It started, as many great ideas do, with a long lunch and a second glass of wine. My friend Theo had just returned from a solo ride through Burgundy, cheeks sun-kissed and calves stronger than ever, and couldn’t stop raving about the rhythm of life on two wheels between vines. The idea of vineyard-hopping by bicycle sounded almost too romantic—sunset hills, tastings under fig trees, and that indescribable glow of being delightfully tipsy in nature. So we planned it. Five days, just us, two bikes, and a gentle route winding through either France’s Alsace wine road or California’s Napa and Sonoma valleys.

We opted for Alsace first, charmed by its timber-framed villages and Riesling crispness. Theo, ever the planner, found a bike rental service in Strasbourg that offered saddlebag options, wine-packing kits (because yes, you’ll want to take bottles with you), and a GPS trail subscription that guided us via small roads. We purchased travel insurance that covered cycling and wine-related activities, because apparently that’s a real category now. And we booked guesthouses along the route that specialized in hosting cyclists—complete with drying rooms for our gear and breakfast spreads worthy of poetry.

Our journey began in Obernai, where the air smelled faintly of baked apples and woodsmoke. The first climb out of town was gentle, enough to make us feel athletic but still conversational. We passed fields of grapes twisting in perfect rows, with medieval steeples in the distance like bookmarks from another time. I remember stopping outside a small winery with blue shutters and asking the elderly owner if we could taste. He didn’t speak English, but he understood our wide eyes and hopeful grins. He poured glasses of Crémant and nodded approvingly when we asked, in terrible French, if we could buy a bottle to strap to Theo’s bike rack.

What made this kind of travel so addictive wasn’t just the wine—it was the cadence. Wake with the sun, pack light, ride slow, stop often. Eat when you’re hungry. Taste when you’re curious. Rest when the vineyard’s grass feels inviting. There’s no need for tight schedules. Our pace became so relaxed that we forgot what time it was, measuring the day instead by how many cellar doors we’d visited and how many conversations we’d had with strangers under vines.

In Riquewihr, we stayed in a vineyard B&B run by two sisters who also hosted cooking classes. That night, we cooked flammekueche together with other cyclists from the Netherlands and Australia. The air was thick with butter and laughter. One woman, Elise, had quit her job in Dublin and was cycling her way through every wine region in Western Europe. She told me, between sips of a smoky Pinot Noir, that biking had saved her from burnout. She used credit card reward points for boutique stays and had learned enough of each local language to buy cheese and book a room. She called it “slow healing with fast wheels.”

The vineyards themselves were more than backdrops—they were characters. In France, they sprawled across rolling hills, lined with chalky stone paths and dotted with little shrines to saints who apparently watch over the grapes. In California, by contrast, the vineyards feel broader, bolder. I did a similar five-day trip the following spring with my cousin Claire, this time cycling from Carneros to Healdsburg. The Napa Valley trails offered luxury vineyard stays with wellness spas, solar-powered lodges, and tastings that included goat cheese pairings and lavender fields.

There was a magic to California’s wine country that felt distinctly West Coast—laid-back but elegant. We met a retired couple from Oregon who had done this trip every spring for six years. They told us about the bike-friendly wineries that even had their own mechanics on-site. One stop in St. Helena offered yoga in the vineyard followed by organic rosé served in hammocks. Another had a goat rescue pen you could visit before your tasting. It was less about high-end status and more about connection—with the land, the growers, and your own breath between rides.

Claire and I laughed often, especially when we tried to balance bottles in our bike baskets. One afternoon, after a slightly too-generous tasting, we took a wrong turn and ended up in a sunflower field instead of the next town. We laid our bikes down and sat in the flowers for what felt like hours. She told me about her recent breakup, about how this trip had reminded her she still had adventure in her. I realized then that these rides were less about the wine and more about making space for conversations we’d forgotten how to have.

We also saw the economic ripple effects of wine cycling tourism. From eco-lodge bookings to local art shops that sold grapevine charcoal sketches, each village seemed quietly supported by travelers like us—those who came not to rush but to dwell. Many vineyards offered affiliate booking deals with discounts on future stays or shipping wine back home. One even had a virtual sommelier we could scan with a QR code, giving pairing tips as we rode off with our purchases.

Safety was never a concern. Bike lanes were well marked, car drivers courteous, and the towns had tourist info centers eager to help. We wore helmets, of course, and used reflective vests when the light dipped, but even when we got caught in light rain, the route felt forgiving. I did take a minor tumble when I tried to take a photo while riding—note to self, don’t. But even then, a local cyclist stopped to check if I was okay and offered me a protein bar. Kindness, like good wine, travels well.

By the fifth day, our legs were stronger, our minds calmer, and our hearts lighter. We’d spent evenings under grapevine canopies, mornings with dew-soaked tires, and afternoons drifting through sleepy towns that smelled like wine and wood. We never drank too much—we wanted to remember every detail. The rustle of wind in the leaves. The clink of bottles packed in panniers. The click of gears shifting as we climbed one last hill.

On our last morning in Sonoma, Claire and I rode past rows of old Zinfandel vines, the sky golden and humming with bees. We didn’t speak for miles. We didn’t need to. Everything that mattered had already been said somewhere between sips and pedals.

And when we parted ways—her back to LA, me to New York—we promised we’d do it again. Maybe Bordeaux. Maybe Paso Robles. Maybe somewhere unexpected. Because once you’ve traveled this way—by pedal, by bottle, by belly laugh—it’s hard to go back.

🍷🚲🌿