. I didn’t know it at the time, but I’d stumble right into the middle of this epic adventure while crossing the Oklahoma Panhandle—and meet two brothers from Italy who embodied its gritty spirit.
The ATR got its start thanks to the TAT’s growing legend. Originally mapped by Sam Correro for dual-sport motorcyclists, the TAT had already lured adventurers like me—I’ve ridden chunks of it myself on my motorcycle, bouncing through its dusty trails and marveling at its wild emptiness. But in 2015, Sarah and Tom Swallow proved it could be conquered by bicycle, pedaling the route in 87 days and inspiring a new breed of two-wheeled explorers. The ATR took that vision and turned it into a race, launching its inaugural event on June 1, 2017. The rules were simple but brutal: no support crews, no shortcuts, just you, your bike, and whatever you could carry across America’s forgotten dirt roads.
The challenges were insane. Riders faced scorching deserts, muddy plains, and steep climbs through the Rockies, all while navigating with maps and GPS. Flat tires, broken chains, and exhaustion were constant threats, and finding water or food in places like the Oklahoma Panhandle—where towns are few and far between—could make or break a day. The goal was to average 100-150 miles daily, a Herculean task on gravel and dirt, with thousands of feet of elevation gain per day on some stretches. It was a test of body, mind, and sheer stubbornness.
Brothers from Italy
That summer, I was driving back from western Kansas through the Oklahoma Panhandle, a flat, windswept corner of the world where the TAT cuts through like a dusty ribbon. I’d heard online that one of the ATR racers was passing through my route, tracked live on Trackleaders.com, but I didn’t know exactly where he was at the moment. Curiosity got the better of me. Crossing the TAT, I spotted fresh bicycle tracks in the dirt—narrow, determined lines cutting through the loose soil. There were two tracks, which confused me, since I was under the impression there was only a single racer. On a whim, I turned west, following those tracks for about 15 miles, deeper into the emptiness. Then, at a remote ranch, I saw them: two figures resting under a shade tree, bikes propped nearby, the air shimmering with blistering heat.
I pulled over and introduced myself. They were two brothers from Italy, their faces weathered but their spirits high. Only one was officially entered in the race; the other had tagged along just to keep his brother company—a ride-or-die bond pedaling across America. They were gracious enough to chat, despite the sweat and fatigue. I asked how they fueled their bodies for 150 miles a day on these brutal roads. Their answer was straightforward: a massive breakfast to start, constant snacking and sodas (lots of sodas!) during the day, and a big dinner to recover. They usually camped under the stars, though they’d splurge on a hotel when they could. Totally self-supported, they carried all their gear—no chase vehicle, no crew, just them against the trail.
I was blown away. Here were two guys from a foreign country, tackling one of the toughest bicycle races imaginable, on a route I’d ridden myself—but on a motorcycle, with an engine to do the hard work. The TAT’s Oklahoma stretch is no picnic: hot, dry, and lonely, with sticky mud if a storm rolls through. Yet these brothers were grinding it out, day after day, with a toughness that left me in awe. Their English was accented but clear, their demeanor calm and resolute, like they’d made peace with the suffering. That they’d come from Italy to race across rural America—on dirt and gravel, no less—made it even more impressive. This wasn’t the Tour de France; this was a raw, unglamorous slog through the heart of the country, and they were owning it.
The 2017 ATR was a one-off in some ways—later iterations haven’t matched its original buzz—but it left a mark. Those 13 riders, including my Italian brothers, showed what’s possible when you strip cycling down to its toughest roots. I never got their names (wish I had!), but I’ve got photos of them under that tree, a snapshot of grit I’ll never forget. If you’re out there reading this, brothers, know you’ve got a fan in Oklahoma. And if anyone’s thinking of bikepacking the TAT, take it from me: it’s a beast, whether you’re on two wheels or a motor. But for those who dare, it’s a ride like no other.
