It’s lunchtime at the University of Colorado, Boulder, and throngs of undergraduates file into the University Memorial student center at the heart of campus. Just beyond the entrance, a student pedals a white stationary bicycle as curious onlookers stop to watch. Suddenly, the opening notes of Bon Jovi’s 1986 hit Livin’ on a Prayer blare from a nearby loudspeaker, and the crowd belts out the chorus: “Ohh, we’re halfway there!”
They are indeed halfway. The cyclist, Thomas Coloian, and many of the onlookers are members of the university’s Pi Kappa Alpha fraternity, and they have just hit the midway point of a highly unorthodox charity stunt. The brothers are riding a stationary bicycle for 8,423 consecutive minutes—that’s just shy of six straight days—to raise $100,000 for a local non-profit called The White Line. The organization is named after Magnus White, a local cyclist who was struck and killed by a motorist in 2023. The number of minutes symbolizes every cyclist or pedestrian killed by a driver in the United States in 2022.
The charity ride is being beamed live across YouTube, and a TV screen adjacent to the stationary bicycle provides a minute-by-minute update of the donations coming in via the livestream.
“Someone just gave us fifty bucks!” screams one of the fraternity brothers. The crowd erupts in cheers and high-fives.
The fraternity brothers, alas, aren’t exactly on the same athletic level as White, who was one of the country’s best up-and-coming cyclists at the time of his death. Coloian, 21, sweats and grunts as he pushes down the pedals, and and he gobbles down handfuls of gummy bears every few minutes. “The last time I rode a bike this long I think I was 14 years old,” he says. “Everything below my waist is numb.”
Working alongside a college fraternity represents a bold next step for the White Line and its founders, White’s parents, Michael and Jill. In the months after their son’s death, they launched the non-profit to manage donations that had poured in. But they struggled to determine how, exactly, to save the lives of other cyclists with the money and attention they were receiving. They knew they wanted to bring the message of road safety to a broader audience beyond hardcore cyclists.
“There were so many different directions we could have taken the non-profit,” Michael told Outside. “We knew we didn’t just want to start a foundation and name it after Magnus.”
Nobody within the non-profit could have guessed that, at some point in the near future, the strategy would involve 174 frat boys, an exercise bike, and Bon Jovi.
How the White Line Found its Focus
The music dies down and Coloin and his buddies high-five. A few yards away from the tent, Michael White snaps a wide-angle photograph of the scene. In front of the tent stand 8,423 electronic candles that flicker at night. The number has become a rallying point for the nonprofit.
Michael laughs and shakes his head as he watches.
“When I see these kids, I see Magnus in every one of them,” he says. “It’s taken me a long time, but I can now talk about Magnus without breaking down and crying.”
Magnus White had been pedaling north of Boulder along U.S. Highway 119 on the morning of July 29, training for the upcoming mountain biking world championships. Without warning, a car coming from behind veered out of its lane and into the shoulder, striking him.
The impact launched White off of his bicycle and into a fence, and doctors pronounced him dead at a nearby hospital. Authorities later charged the driver, 23-year-old Yeva Smilianska, with vehicular homicide. Authorities believe Smilianska had fallen asleep at the wheel, and eyewitnesses say she was swerving on the roadway before the collision.
The death generated a glut of media attention—White was a junior national champion and had been on a trajectory to the professional ranks. As the White family mourned Magnus, they were contacted by the family members of other cyclists and pedestrians killed by drivers who had been texting or nodding off at the time of the collision. Grieving widows and parents across the country told them about the patchwork of laws against distracted driving, and the inconsistent citations or sentencing handed down to careless motorists. So often, it seemed, distracted drivers who injured or killed someone were let go with a mere slap on the wrist.
“We heard about one driver who got a $1,000 fine and no jail time for killing a child,” Michael said. “Everyone we talked to said they wanted greater accountability. Or at least consistent accountability.”
