He started out a runner, but then he discovered the bike.

He found joy in 200-mile adventures, and then he wanted to ride longer. 880 miles from his home in Frytown to Winnipeg, Manitoba. 1100 miles to Washington, D.C. 1200 miles around the state of Minnesota. He loved the simplicity: eat, sleep, ride.

Then he set a new goal: the Tour Divide, a 2,745-mile, border-to-border bikepacking race from Canada to Mexico. It took him a few years to prepare, but on June 9, 2023, he positioned his bike on the start line in Banff, Alberta, with some 200 other cyclists.

It was a test of endurance that would find him scraped up, lonely, in tears, and overjoyed to be sleeping in an outhouse.

Half of the people who joined him at the start line would drop out before the finish line.

He would not.

Matt Miller, 49, is a husband, father of two young men, and math teacher at City High in Iowa City. What would compel him to take an essentially solo, unsupported bikepacking trip for 22.5 days on unpaved dirt and gravel trails through remote wilderness, with mountains to climb, wild animals to face, and inclement weather to deal with – and no trophy or medal waiting for him at the finish line if he did?

“It’s a challenge,” he says. “I think challenges like that are fun. I wanted to see if I could do it.”

He likens it to a child confronting the high dive, uncertain of themselves. When they take the leap and survive, they gain a new sense of themselves and what they’re capable of.

“Honestly, I don’t quite understand,” Miller admits. “I wanted to quit numerous times, but that thought wasn’t a real thought because I wasn’t going to. I was like, I’m here and I put a lot into here both financially and emotionally, so I thought, I’m not going to give that up so I can be done.”

To prepare for the race, which generally is completed by cyclists between 14 and 37 days, Miller had to get the right gear, which he started assembling in 2021. Most critically, that meant a new bike: he chose the 2021 Salsa Cuttthroat GRX 600, which is built specifically for “the rigors of America’s longest mountain bike race,” according to the manufacturer. Lightweight with cargo mounts, the ability to brake and shift over all kinds of terrain, and with drop-bar geometry, the bike held up to Miller’s all-night test rides in 2022, which gave him confidence that he could navigate the challenges of the Tour Divide.

He also prepared by dropping some weight from January to June of this year.

“I said, I’ve got to lose some weight, because I don’t want to pull myself over the mountains, plus a 55-pound bike with all the gear,” Miller says. “I went from 175 down to 145. I was pretty religious; I watched everything I put in my mouth. Fear is a great motivator.”

And of course, he prepared by training. In winter, he spent an hour a day on an indoor trainer; when spring broke in mid-March, he started riding 200 miles a week, including one 100-mile ride per week.

“They say you should try to do the [number of miles] in a week that you could do in a day for this kind of ultra-distance thing,” Miller explains. “The problem is, doing that for 22 and a half days straight is kind of. . . different.”

The Tour Divide follows the Great Divide Mountain Bike Route, the most significant off-pavement cycling route in the U.S. It begins in Banff, Alberta, Canada; cyclists travel south to Antelope Wells, New Mexico, on the U.S.-Mexico border. There is no entry fee for cyclists and no prize if they reach the finish. They also can’t accept outside support – no friends and family bringing them hot soup or a fresh set of clothing – aside from access to public facilities such as stores, motels, and bike shops.

Most of the route travels through the traditional territory of First Nations and indigenous peoples. It boasts spectacular scenery, including mountains, grassland, and high desert. Although its difficulty ranking of 5.5 out of 10 suggests only intermediate skill as a mountain biker is required, the race is considered a “painstaking test of endurance given the scale and elevation of the route.”

For the first half of the race, Miller would run into other cyclists throughout the day. He didn’t shower for the first six days, opting instead to clean up with disinfectant wipes. He camped in stunning, wild locations, sometimes spending the night in free, well-appointed cabins, others waking up to the sight of wild horses. On one particularly memorable night, he slept in an outhouse.

“When the temperature drops in the mountains at night, it gets cold,” Miller says. He found a campground with a water pump, and it was completely empty. “They had one of those wooden restrooms, like they do in the National Park. . . [I thought], that’s a lot warmer, and man, I ended up sleeping on the floor. I chose the women’s restroom because it was cleaner.”

“I just hunkered down, and it was kind of nice because I could lock the door. I could eat where I was sleeping. I know that sounds weird, but in bear country, you don’t eat in your tent,” he explains.

As his journey wore on, other cyclists became scarcer on the trail, and Miller started to wear down. He spent more nights in motels. He suffered a hard crashed that left him scraped up; he faced strong headwinds; his speed dropped; he broke down in tears. The final state to cross, New Mexico, was the hardest.

He was tired, homesick, hungry, and alone.

The Toaster House in Pie Town served him coffee and a quesadilla. He stopped at a church for water, and the pastor’s wife gave him two frozen hamburgers. At the last tiny convenience store on his route, the owners knew his name; they had been tracking the cyclists on Trackleaders and had seen him coming.

Then, finally, his wife, Renee, went flying by him in her white Subaru Outback, having driven 1,384 miles from Frytown after her flight was canceled to see him at the finish line.

He may have completed his race completely spent in mind and body, but now that he’s had time to reflect, Miller finds himself with a new perspective on life.

“I kind of felt like it makes you feel invincible, like we can do some pretty hard things,” he said. “It kind of changed my perspective on what it means when you say you can’t do something. Chances are, you probably can.”

Matt Miller will share his journey of completing the Tour Divide at East Union Mennonite Church on Wednesday, Sept. 20 at 6:45 p.m. A potluck-style meal will precede the presentation at 6 pm. All are welcome to attend.