Note that if you purchase something via one of our links, including Amazon, we may earn a small commission.
Meet Chris Jones, a cyclist and investment banker who combines her love of biking and nature with her desire to connect with people from all walks of life.
Each morning at the crack of dawn, rain or snow, Chris Jones bikes swiftly along her route on an hour-long, 12-mile ride aside the Schuylkill River in Pennsylvania, with no headphones playing music or audiobooks for entertainment. She loves the natural ambient sounds, the birds greeting the day, the full experience of the fresh air as she courses along with other cyclists nearby. As the cyclists ride in tandem, she says, “It feels like church. We’re not talking to each other, but it feels spiritual. When I get to my office, my mind is clear, and I am energized.”
Chris and her business partner, Karin Gregory, founded Blue Highway Capital in 2018 and have built a successful private equity firm that specializes in small and mid-sized rural companies around the United States. They search for businesses with strong leadership and growth potential that could be overlooked by big-city equity investors, and they favor companies with strong community roots and a culture of caring for employees.
When choosing a name for their firm, Chris and Karin settled on Blue Highway Capital to capture the idea of the winding backroads on traditional maps, which are drawn in blue. The name Blue Highway also evokes the remarkable backroads journey Chris took when, in her mid-20s, she cycled alone across America after obtaining an MBA from the Wharton School at the University of Pennsylvania and before starting her career in investment banking.
Victoria Riskin, founder of Bluedot Living, talked to Chris about her bike ride across the country, her firm, and how both reaffirm her faith in the power of connection.
Victoria Riskin: Chris, let’s start at the beginning. Do you remember your first bike? I think everyone remembers theirs.
Chris Jones: Oh, I absolutely do. It was one of those banana-seat bikes — you know, a kid’s bike. It had a long, cushy seat, big handlebars, and streamers — purple and white, if I remember correctly. At the time, it felt incredibly special.
VR: What do you think it was about riding that felt so comforting, even then?
CJ: I’ve thought about that a lot over the years. I think it goes back to freedom. That first bike represents your first real taste of independence — your first chance to break free from your parents and explore the world on your own terms. That feeling never really leaves you.
VR: I remember something similar. I grew up on a hill and could coast all the way down to the bottom and on to the beach. Getting back up was another story — but the freedom was unforgettable.
CJ: Exactly. That sensation stays with you.
VR: When did you get your first adult bike?
CJ: Not until my 20s. My first real bike was a Raleigh. That’s the one I rode across the country. After that, I got a woman-sized bike — a smaller frame because I’m short. Then I rode a LeMans for many years. Now I have a Cannondale graphite bike. It’s so light you can lift it with your pinky. Sometimes I joke that I’m going to blow away in a strong wind.
VR: You’ve been loyal to one bike at a time.
CJ: Yes. I don’t rotate bikes. I ride one bike for 10 or 15 years, really live with it.
VR: Let’s flash back. You’re now a highly successful investor, but take me to the moment you decided to ride across the country.
CJ: I was in business school at Wharton in Philadelphia. There was a woman in my class named Joan Levenson. She was 30 — which seemed so worldly to us — and incredibly self-possessed. She was from San Francisco and had ridden her bike from San Francisco to Philadelphia to start school.
VR: That alone is astonishing.
CJ: She was joy personified. I admired her deeply. That story stayed with me. Later, my husband — who was in medical school — wouldn’t finish his residency until September, and my job didn’t start until then either. I had no money. My friends were traveling to Europe. I thought, What am I going to do? And suddenly it was obvious: I’d ride my bike across the country, just like Joan.
VR: You didn’t train for it?
CJ: Not at all. No special diet, no preparation. Joan helped me outfit the bike — panniers, minimal clothes, repair gear. One pair of shorts, a couple of shirts, socks. She warned me not to overload the bike because you have to carry everything yourself.
VR: How did you decide on the route?
CJ: Joan advised me to ride west to east because the prevailing winds are behind you. I flew to Seattle and started there. I knew that if I could get to Missoula, Montana, there was a place called Bike Centennial that would help me plan the rest.
VR: And did you follow their plan?
