Do you know the type? The TV program where a couple of 'anthropologists' visit the home of a famous Dane and try to guess who lives there.

That's how we feel today. We're walking around an empty house and looking at all the objects that say something about the owner. Here's a stuffed mountain goat, a large four-poster wooden bed, a coffee table with old pistols under a glass top, and one entire wall in the living room is a large window looking out onto the Montana mountains. But we don't have to guess who lives here, we already know that. We're at Dawn Henriksen Barnes' house. She has Danish roots, and has been to Denmark several times to find her family. She's a typical example of a descendant of the immigrants who came to North Dakota from Denmark in the late 1800s. Now she's moved to Helena, Montana, because she loves the mountains. We know that she's an active woman. She skis, and has been the leader of the volunteer ski patrollers at Big Sky resort, the largest ski area in the United States. We also know that she's run a marathon on each of the 7 continents. She is 65 years old and plans to go to France this fall to cycle part of the pilgrimage route that runs from Canterbury in England to Rome in Italy. She is clearly a special woman.

But she's not at home.

We know all that because we have spoken to her on the phone several times.

When we wrote to Dawn, through the Warmshowers network for long-distance cyclists, a few days ago, and asked if she had time and would like to visit us for a single night, she called right away and said “Yes”, but that unfortunately she was not at home. Still, she gave us the address of the house, the code to the front door, and a message that there was ice cream in the freezer. In this way, Dawn is not only an example of a descendant of an immigrant from Denmark, but also an example of the extreme hospitality we have encountered in the United States.

The last blog post from Mexico probably ended with a slightly anxious attitude about whether people in the USA are also genuinely nice and welcoming, as we had become accustomed to throughout our trip up until now. But we have to admit that the USA has taken the prize for the greatest hospitality towards us.

We are in Montana. We have cycled the length of almost the entire USA now. If we cycled the straight road, it was 500km to the border with Canada. But we never cycle the straight road. The odometer shows 22,500km, there are about 7,000km more until we reach the goal, in Prudhoe Bay, Alaska.

We have been in the USA for almost two and a half months. Texas, New Mexico, Colorado, Utah, Wyoming and Montana. We have seen the landscape change from the flat prairie to the wildest red sandstone cliffs in strange formations, to huge spruce forests and to granite mountains with snow on top. And we have met many sweet, funny, quirky and warm people.

As soon as we drove into Texas, things got going. Manuel was standing by the road selling pecans that he grew in his backyard. It wasn't so much because of the pecans that we stopped. But when you see a cowboy hat crowning a man with a white handlebar mustache, a cropped T-shirt, a large belt buckle, a revolver in his belt, jeans and cowboy boots, you slam on the brakes and fill your mouth with a thousand questions. Manuel has lived here in Texas for the past 30 years. You could say he escaped here. He was a bad kid before, he drank, did drugs, had affairs and behaved badly. But as happens to many, he experienced that Jesus came into his life and got him back on track. He moved to Texas with his wife. He settled down. He started a small church. And started doing some crafts that he sells along with the pecans.

Amidst all our questions and interest in getting to know Manuel, a car pulled over and an elderly gentleman, dressed in a World War II uniform, got out, from head to toe. The whole character of the conversation changes and everyone is addressed as Sir (except Marie). The soldier asks for directions to the cemetery. Another car pulls over and another World War II soldier gets out and everything becomes incredibly surreal. Firearms are displayed and they tell us that one of their fellow soldiers is to be buried today. We are allowed to take a picture of the two handsome uniformed men before they drive off in a motorcade. Manuel's wife has now come out and before we continue on our journey, they give us a prayer along the way. We stand in a circle, close our eyes, while Manuel recites a chanting prayer, where the wife emphasizes and repeats the wishes for a safe journey for us. It was a very touching moment and it warmed our hearts that complete strangers would go to such lengths to invoke protection over our journey.

It was the first day in Texas.

