PHOTO: Larry Walsh during one of his epic cross-country rides, embracing the open road and the challenges that come with it.
From Corporate Life To Cross-Country Adventure
Larry Walsh shares his extraordinary transformation from corporate executive to cross-country cyclist, recounting 7,300 miles of adventure, resilience, and self-discovery across 18 states in his inspiring travel memoirs.
Larry Walsh’s life is a testament to the power of reinvention. A US Army veteran and accomplished business leader, he once navigated boardrooms with the same determination he would later bring to the open road. When a career upheaval abruptly closed one chapter, Walsh seized the chance to pursue another—one that had long existed as a quiet dream. In the autumn of 2018, he set his sights westward, embarking on an epic cycling journey that would span 7,300 miles, 18 states, and ten transformative months.
In Suit to Saddle and Forty to Finish, Walsh charts not only the physical contours of his coast-to-coast rides but also the inner landscape of resilience, curiosity, and self-discovery. His prose is grounded in vivid observation—of weathered small towns, shifting accents, and fleeting connections that leave a permanent mark. Along the way, moments of human kindness and historical resonance intertwine, as in the chance meeting with a fellow traveller at Sacajawea’s gravesite, offering a bridge between past and present.
Walsh’s journeys were never simply about crossing a finish line; they were about testing limits, embracing discomfort, and finding clarity in the cadence of the road. Each pedal stroke became both a physical act and a metaphor for persistence—small, deliberate movements carrying him toward an uncertain but deeply personal horizon. In sharing his story, he extends an invitation: to venture into the unfamiliar, to listen to the land and its people, and to discover, perhaps, the person you were always meant to be.
What initially inspired you to document your cycling adventures in book form?
I never thought I’d write a book. In fact, I would have bet against it. I rode my bike for me—not broadcasting my adventures to friends. I didn’t have a Facebook page at the time. After my second cross-country ride, I came home, wrote a manuscript, slid it onto the bookshelf, and figured maybe, someday, future generations of Walsh’s would read about their crazy uncle.
Friends kept urging me to write a book, but for a long time, I wondered: why would anyone want to read my story? Then something shifted. I realized I’d had an extraordinary experience, and once I changed my perspective, the words started flowing.
Riding 7,300 miles through 18 states and 528 towns in 10 months isn’t just a ride—it was a journey worth sharing.
How did it feel to transition from a structured corporate life to the unpredictable road of solo cycling?
Corporate life was structured, but I rarely stayed in one place for long—changing jobs about every two years. Each move meant a new location, new work colleagues, new learning, new challenges. I like different. I’ve always been a dreamer, someone who strives to stand apart. I put myself in uncomfortable situations on purpose, testing my limits.
So, what could be more bracing—and more significant—than riding a bike across the country? It just seemed cool. In some ways, the transition wasn’t all that different. The scenery changed, the challenges evolved, but the drive to push myself into the unknown remained the same.
Were there any particular towns or people along your journey that left a lasting impact on you?
There were too many moments to count. Each state, each tiny town had its own personality. The accents shifted, the landscapes changed, but the experiences were second to none.
There’s one story I share in every talk I give. I had entered Fort Washakie, in the Wind River Indian Reservation, not far from the gravesite of Sacajawea—the famed Shoshone woman who helped guide the Corps of Discovery to the Pacific in the early 1800s. It was late in the day. Storms rolled east across the horizon, and I was struggling to find the cemetery.
That’s when I met Nolan. He was also visiting the cemetery on that Father’s Day in 2019. He helped me find the site and explained he was there to honour his father, a U.S. Navy veteran who had served in the Vietnam War and now rested there.
We talked about the history of the West, Native American heritage, and my fascination with Sacajawea’s story. Nolan pointed toward a narrow, well-worn dirt path.
“Walk that way, and you’ll see the gravesite,” Then he added, almost casually, “You should come back to Fort Washakie. I can introduce you to descendants of Sacajawea.”