These conversations helped them narrow their focus for The White Line, Michael said. During a meeting in early 2024, the foundation’s inner circle locked themselves in a room to come up with the guiding tenets for the group. They ruled out investing the money in bike lanes or cycling infrastructure, and instead steered their efforts toward changing driver behavior—specifically, toward convincing drivers to pay attention at the wheel. They decided on a two-pronged approach: educating drivers to focus on the road, and pushing lawmakers to increase the punishments for distracted and reckless driving.
Michael said that if the group can even become a clearing house for statistics on distracted driving, that is a victory. “The data is so bad—we’re still going off of 2022 numbers and it’s almost 2025,” he said.
During its locked-door session, the group made another major decision: the White Line will only operate for ten years before dissolving altogether.
“If we can’t change driver behavior after a decade, then that’s on us,” White said. “We don’t want to become some bloated 501(c)3 with a bunch of people in the C-suite earning big salaries.”
Throughout 2024, the foundation’s coffers grew—it received corporate donations from Trek Bicycles, VF Corporation, and even Williams Sonoma. These donations, plus thousands sent in from private donors, allowed the group to hire a small staff. The White Line produced a series of documentary films about other cyclists killed by careless motorists. In August, it organized the Ride for Magnus, a mass-participant group ride along Highway 119, which raised money for legislative demands and attracted Colorado Governor Jared Polis.
And then, in early October, an altogether different project materialized—one that came from outside of the organization.
“I got a text on my phone from these frat guys with this crazy idea for a week-long bike ride,” Michael said. “I told them ‘this idea sounds awesome.’”
Frat Bros and a Bike
After completing his 120th minute, Coloin dismounts the stationary bicycle—his legs wobble as he stands on the ground. One of the other frat brothers adjusts the seat height, climbs aboard, and begins pedaling.
“You should have been here at 3 A.M. on Tuesday,” one of the fraternity brothers says. “We had some pretty stoned guys walk by and ask us what the heck we were doing.”
Another fraternity brother shows me photos from two nights before, when snow flurries blanketed the area at night. Four brothers huddled around the cyclist in the dark to keep him company.
Another Pi Kappa Alpha member named Sebastian Edwards stops by to snap photos and hand out snacks. Edwards, 19, dreamed up the fundraiser alongside two fraternity members, twins Graydon and Gavin Abel. The three grew up in Boulder and knew Magnus from bike racing and school—Edwards had attended Boulder High with him.
Each year, the Pi Kappa Alpha fraternity (called “Pike” by its members) holds a philanthropic event, usually a car wash or pledge drive. In late September Edwards and the Abel brothers thought of the marathon ride while hanging in the frat house’s basement.
“It sounds goofy, but we started with asking ourselves what rhymes with “Pike,” and “bike” was the first word we came up with,” Edwards said. “Then it was like, ‘how long can we ride a bike?’”
Edwards found a phone number for Michael White and sent him a blind text message with the idea. A few minutes later, Michael texted back wanting to know more. The four of them met a few days later at a coffee shop. They ironed out details of the ride: the White Line would supply a tent and a big-screen television, and purchase a new Zwift stationary bicycle. The brothers would obtain the permits and sign-offs from the university to host the event, and provide the bicycling manpower.
And rather than ride an entire week, they would pedal for 8,423 minutes to honor each person killed by a driver.
“Their original idea was to do a one-week ride to honor Magnus,” White said. “We told them we wanted to find a way to honor everyone else killed by drivers as well.”
A few days after the meeting, Michael stood in front of 100 or so members of the fraternity at its weekly charter meeting in a lecture hall on campus. He told them about his son. He showed them the tattered national championship jersey that Magnus had been wearing at the time of his death. He replayed the tragic scene that had played out just miles north of campus.
He begged them to ignore their phones while driving, and to take extra precautions when driving past cyclists or dog walkers. He cried.
In the fraternity guys, Michael found the audience that he his foundation sought: regular drivers and not hardcore cyclists. And after his hour-long presentation, Michael believes he succeeded.
“Magnus’s story still moves the needle with people,” he said. “And on a personal level, telling it helps keep him alive for us.”