Editor’s Note: Around 20 years ago, Arkansas Outside began as a personal blog where I posted race reports, mostly from adventure races. Before the advent of social media, racers would exchange stories to motivate and inform each other about the races they had taken part in. These stories would be shared on message boards. When I read Dane’s journal entry about the Arkansas Graveler, it brought back a flood of memories. Dane graciously allowed me to share his story on Arkansas Outside. – Joe
Go to Dane’s Bio Page or read his other work.
a 6-day fully supported bicycle tour
How It Started
In the early weeks of 2024, I heard the call for registrations – a new event, ‘just another’ cross-state bicycle ride, except with a twist: it would be through some of the steepest mountains and on the roughest roads in the States, the Ozarks. There was a limit of only 300 riders, which meant a fairly small, somewhat personal field; I was anxious, but a bit nervous, to sign up. So I asked a friend, “Would you want to do a bicycle tour this year?” His reply, “if you go, I’ll go.”
From that day forward, I started riding my gravel bike a bit. Then, one day, I let it slip to my neighbor, Eric: “Hey, Kerry and I are doing a ride in Arkansas this year, you should join in!” He didn’t have a gravel bike, at the time, and I felt like I had committed a major faux pas with the invite (I even apologized); he bought a new bike!
We completed several training rides together, including a few centuries and a bike-and-camp weekend, all looking forward to the third week of June. We were ready! Well, almost… in the last week before the tour, I set about cleaning up my ‘rig’, planning on fresh cables, tires, brake pads, and a thorough tune-up. As luck wouldn’t have it, I discovered a crack in my old steel frame (it had enjoyed a hard life, including two loaded RAGBRAI’s, and a stint on the Great Divide). I was in a pinch, but my local Trek shop in San Marcos patiently went through my parts list with me; we discovered the now-discontinued Marlin Gen-2 was nearly a direct swap, and as luck did have it, they had one sitting in the back. They built it up so I could check the frame size in the parking lot, knowing I was taking it home to tear it back down to the frame! With just a few days ’til I was flying out, the Marlin 1120 was born.
With bikes, gear, and bodies ready, the three of us would plan to ready ourselves at the starting line in Fayetteville, Arkansas, nestled quietly in a valley surrounded by mountains.
Day 0: Confident, not Overconfident
Saturday; June 22, 2024
It took a day just to get everyone together. I had arrived in town first, and waited for the other two near our hotel for the night, at a regional chain wing-and-burger bar, Foghorns. They arrived early, and our room for the night was still being prepared. It was a fortunate thing. We spent some time going over the bikes – checking tires and topping up on tire sealant. Then we each did a few quick turns in the parking lot: Kerry’s shifters weren’t working! It had been a few weeks (maybe more) since he had ridden his gravel bike, and there was a good chance it was just a dead battery. We put it at the back of our minds as we went about checking into our room and heading off to the official rider meeting (where we picked up timing chips for our bikes). The night’s venue was quite nice, George Dickson’s, the oldest continuous music venue in Arkansas, but instead of hanging out too late, we had a quick run to the local battery supply store (Wal-Mart).
With all the official business out of the way, and all three bikes fixed up ready to go, all that was left was dinner. We went with a classic cycling favorite, Italian, at Geraldi’s. Portions were heaping and prices were fair. When everything was said and done, it was already after nine; we turned in seemingly early, enjoying the beds – the next five nights would be on camp mats.
Day 1: What have we done?
Sunday; June 23, 2024
Fayetteville, AR to Ozark Camp; 65 miles, 5000 feet
Kerry was up early, and I was close behind. It was only five in the morning but, thankfully, the coffee was ready down in the lobby. We had a nice conversation to fill the morning hours until it was time to dress, pack a week’s worth of supplies into a duffel, and get out the door.
Around seven, we dropped our bags off at the support truck, then lounged around outside Razorback Stadium, taking photos, and enjoying espresso and breakfast burritos. We noticed Eric’s bike missing a bar end plug – one of those odd small parts that doesn’t seem all too important, but we were glad all the same when the mechanics were able to find us a spare one. We took a bunch of pictures, while we were still feeling fresh and still clean.
There was an official nine o’clock start time, which was a bit late. Thankfully, it was cool and overcast, at least until just before our departure, when the sun finally broke out. We enjoyed a slow, neutral rollout, providing a small tour of Fayetteville’s downtown. It was more coasting than pedaling, which only pushed the bulk of our riding later into the morning; spirits were high, nonetheless. The early gravel stretches, just outside of town, were easygoing (easy enough for snapping a few pictures as we rolled along).