We are back in Western culture. It is clear. We can have everything we need. And even more that we don't need. Here there is abundance to a degree that is completely incomprehensible and sometimes distasteful, especially when you come directly from a year in significantly poorer countries.

We see thousands of motorhomes on the road. Large box trucks, with pull-outs on the sides. If you imagine a regular Danish camper van and multiply it by 3-4, you have a typical American camper van. Or a motorhome. When we saw the first ones, we talked about how in Mexico it would typically be a bus that could seat 50 people. Here it is a summer holiday convenience for 2 people. The largest camper vans we have seen have 6 wheels. And are typically pulled by a 4WD with a double rear axle. That is 6 more wheels. So it is more or less 3-4 tons on twelve wheels that have to be pulled across the country so that two people can have a little vacation. In addition, almost everyone has either an extra car, or a trailer with an all-terrain vehicle, in tow after the whole circus.

The contrast to our journey is striking. It is about as big as the environmental damage that goes with it.

Generally speaking, many things are just bigger in the US. It actually makes sense that washing powder, milk, and cookies come in larger packages. After all, you save a little packaging that way, and bigger cookies have their obvious advantages.

In Moab we stayed with Teri Ann. Another Warmshower host. But a special one of a kind. We thought she had a funny profile, and we approached her. Only later did we hear her referred to as 'crazy desert woman', which perhaps was very fitting. Teri Ann was very colorful and creative and had built a house for herself, which was wildly decorated with lots of mosaics and art. She also had some wild friends. Every Tuesday they met to go bowling, and we were invited along. Before the bowling, however, we were right around one of the girls in the gang, who at home in the trailer park, invited us for tequila shots.

While we were sitting there with tequila with cinnamon and orange, they told us about Erik, who owns the bowling center. Erik is Danish, and everyone was looking forward to meeting him.

We went to the bowling center full of anticipation and, as usual, we ordered a beer at the bar. We got into a conversation with the young bartender, who asked where we were from. “Denmark,” we said, to which he replied, “Do you want to be beaten?” At first we gaped, and then we laughed. It turned out to be Erik’s son. The only thing the son had learned in Danish was to say “Do you want to be beaten?” Father Erik must have thought that was the most necessary thing to be able to cope with cousins when they traveled to family gatherings in Denmark.

And then Erik finally came through the door. An older man with a cowboy hat and mustache, a cheeky twinkle in his eye and a crooked smile on his lips. Of course, the first thing we asked him was whether he was going to get spanked.

Erik moved with his parents to the United States when he was 8 years old. In reality, his name is not Erik, but as he said in his Mid-Jutlandic accent: “My name is actually Keld! But Americans can’t say Keld, so now I just say my name is Erik.”

A theme on our trip has gradually become meeting older men on bicycles. In Fort Stanton, Texas, we met Bill. We needed some wifi and a cup of coffee, and swung our bikes in past McDonald's. Outside, a touring bike was parked, and through the window, we could already spot the owner.

Bill is an 81-year-old man who got on his bike in San Diego to cycle across the United States to Florida. You can do whatever you want. He himself thought he had chosen the easy solution, he didn't live in a tent, but allowed himself to sleep in motels. We now think it's okay to take such liberties when you're 81.

In Moab we met Swedish Lars. 69 years old. He is a retired doctor and spends almost all his time on bike trips. He is typically home 2-3 weeks, to plan the next trip, in about 2-3 months, out in the world. We invited Lars to dinner and enjoyed his company. We talked a lot about the bikepacking route 'The White Rim'. A route that requires a special permit if you want to camp, and all the permits were sold out, far into the future. We would have liked to have done the route, but did not want to mess with the entrance, or risk the fine of being discovered.

3 days later Lars was able to report on social media that he had cycled a good part of the route. We're not saying he had cheated. We're just saying that we couldn't get a permit. But it's really fun and wonderful that going on a dare has no age.

You don't go to the US without going into a gun shop and asking about a few different shotguns. So when we drove past a store with 'Guns' proclaimed on the sign outside one cold morning in southern New Mexico, we naturally turned our bikes off the road and stepped into the warmth.