CJ: Not really. I realized pretty quickly that the only thing that mattered was how flat the road ahead was. Maps don’t show hills well. So I threw the maps out and asked people: Hey, what’s the easiest way to get from here to there? That’s how I navigated — human to human.
I think it goes back to freedom. That first bike represents your first real taste of independence — your first chance to break free from your parents and explore the world on your own terms. That feeling never really leaves you.
VR: How far were you riding each day?
CJ: On average, about 112 miles a day. It took maybe a week to 10 days to get from Seattle to Missoula.
VR: Where did you stay at night?
CJ: I started with a tent and sleeping bag, but my father asked me to mail them home for his peace of mind. So I stayed in motels and farmworker housing — simple rooms, very basic. One night in Washington state, near Waterville, I followed a bed-and-breakfast sign. The woman who lived there said she hadn’t operated it in decades, but she directed me to where seasonal apple pickers stayed. Later, while I was showering, she knocked on the door and invited me to dinner.
VR: A stranger inviting you to dinner.
CJ: We had a wonderful evening. She told me the entire history of the town. We talked until late. The next morning, at 4 a.m., she was standing outside with oranges and muffins to send me on my way.
VR: That’s extraordinary.
CJ: All across the country, people asked me to write when I made it to the East Coast. I collected scraps of paper — 75 or so names. I wrote to every one of them. Some wrote back. A handful sent Christmas cards for decades. That woman sent me a refrigerator magnet that said: Be careful how you treat strangers, because one of them may be God’s angel.
VR: Any other memorable encounters?
CJ: A pig farmer in Iowa invited me for iced tea and lemonade on a brutally hot day. He talked about hog farming and the Japanese buying farmland. Later, his wife wrote me back and explained he was illiterate and embarrassed to write himself.
VR: Were you ever scared?
CJ: That’s the No. 1 question people ask. I’ll tell you one story. I was riding in Nebraska and passed a station wagon with covered windows. Something felt off. I memorized the license plate and told a gas station attendant that I was riding alone and would feel better if he kept an eye out. He told me it was probably migrant workers — but he understood my concern. A mile or two later, someone rode up behind me. It was him. He said, “I’m going to ride with you all the way.” He stayed with me until I reached my destination, then turned around and went home.
VR: That’s incredibly moving.
CJ: It affirmed something fundamental: Given the chance, people will do good.
VR: What did that journey give you, just before starting your investment banking career?
CJ: It reminded me who I really was. Before entering a world where you wear armor and perform expectations, I had time to be myself. I grew up in Ohio. The people I met felt familiar — grounded, kind. It was leveling. I realized I could still be me.
VR: What did you learn about the heart of the country?
CJ: That our fundamental nature is good. Strip everything away, sit on a porch with iced tea, and most people are thoughtful, interesting, generous. Polarization didn’t exist the way it does now. We had time. No phones. No constant interruption. I sang entire Beatles albums in my head while riding.
VR: You still ride regularly.
CJ: Yes, and I ride intentionally. No phone. No watch. No headphones. That’s the point. People ask, “Aren’t you afraid?” And I say no — that openness is the purpose. I ride along the river in Philadelphia where rowers are out at dawn.
VR: So it’s not exercise — it’s joy.
CJ: Exactly. The moment I put my foot in the stirrup, it’s like meditation. It clears my judgment. It centers me.
All across the country, people asked me to write when I made it to the East Coast. I collected scraps of paper — 75 or so names. I wrote to every one of them. Some wrote back. A handful sent Christmas cards for decades.
VR: You now invest primarily in rural and heartland businesses. What do you see there?
CJ: People. Business owners trying to grow responsibly. In small communities, you can’t harm your environment or your neighbors and succeed. We measure financial returns, but also quality jobs created and how prosperity is shared locally.
VR: You’re not branding it as “impact investing.”
CJ: No. We’re not ESG or DEI or impact by label — but we are all of those things in practice. Not for brownie points. Just because it’s the right way to work.
VR: Do you think we can get back to that kind of connection?
CJ: I think people crave it. But it requires intention — putting the phone away, reclaiming time. Technology hijacks our attention. Riding a bike without distractions reminds me what it feels like to be fully present.
VR: And that presence carries into everything else.
CJ: It does. Whether investing, parenting, or just being human. We’re all on this journey together — just taking different roads.