There was only one major climb (enough to force some riders to a walk) before we reached the first stop, at a park, right around mile 27; only 40 more miles to go. We probably stopped a bit too long, thinking we were all in good shape and the rest would do us more good than harm, but it was already nearing noon and nearly 90°F and we were probably underestimating the climbs ahead. It was nice though to meet a few of the faces who we would be seeing for the rest of the week (Kerry led us in a few of those introductions).
The next few miles seemed to be going well, but then we hit another steep climb, forcing riders to hike a bike – my rig was equipped with extra low gears, so I could keep pedaling, but only barely. We were thankful to reach the Sunset Valley Volunteer Fire Station, grateful the crew had come out with another round of water. We had only made 10 more miles, slowly.
It was only about 5 miles further before we hit another ‘wall’. Even in my lowest gear, pushing the pedals was taking a significant effort; I felt a twinge in my thigh, a warning: I’d start cramping if I kept pushing. I decided to walk instead, taking long, slow, and deliberate strides, hoping to stretch my legs as I went.
I took it easy all the way to the second of the day’s aid stations, about mile 50 and somewhere around White Rock Mountain. The three of us gathered there, spoiled with cooling towels, salted waters, sodas, and a thoughtful selection of snacks. It was hard to leave, but there were still 15 more miles to go in an afternoon heat that only seemed to be intensifying.
I kept the bike in easy gears, coasting when I could, using as little power as possible. My pace left me riding mostly alone, but Eric and Kerry did wait up – several times – so that at last, back on the pavement, I could hold their pace, and we rode in together. It was all feeling a bit miserable, but we weren’t alone; in fact, we may have even been relatively early arrivals to the campsites at Byrd’s Adventure Center.
Camp was luxurious to say the least. We were shuttled deep into the resort to pitch a tent under the trees, in walking distance from the showers. Once our basic housekeeping was finished, we made time for a swim. Then after, it was nearly time for dinner: BBQ chicken sandwiches with Mac and cheese, potato salad, green beans, fresh fruit, and fried apple hand pies … and of course, a beer, for those interested.
The heat had taken its toll, and despite the comfortability at camp, I didn’t think I could sit through the evening concert; instead, I could hear the music clear enough from my bedroll in the tent (where I was still sweating, even laying perfectly still). I rested until sunset, went for a short walk to stretch one last time (still feeling a painful tightness in my legs), and then settled in for the night.
Day 2: It gets better, right?
Monday; June 24, 2024
Ozark Camp to Jasper, AR; 52 miles, 4500 feet
I was up throughout the night, making trips to the shower house. With each successive trip, I sipped on a bottle of Gatorade, and with each trip, I could feel the cramps in my legs slowly fading away. At 5:45, I was no longer the only one up. I dressed, broke camp, packed my bags, and went in search of coffee. It was a peaceful morning, even a bit somber, as everyone learned what to expect for the week – though, unique to the morning, breakfast was 10 miles ahead.
At 6:45, the starting line was ready and by 7 the three of us were off, anxious for a morning meal in Oark. We exchanged pulls in true roadie fashion, grabbing a fourth rider as we went; we made good time. There were only a small number of bikes at the Oark Cafe, and we secured ourselves seats inside (though in hindsight, with the kitchen firing and the crowd building, it may have been cooler outside in the morning air).
From Oark we turned onto the rough Forest Service Road #1404. It climbed nearly straight up to the upper ridges of the Ozark Mountains. We all switched to our lowest gear; my extra low “packed touring” set left me crawling up the road at barely 4 mph, getting passed by many. But after an hour or so, I reached the top, and I caught my peers (or maybe they’d been kindly waiting). We all rolled together down the last stretch of gravel and into the first riders’ aid station. We were sure to replenish our bottles with water and electrolytes, ate an assortment of sweet and salty snacks, and then pushed off in a hurry, anxious to make time against the afternoon heat.
The next stretch was all paved for the first 15 miles. We took up our formations again, and set an impressive pace, passing more than a few solo riders along the way. At mile 37, we reached another aid station. Though it had been an easy hour, we did our best to fill up again. Most of the remaining 15 miles were on gravel. We tried sticking together, and for the most part, we did. There was a bit of a game of leapfrog, the two of them losing me uphill, but my bike excelled on the short, loose downs. At least we were nearly always in sight. It wasn’t much over an hour anyway, before we emerged from the forest, and back onto the pavement.
