That's nothing too terrible, at least here in the Upper Midwest.  The guy who should be in jail is the con man who tricked you into taking the jersey off his hands. 

While technically illegal, your tunnel violation is certainly understandable and forgivable.   Plus, you did serve a sentence of sorts by suffering through that harrowing ride.

Oooh, that's a good one.  Surprisingly, you're not the first guy who has made that claim.  Must be something about Reno that drives a man crazy.

Great picture and very impressive act of defiance, Wayne.  Wait . . . I mean . . . BAD, WAYNE, BAD!  Always obey the "No Bicycle" signs, not only for your own safety but also for the general rule of law.

Yes, I did notice how you carefully avoided self-incrimination.  Are you a lawyer in your spare time?  If so, I may need to retain your services after I confess to my crimes.

I worried that maybe nobody would want to admit to their crimes, which would make for a pretty sad discussion.  So, I'm thankful for the responses received so far.  As promised in the original post, I will now reveal some of my touring transgressions.  In the Church of the Great Outdoors, we believe confession is good for the soul.

Let's start with the great outdoors.  I am not a litterbug.  I put even the tiniest scrap into my handlebar bag until I get to a trash receptacle.  One time, however, I repaired a tire in a ditch and forgot to pack up the punctured tube.  Worse than that, I didn't ride back to get it after I realized my mistake a few miles later.  That was in Montana.

Montana seems to bring out the worst in me.  One night, I forgot to hang my food while camping in raccoon and bear country.  The next morning, I realized how lucky I was to still have my beef jerky and my arms and legs.    

Another time (also in Montana) I picked up a toy dinosaur that had been discarded on the highway.  I decided I didn't want the dinosaur and tossed it onto the shoulder.  At the time, I justified my action as "relocating," not "littering."  I'm not so sure about that now.

Traffic violations?  I'm a serial stop sign runner.  I sometimes cross the center line on twisty fast downhills to avoid braking.  I've ridden more pedestrian sidewalks than I can count.  I rode five miles of Interstate highway in New York, even though I knew biking on the Interstates is illegal in just about every state east of the Great Plains.

(The last admission just reminded me of another cycling crime to which I plead guilty.  It didn't happen on a tour, but it was still a case of providing false information to a police officer.  I was pulled over by a cop and the conversation went something like this:  POLICEMAN:  Sir, are you aware that bicycles are not allowed on this section of Highway 61?  ME:  No, I'm not.)

I camped at a picnic site along Washington's Palouse to Cascades Bike Trail, flaunting a sign that read "No Camping."

In North Dakota, I drank a few beers at a city park campground that had "No Alcohol" signs posted all over the place.

Along the Erie Canal Trail in 2014, I met some other cyclists and gave in to temptation.  For the first time in several years, I smoked a substance that was not yet legal in New York.  We partied like it was 1976.

Sins?  I've committed a few.  Headwinds and obnoxious drivers have driven me to take the lord's name in vain.

There you go.  I'm sure there are many more things I should confess, but that's all I could come up with for now.

Public urination seems to be the French national pastime, based on my limited experience.

My transgressions have been few and minor (at least in my opinion).  Like many of us, and certainly as is common amongst us older gentlemen, I am guilty of public urination.  And not just alongside a deserted section of highway, but even in the midst of large cities - usually only in the wee hours of the early morns when no one is about, but sometimes when desperation overcomes reason a midday run behind or even beside a building might happen. 

I've lost count of how many times I have ridden past "Road Closed" or even "Bridge Out Ahead" signs in the hope that I could circumvent whatever obstacles lay ahead.  About 90% of the time I have been successful and was able to stick to my planned route, but occasionally when the bridge really was "out" and there was no way around, I added some mileage to the day. 

And as the OP admitted to doing, I have also sinned in Montana (it's apparently a sinful state).  When the Blackfeet Nation officer pulled me over to ask why I wasn't riding on the shoulder, I cheerfully explained my reasons  (debris on the shoulder could give me a flat tire, I used my rearview mirror and pulled onto the shoulder when I saw a vehicle approaching and then resumed riding in the travel lane until another vehicle approached) - but his non-expert opinion was that I should continuously ride on the shoulder, and he strongly suggested that I needed to do so - I pretended to acquiesce and rode 50 feet on the shoulder until he pulled away and then I went back to riding in the travel lane as before. 

And (also in Montana), I apparently robbed several banks and a hardware store while riding the Transam route in smoky conditions from forest fires.  See Day 55, Day 56, Day 57, Day 63, and Day 67 of my Transam journal for the story of the Bandana Bicycle Bandit.

I would NEVER litter, not even a tiny bit, but there was that one time (in Montana, of course) when I lost a toy dinosaur.  That dinosaur meant everything to me as it had been given to me by my dear mom who has long since left this world.   I felt bad about unintentionally littering, but I was heartbroken with the sentimental loss of this last reminder of my mom.  Sigh... just thinking about it makes my eyes water, I'm going to have to take a little break now. 

Pope Gregory wrote:

It didn't happen on a tour, but it was still a case of providing false information to a police officer.  I was pulled over by a cop and the conversation went something like this:  POLICEMAN:  Sir, are you aware that bicycles are not allowed on this section of Highway 61?  ME:  No, I'm not.)

I might have been stopped at the same place, back in 1989. Pedaling south near the Mississippi river in southeast Minnesota. Took an obvious shortcut on US 61 instead of the hilly ACA Northern Tier route. Unfortunately our US 61 shortcut turned into a controlled access expressway with a no bicycles sign. So we got on the expressway. Within sight of the next exit a Minnnesota state trooper pulled over the two scofflaw bicycles. I still remember his name, officer Gunderson. I showed my Texas drivers license. My 66 year old partner showed his California drivers license. We could prove we weren't local and weren't likely to make a habit of doing this. It was obvious that the safest way for us to get off the expressway was to continue to the exit that we could see half a mile ahead. But officer Gunderson insisted that we ride a mile the wrong direction to the place we entered, which required riding uphill the wrong direction on a narrow winding one lane entrance ramp. We grumbled and did what officer Gunderson required.

Pope Gregory wrote:

It didn't happen on a tour, but it was still a case of providing false information to a police officer.  I was pulled over by a cop and the conversation went something like this:  POLICEMAN:  Sir, are you aware that bicycles are not allowed on this section of Highway 61?  ME:  No, I'm not.)

I might have been stopped at the same place, back in 1989. Pedaling south near the Mississippi river in southeast Minnesota. Took an obvious shortcut on US 61 instead of the hilly ACA Northern Tier route. Unfortunately our US 61 shortcut turned into a controlled access expressway with a no bicycles sign. So we got on the expressway. Within sight of the next exit a Minnnesota state trooper pulled over the two scofflaw bicycles. I still remember his name, officer Gunderson. I showed my Texas drivers license. My 66 year old partner showed his California drivers license. We could prove we weren't local and weren't likely to make a habit of doing this. It was obvious that the safest way for us to get off the expressway was to continue to the exit that we could see half a mile ahead. But officer Gunderson insisted that we ride a mile the wrong direction to the place we entered, which required riding uphill the wrong direction on a narrow winding one lane entrance ramp. We grumbled and did what officer Gunderson required.