In the small, cozy shop you could buy fishing gear, camping equipment, coffee and weapons. There were rifles, shotguns, pistols and revolvers. The shop was run by a husband and wife. The wife was behind the counter and was easy to talk to. We asked if we could buy a revolver that we could take out the door with us right away. She was a little hesitant because we weren't Americans. We looked at the paperwork it required, but I'm sure if we had tickled her a little, it could have been done. But we left it at that and tried to fish some guns off the shelves instead. And that's how we ended up standing there, fighting a little bit in an unusual way, with a homemade shotgun, with an 18-shot magazine, inside the shop. She only got a little mad when we started pointing at each other with our mouths. Her husband makes the shotguns in the workshop behind the shop, and they were quite proud of them. It was clearly not a hunting weapon, but certainly intended for more dubious purposes, seen from Danish eyes.

We talked a little about gun laws, the recent school shootings, and the subsequent demonstrations in the United States. Her opinion was, of course, that everyone needed a gun. And as she said: “It’s a problem when those extreme, left-wing teachers tell students that if there are no guns, then you can’t shoot each other.” We looked at each other speechless and couldn’t find an appropriate response in the situation. Sometimes we can pressure people we talk to a little about their opinions, but here it wasn’t so appropriate, and the tactic was to talk after their mouths. That’s how you learn a lot about people’s opinions. She was the friendliest person, though, and we felt comfortable in the shop. Even though we talked about controversial topics, she was just nice and accommodating.

We have cycled through the 'Wild West' on purpose. Most cyclists who cycle from Alaska to Argentina cycle through California because it is shorter, easier, and the sun always shines. We have both been there. And we wanted to experience more of the 'real' America. We wanted to get out into the countryside. Out where people voted for Trump, to see what people are like here. And it has not disappointed us. The people have been extremely nice. And no one has surpassed Uncle Jim.

In the small town of Farson, Wyoming, there is an ice cream shop that is known far and wide for its giant homemade ice cream cones. So when we drove from Fruita, 2 days from Farson, we knew we had to stop by that ice cream shop. But things turned out much differently than we had expected.

In the even smaller town of Eden, 5km before Farson, there is a café. Or maybe it's more like a bar. A small, unassuming blue wooden house. One of those places that you either drive past without paying attention, or that you stick your head in because you sense that there could be a fun experience hidden behind the blue walls. We did the latter.

Inside in the darkness stood a pool table, the brown wooden walls were plastered with beer advertisements in picture frames, the bar was so long that it could seat twenty people. But we didn't notice all this until later, because what shone in our face and caught our undivided attention were Uncle Jim and Faith. They were sitting on their own bar stools, with their faces turned towards us, the strangers, and were practically shouting at each other. "Welcome. Where are you from? What are you doing here? Come in and sit down. What do you want?" Etc. etc. They were very excited about the company that came through the door and the conversation was brisk, crisscrossing the people and the bar. We had a cup of coffee and the conversation continued lively. Uncle Jim had had a brain hemorrhage a few months ago, and had lost some memory and some speech. But it didn't matter, because the bulb was still fine. When we asked his name, he replied that we probably wanted to know the name of his motorcycle? Of course. And that was Uncle Jim.

Faith was just called Faith. And she was proud of that. She was Uncle Jim's neighbor, and drove him to the doctor's check-up in a town far away. But as always, they had set aside plenty of time, brought a packed lunch, and now they were sitting here having a little one with their coffee.

Uncle Jim was going out to smoke, and he lured Kenneth along. Out on the steps, in front of the blue wooden house, we talked about everything. Uncle Jim wanted to pay for a night's stay and dinner for us, in Farson, because his aunt had a motel and a restaurant there. It was 10 in the morning, and we thought it was a bit early to stop cycling, and it was also a somewhat overwhelming offer. The end of it all was that Uncle Jim invited us to lunch instead. And we said yes. The plan was that he would drive to his aunt's and put some money down for our lunch. I asked him to decide what food we should eat, and he agreed.