It was a doozy of a downhill. Two or three tight switchbacks allowed me to push the bike over hard, then the road opened straight into a deep valley. I let the speedometer reach 50 mph before I gently began feathering the brakes. I’d hoped maybe we were camped at the bottom – at the water, like the night before – but no. Instead, the route mandated one last climb; I was almost tempted to walk, but pedaled up determinedly, thankful again for my low gears.
At last, we turned into Horseshoe Canyon Ranch, all but finished for the day. The access road was a rough gravel descent, including a slimy creek crossing that begged we stop and walk the wet pavement. A bit further on was the official entrance, with a sweeping view of the canyon that was to be ours for the night. We stopped to try some pictures, patiently waiting as a handful of riders slipped by – I waited a moment longer, playing with different vantage points, before starting the descent to camp.
As I turned the first corner, a group of riders were clustered on the road; one had gone down – one from my group, who moments before was so elated to have arrived: it was Eric. There was some blood and a scratched helmet, but otherwise, nothing was broken (the bike was practically unscathed). We walked to the bottom of the hill, then rode to the finish line and straight to medical. After a thorough inspection, a round of light debriding, and some topical ointments, we were given the all-clear to go about our day.
Our first stop was the pool (after a quick rinse with the hose); it was clear we were early again (the pool was empty). We lingered at least until I was nervous about sunburn, then went to set camp. It was a long walk uphill, a few minutes to find gear and a site, then a few more to pitch tents. It was nothing strenuous, but the sun was ravaging. And as we were nearly ready to abscond, a tent pole failed on Kerry’s tent! We bodged a fix from spare stakes and duct tape. It held, tenuously.
The heat was too much for me to bear, and I realized I’d misplaced my sunglasses (likely left back at the pool), so I turned back for the lodge and found a seat indoors, near a power outlet. It proved to be a comfortable base for the afternoon and later into the evening, including dinner service. It was an uneventful night otherwise, as we focused on our recovery: the next day was scheduled to be the hardest.
We were tucked in just before sunset.
Day 3: It Couldn’t Get Worse
Tuesday; June 25, 2024
Jasper to Marshall, AR; 66 miles, 7700 feet
I woke before my alarm, but I wasn’t the first. I set about dressing and packing as quickly as I could; we were all ready by around 6, when we ventured down from our campsite on the hill. Back down at the lodge, coffee and breakfast were ready to go: big helpings of eggs, potatoes, and bacon with fruit and pastries too. The official start was 7 am, but we had agreed the best strategy was to beat the heat, so after a few other riders had dared cross the starting line, we followed in earnest.
Just leaving the Ranch was a climb of its own, and I was breaking a sweat before reaching the highway. Eric and Kerry had left me behind in a hurry (we had planned to all go our own pace). It was a paved highway into Jasper, and while it may have been a good opportunity to settle into a harder aerobic tempo, I kept to an easier pace; quite a few riders passed me.
Jasper wasn’t quite ready for the influx of riders, but I wasn’t waiting around. I set off for the next stretch, counting on a general store at mile 22, which would be the last resupply before aid station #1 (at mile 40), and before a challenging mountain climb.
Just getting to the Kent General Store involved a challenging paved climb which finished with a turn onto gravel. It was a memorable segment. First, a group of strong riders passed me on the remaining climb, then a service vehicle; they vanished out of sight, but only for a moment. I caught them all on the descent: the vehicle was trailing the bikes, with a photographer standing through the sunroof. I tried several pictures, though it was difficult through the dust cloud, and well, riding my bike (but I paced them all the way down). When the dust settled, we were just a few miles from the general store.
I caught up to Eric at the Kent General Store, where I downed a couple of Gatorades, some Fritos, and a chocolate bar; I was eating for the mountain climb still ten miles ahead. We set off together again, but there was a big climb out from the store; I stuck to my easy pace, enjoying the time to myself.
A few stray clouds seemed to keep the morning sun at bay, and by sticking to my strategy of slow and steady, I was feeling as ready as ever. In the end, my pace wasn’t all that slow, as only a couple of riders passed me; I even caught Eric, again, at the aid station at the summit of the climb. We only passed briefly, as he was ready to go and I was just collecting myself. It was a reassuring encounter, all the same.
It was mile 40 of 66, which would normally seem easy, but given the gravel and climbing, was nothing to underestimate. Even the descent back off the ridge was a challenge, as it was steep, loose, and littered with boulders; it was a constant technical challenge. Perhaps worse, was that the bottom – a dry rocky creek bottom – only meant another mountain climb ahead.
