Day 25: Cincinnati, OH to Dry Ridge, KY

Distance: 41.5 mi, Climbed: 2,884 ft
Completed: 923.0 mi, 48,416 ft

Rich and I keep meeting the nicest people at hotels.

At breakfast, Jenn and Trish joined us after spotting our jerseys at the buffet and wanting to hear more about the trip. Jenn shared that she’s planning to run the Great American Rail-Trail, a 3,700+ mile route connecting Washington, D.C., to Washington State. Incredible! She was curious about the route we’ve chosen, and Rich told her about the new Golden Gravel Trail as an option to consider. Trish plans to be part of the journey as well—supporting along the way and bicycle riding sections herself. They were in town from Boston because Jenn is running the Cincinnati Marathon this weekend.

Trish shared that her mom’s adult neighbor had undergone experimental brain surgery to treat seizures that weren’t controlled by medication. It worked—and now, her neighbor is able to drive. Stories like that stay with you, especially on a trip like this.

What’s in a name? For me, it meant one thing—we had to cross over the Ohio River into Kentucky on The Purple People Bridge. With forecasts calling for rain—and even possible hail—I happened to be wearing my purple rain jacket. Completely unplanned… but definitely fitting. Rich had never been to Kentucky before, and it’s still a little surreal to think we’ve made it this far—pedaling our way into the Bluegrass State.

The riding itself was spectacular. The direct route from Cincinnati to Dry Ridge would have been a quick 35-minute drive on the interstate. Instead, we rolled through Covington and followed Decoursey Pike into Kentucky’s back roads. It wasn’t remote in the way some earlier parts of the trip have been—there was a steady mix of rural and suburban life. Homes dotted the landscape, sometimes clustered, sometimes spread out. We passed a large regional high school, family farms with horses, cows, chickens, and goats—and, of course, stretches of true bluegrass that seemed to glow in the afternoon light.

Once we passed an early gas-station stop, services thinned out quickly. There was just one small market in Visalia about halfway through, and we were more than happy to stop for lunch—knowing it would be our last chance before Dry Ridge.

With eight miles to go and the final big climb behind us, we started to believe we were in for a smooth finish. We didn’t say it out loud… but we both thought it.

Womp womp—three miles to go: ROAD CLOSED.

Continuing on the back roads would have been nice, but it was an easy fix to get on the main road into town. With only the slightest detour, it was an amazing day of riding.

What stays with us most, though, isn’t just the miles. It’s the people—their stories, their questions, their connections to epilepsy—that give this ride its meaning.

One state at a time. One conversation at a time. One mile at a time.