I was stunned, trying to absorb the weight of the offer. “I’d love to take you up on that,” I said, knowing I’d just been handed a connection to history that went far deeper than I could have imagined.
What were some of the most unexpected challenges you faced during your cross-country rides?
The weather was unpredictable, and the headwinds in Kansas were brutal. Hand and toe numbness, foot pain, saddle sores, neck stiffness—these were expected to some degree, but they were also the cracks where doubt occasionally slipped in.
Only once, riding near the Kansas–Missouri border, did I truly feel like a zombie—drained, mechanical, almost detached from the moment. Except for my one zombie period, no matter the discomfort, I kept my focus locked on a single thought: get to the finish line.
How did your background as a Veteran influence your mindset and resilience throughout your adventures?
I was a hard charger when I served in the Army. I wondered if I still had what it took to cycle coast-to-coast. I wondered if I had lost the edge that once pushed me through the grueling challenges of Army Ranger School. Part of the appeal of this adventure was to place myself in the kind of challenging, uncomfortable, and unfamiliar situations I had always sought.
What I discovered was that the same mindset I’d relied on as a Ranger: focus on one day at a time, one step forward, then another. Repeat until the finish. Achieve small goals while never losing sight of the bigger mission.
Can you share how writing these memoirs changed your perspective on storytelling or personal reflection?
Occasionally, I’m asked what it’s like to ride a bike across the country. Simply put, it’s cool—but hard to explain. Imagine the anticipation of a movie you’ve been waiting to see for years. The trailers build your excitement, the night finally arrives, and the theatre is packed. For three hours, you’re captivated—drawn into the twists, the turns, the deepening plot. Then the credits roll. The lights come up. Life goes on.
Riding coast to coast was like that—a finite beginning, a finite end, and an intense, immersive experience in between. Before and after the ride, my life was routine. But during the ride, I stepped out of the real world into a parallel universe—partially connected to family, partially tethered to an unknown destination. I passed through countless small towns that make up the fabric of America, meeting people who live simple, wonderful lives.
I had time to reflect without distraction. My mind was free. I wanted to meet new people, and learn about America’s many cultures along the way. I even left room for the possibility that the ride might spark a new career or passion once I returned home.
Yet, by the time I rolled into the finish, I still didn’t have an “aha” moment or a crystal-clear vision for my next chapter. It wasn’t until I began writing Suit to Saddle that I understood the true impact of my journey. Pedalling state to state, crossing time zones like steppingstones, I had unknowingly reclaimed the person I wanted to be—the one I used to be.
What reactions have you received from readers who were inspired by your journey and message?
This has been one of the most pleasant surprises—and one of the most rewarding aspects—of my cycling adventures. No fewer than a dozen strangers have reached out, seeking my insights as they prepared to take the cross-country plunge themselves. Often, their motivation is deeply personal, and our shared understanding creates an instant connection, as if a long-lost friend had suddenly found me.
The greatest reward comes after they complete their journey and tell me I played a part in their decision to ride. Hearing my name mentioned as someone who helped them act is humbling and gratifying in a way I never expected.
And the reach isn’t limited to the U.S. One of the first people to contact me after my first book came out lived in South Africa—proof that the love of adventure, and the courage to pursue it, knows no borders.
What advice would you offer to other authors who are looking to transform personal experiences into compelling memoirs?
For me, the moment I truly believed I had a story worth telling I knew there was no turning back. Friends and family had encouraged me for months to write about my cycling journeys, but the shift came when I asked myself this question: Wouldn’t everyone want to know what it’s like to cycle through 18 states, covering 7,300 miles? The answer hit me like a ton of bricks—of course they would.
Writing became an obsession. For six months, I wrote 10–12 hours a day, seven days a week. When I needed a break, I’d drive for Uber—just to engage with people for a few hours—before returning to my small office to write, and write, and write some more.
My advice? Everyone has a story to tell. And while roughly 80% of people dream about writing a book, only a fraction takes the leap. The difference is simple: just do it.