I happened to catch Eric at the bottom of the climb and expected him to drop me behind again. He did vanish, for a moment, but churning the pedals slow and steady, I caught him at a full stop, resting in the shade. I pedaled a bit further, then, realizing I could make it about the same time by walking, decided to take a rest from sitting on the saddle. At first, I hiked with intention, but soon I could feel my heart pulsing in my forehead… it was my turn to come to a rest, and Eric caught me. We walked together.
The first support vehicle came by, but we refused any help, intending to make it under our own power (and besides, the truck was already full of bikes and sweaty bodies). The second vehicle, however, stopped regardless of our gestures; the support along the route had been a major selling point of the organized tour, as otherwise, the remoteness of the routes would make self-support difficult, if not impossible. We hesitantly accepted the support crew’s offer of water and snacks even though an aid station was just a few miles ahead.
The second aid station of the day was in Snowball Arkansas, and the General Store there had opened especially for the riders; the store served various iced popsicles from their freezer to help cool us down (in addition to the usual checkpoint favorites, like drinks, pickles, Rice Krispie treats and potato chips). We lingered long enough to cool down and build our confidence back up for the last 12 miles. We were glad only half of that distance would be gravel.
It was an unceremonious arrival in Marshall, riding into the Kenda Drive-In, but relieving too: we had managed what was scheduled to be the hardest day of the ride and we weren’t in an awful condition for it, either. We went about the usual chores, finding our gear and our bearings; thankfully everything was within walking distance, and one better, the local superintendent had offered the school’s gymnasium for the riders to sleep for the night.
We pitched our mats with a hundred or so others in the gym, showered up, and then went back to the drive-in fields for dinner (excellent chicken fajitas by Chef Biju, and his team) and live music (by an Arkansas favorite, ‘the World’s saxiest party band’, The Juice). It was a low-key but relaxing evening, promising a strong start to the morning; the only gamble, then, was the weather.
Day 4: Slingin’ Mud and Tossin’ Bottles
Wednesday; June 26, 2024
Marshall to Mountain View, AR; 55 miles, 4800 feet
The gymnasium was a bit noisy overnight, and a bit firm on the back, but it was comfortably cool, and packing up was easy. Kerry was up early, which I had expected, but I was more surprised that when I sat up, it seemed nearly half of the riders were already stirring. By six, we were walking back over to the drive-in for coffee and breakfast. It was the same eggs, potatoes, and bacon, but it was a good thing: it was predictable, gastronomically speaking.
During breakfast, we received an update on the weather and the plan. There would be rain, led by a severe storm front; we were instructed to enjoy the 11-mile ride to Leslie, where the community center would be open to shelter. I had reservations about the idea of waiting it out, but was willing, at least, to stop and check the weather as we went.
It was a beautiful ride to start, flat for a change, and with a firm road base that was graded gravel (instead of the rough rock roads of the earlier days). Before we even warmed up, we found ourselves in Leslie, being directed towards the Community Center. On the horizon, the storm clouds had materialized. Some residents had stepped up to help staff an impromptu rider aid station at the shelter; we obliged their hospitality.
It was only half an hour or so before the rain began, and while it wasn’t too bad overhead, the radar warned of worsening conditions all around. Most of the riders had joined us, and when we had all gathered, the organizers brought in fresh sticky rolls from a local bakery; we waited for an official announcement.
At around 9 am, the weather outside was clearing to a light sprinkle, and the announcement was made: there were still some clouds and lightning in the area, but we’d be cleared to proceed (with full support) at 9:30 am. By 9:20, large groups of cyclists were forging ahead. Some riders were claiming to head into town for coffee; others ignored the frivolous subterfuge. We were among the latter, riding shamelessly out on the course: even though the rain had brought (slightly) cooler temperatures, the afternoon sun, we thought, would still pose a serious challenge.
The first climb out was on mostly dry pavement under partly cloudy skies. Then at the ridge, the pavement ended and we started in on muddy gravel with a fast and rough descent. I wasn’t even all that fast – Kerry passed me at a full tuck – but the bumps still managed to throw one of my water bottles; before I had even realized the source of the ‘thump’, I had probably rolled half a mile down the steep road. My more immediate concern wasn’t for the water bottle itself, but rather, for my now diminished water capacity.
The mud, as expected, made a mess of things. It didn’t slow us down. Instead, we charged ahead, and with impeccable luck. The rain had loosened the sharpest flint rocks, but the three of us tackled the worst stretches without a flat; others were not so lucky, changing flats or worse, having drive-train issues.
