The night the tent blew away
- joshuaine
- 6 days ago
- 4 min read
Updated: 5 days ago
Shan and I have covered over 5000 miles on our cycling and running expeditions. We have slept in every kind of bed you can imagine. Our worst night’s sleep, by far, was during our 3,000-mile journey from Key West to Canada. It was Day 3, and we were staying at a marina campground in the Florida Keys.
We had already eaten dinner and showered after a 35-mile day of running and cycling, and were watching one of those classic Florida thunderstorms from a covered shelter at the campground. At first, it was harmless enough; clouds moved in, rain fell, lightning flickered a few miles away. Then the sky lit up more intensely. Thunder cracked faster and louder. The wind came in fierce bursts. The rain went sideways.
We ooh-ed and aah-ed at first, laughing nervously as the sky’s strobe lights flashed across our faces. At one point, Shan wondered aloud about the fate of the two-person tent we’d left at our campsite, his tone far less urgent than it should have been (check out the video, you’ll see what I mean).
Once the storm died down, we returned to our campsite and rescued our tent. It had been lifted and tossed by the wind and landed upside-down in a puddle. Sleeping bags soaked. Everything wet.
We got the tent upright again, but it rained throughout the night, so we had to keep the rainfly on. This meant we had no airflow, no escape from the Florida heat. Mosquitoes had found their way into the tent during the excitement and made themselves at home. It was a long, sweaty, miserable night - we slept very little. It was just Day 3. Our bodies were still adjusting to the mileage, so a restless night of sleep was the last thing we needed. The next morning, we struggled to wake up and tackle another 35-mile day. Shan shuffled wearily onward to Homestead, FL. I packed up our soggy gear and sluggishly towed it behind my bike to meet Shan at the next stop. We felt like (and probably looked like) a couple of zombies.
And that’s what “self-supported” can look like.
Most people who run across the country, or any route thousands of miles long, do it one of two ways. The solo runner carries everything themselves, using a stroller or trailer for gear, sleeping wherever they can find shelter, carrying their own food and water. It’s the simplest approach in concept, and the most demanding in practice. These solo runners are rare creatures, athletic, determined, and clearly more adventurous than most.
The more common approach is running with a crew, usually friends or family, driving alongside in a support vehicle. The crew keeps their runner fed, hydrated, motivated, and pointed in the right direction. They document the trip, manage communications, and handle logistics. For record attempts, the crew is a well-oiled machine, all business, super organized, sometimes driving multiple vehicles - critical if the runner is going to achieve their goal.
Most runners aren’t chasing records, though. They’re running for other reasons - raising money for charity, taking steps on their own healing journey, or pursuing a personal dream. For them, the finish line matters, but it’s really about the journey. A crew of one or two is plenty. The daily mileage is shorter. They look around, see the sights.
This is how Shan ran across the country in 2020 - intentionally, with time to take it all in. Soaking up the scenery and the sunsets, recovering and reflecting at the end of each day. His friend Callie was his support crew. She drove the campervan, kept him fed and healthy, managed logistics, ran miles with him when she could, and acted as expedition photographer. Together, they covered 3,255 miles from California to Connecticut, nearly 40 miles a day (Ref 1).
And a seed was planted.
When Shan and I started talking about doing our first “big thing” together, our brainstorming led us to the East Coast Greenway, a developing, 3,000-mile network of multi-use trails stretching from Key West, FL, to Calais, ME. It was a route I had long wanted to cover by bike, so weaving a cycling component into Shan’s next big run felt pretty natural.
Since this wasn't his first crossing, and it had been barely a year since Shan and Callie crossed the country together, we were able to draw on their experience as we started planning. I asked a ton of questions about their daily routine, sleep, food, and logistics during the 2020 run, and spoke with friends about bike touring. Eventually, I felt confident about balancing logistics, communication, and photography (i.e., amateur, iPhone-camera shots) with my own daily challenges.
And so it was decided. Shan would attempt a running FKT. I would crew from the saddle, carrying our gear in a 90-liter trailer attached to my road bike. Runner and cyclist. Self-supported. Human-powered.
As far as we know, only two others have completed a months-long expedition this way. Katie Visco and Henley Phillips, a wife and husband team, crossed Australia in 2019 - Katie on foot, Henley carrying their gear in a trailer (Ref 2, 3). Brothers Fritz and Max Sitte spent 301 days running and cycling from Cape Town to Cairo in 2024; Fritz covered the miles on foot, and Max hauled their gear by bike (Ref 4). Shan and I have covered over 5000 miles together using this model (on the Erie Canal, the East Coast Greenway, and the Pacific Coast Bicycle Route).
There are plenty of stories to be told from the road. From cheap motels on Route 17 in South Carolina, to being followed by dogs or chased by a chicken (yes, a chicken), to sleeping in a shipping container on a farm alongside goats, cows, and a resident rooster. That rainy night camping in the Keys was our first test. In a campervan, you can climb inside, close the door, and wait it out. On a bike, you have to rescue your upside-down tent, outrun the local wildlife, and carry on.
We didn't realize how unconventional our setup was when we first started those journeys. Today, we're looking through a different lens - exploring what happens when a support van isn't waiting around the corner.
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