We shook hands and it was a deal. Inside the bar we thanked him for the coffee and had the bartender take a picture of us.

Back on the stairs, Jim put something in my pocket and patted me on the shoulder with an understanding look, asking if I knew what 'vicariously' meant. It means living through someone else, and he felt like he did. He wished he had done what we do, so through his hospitality he wanted to live a little of our adventure. We're just happy to share it with him.

We said goodbye and thanked him for his generosity. They drove off towards Farson by car, and we pointed the bikes in the same direction.

We talked about how great it is for a person like him to offer lunch. And that it's the act itself that warms us, and having the experience of talking to the two of them was fantastic. Lunch or not.

In Farson, their car was still parked in front of the restaurant. Faith was standing out front to greet us. The first thing she said was that they had put money in the ice cream shop so we could go there afterwards and get an ice cream. And then that she would drop the lunch box so we could eat together at the restaurant.

Fantastic. We went inside and found Uncle Jim, the breadwinner, entertaining the young waitress.

Burgers were ordered for everyone, and we ate and had a great time. Faith and Uncle Jim were teasing each other the whole time, and they seemed almost like an old married couple, with a sense of humor like good, strong glue. They were great to be with. Apple pie was served for dessert, and the ever-hungry cyclists ate it up, of course.

Once again, we said a warm, loving, and grateful goodbye to the two of them before going to the ice cream shop for dessert number 2. And THEN we were so stuffed that we couldn't move our ears.

I reached into my pocket to see what Uncle Jim had put in there, and fished out a hundred dollars. It was completely incomprehensible and overwhelming. The generosity that Uncle Jim showed us that day, we feel obligated to pass on to everyone on our path who needs it. Even though we don't need the money, it was an act of humanity to a degree that can be understood.

As another cyclist we spoke to said:

"If you want to restore faith in humanity, go bicycle touring".

“If you want to restore your faith in humanity, go for a bike ride.”

…and that is exactly what we experience. The trust, the help and the love we encounter when we travel this way, we hope to carry with us for the rest of our lives, and pass on to all the people we meet on our way.

And it's not just Uncle Jim who has shown us hospitality. We have been invited in, invited to food, given money (even though our Danish modesty always says no), so many times. We owe a huge thank you to Peggy and Greg for shelter and packed lunches, to The Willards for pancakes and coffee, to Lars Ulrik and Kirsten for a Danish evening and the loan of their camper, to Elanor, John and Juniper for the drive in Mesa Verde National Park, to Caroline and Douglas for showing us a marijuana store, to Jan for the hike, to Charlie for help with bike maintenance, to Lisa and Riley for picking us up in front of the supermarket on a rainy day, to Terese and Douglas for pizza and beer, to David for warm friendship, to Iris for the jacket, and to so many many more for more shelter, more food, fun conversations, for cheering us on and helping us along the way. For opening their arms and hearts to us.

We feel like we've seen the 'real' USA, what some call 'fly-over-country'. We've met quite a few who vote for Trump. We've met people with guns in their belts. People who think cyclists have no right to ride on the road. People with the 'wrong' political views. But what they all have in common is that they've been incredibly nice to us. We've talked in a way that has made us understand each other better. And people aren't as superficial here as our prejudices might have told us.

We are really glad we chose this route through the USA.

The TV program 'Do you know the type?' ends always with the anthropologists meeting the owner of the house. And so we did. A few days after we had driven from her home, Dawn called again. She said she would be at her cabin, up by a small forest lake, for the weekend. If it worked with our schedule, we were welcome to come and stay the night. And it did.

And of course Dawn was just as we had imagined. Sweet and loving. We ate mushrooms she had picked that day, fished in the lake, and once again enjoyed the great American hospitality.

A huge and warm thank you to all the people who have given a piece of their lives to us. We are deeply touched and grateful.