It was nearing noon when we reached the first resupply point. Still short a bottle, I focused on hydration, but of course, enjoyed some pickles, some chips, a cola, and a seat in the shade, too. And, with a nudge from Eric, I even did a quick job of cleaning and lubricating my chain. We set off, us three, spirits high … it was only 9 miles to the next aid station, and for the day, less than 30 more to camp.
The roads were drying and the going got easier. Not just because of the weather, but because we’d noticeably left behind the rugged mountain roads. While the grades were still steep, crushed stone had consistently replaced exposed bedrock; the improved surfaces made it easier to set a smooth pace. And so, in under an hour, we’d reached aid station number two.
It was a hard stop to leave. There was a cold groundwater spring for dipping, the usual salty and sugary drinks, and a cooler full of beer. But we did need to leave, at some point: it was still nearly 20 miles ahead, with a fair share of gravel and climbing. And it’s no surprise, but, from a spring, you’re bound to start with a climb.
At least the climbing was paired with descents. With the improving surfaces, they were even kind of fun. Kerry and I were pushing 30 mph down in the straights, and finding the limits in the corners. Then, there was one corner different from the rest; instead of hardpack, it was littered with deep loose pebbles. Nervous to turn, we went hard on the brakes and straight towards the outside corner. It was wild, but we kept the wheels on the road and turning; judging by the many parallel skid tracks, we weren’t the first to hit the corner hot.
The two of us climbed a bit from the bottom, then stopped in the shade to check our tires and wait up for Eric, who had been, rightfully, exercising a bit more caution on the downs. But apparently, he wasn’t cautious enough, and when he came to rest under the same shade tree, told us the story of how he was caught unaware by a loose corner at the bottom of the hill (he hit the ground for the second time, but the bike, miraculously, was unscratched). In any case, we were back on the pavement, just 8 ‘easy’ miles from camp.
The sun reflected off the pavement making the ‘easy’ miles hot and tiring, but at least we weren’t alone. We finished strong, rolling through Mountain View and down into Ozark State Park. The camping space was snug, and while I was dreaming of a shower, it seemed prudent to lay claim to a grassy patch first. It was one thing, then another: tent, shower, bike wash, water, shady seat, beer, charger, water. What had seemed like an early arrival had already become 4:30 pm. With dinner just an hour away, we whittled away the time with good conversation.
Dinner was grilled pork loin with sweet potatoes and a side salad. It hit all the nutritional needs and seemed to go down well; I even had seconds. After dinner, we dawdled a bit, then went our own ways; I climbed the stairs to the Ozark Folk Center, and settled into one of the most comfortable auditorium seats, basking in the air conditioning and listening to a folk band jam session from 7 until nearly 9. I was, at last, able to really enjoy the evening, to stay up (a bit) late, confident in myself and the miles ahead.
Day 5: Tourin’, Properly
Thursday; June 27, 2024
Mountain View to Cave City, AR; 53 miles, 4300 feet
I woke up early to get packing, and to leave time to lubricate the chain (again) and tune the front derailleur, chores that were created by the previous day’s mud. When I was finished, coffee was ready, and shortly after, Kerry and Eric joined me at a table. We ate another traditional breakfast and were nearly surprised by the time; it was almost time to ride (with just enough spare for a quick cup of cold brew). We rolled out just after 7.
We were still in town when we saw our first major crash of the ride … it wasn’t the gravel, or the mountain descents, but a loose dog (according to the other riders closer to the scene). It was a sobering reminder that we still had over 100 miles to go.
The first miles of the day were paved with gorgeous views of high ridges surrounding us in a graceful valley. There was a stretch on gravel, but nothing arduous, then we were back on the asphalt rolling in and out of the early morning’s shadows. We were pleased with ourselves when we reached the banks of the White River in seemingly good time – we were pushing it.
The road that followed was a blissfully flat, well-packed gravel that traced the river and the railroad. Even the climb that followed – out of the river valley – was a manageable gradient. There was a feeling of ‘that was it?’ as we pulled into the second rider aid station. We refueled, and were careful still, not to get overconfident or even complacent: the end of the route followed an unpaved ridgeline for more than ten miles.
At first, the ridge was just rolling dirt hardpack, but at some point, the surfaces deteriorated. There were pockets of chunky loose rocks, often in and around tight corners. There were low water crossings, and in places, deep ruts ran perpendicular to the road; my strategy was to try and ‘hop’ the gaps, with some success (I didn’t break anything, at least). And then, it was over; the gravel ended and after half a mile of pavement, we were at the Cave City Park.
We had mastered the procedure, of finding our gear, choosing a site, pitching tents, and trading out our cycling kits for dry clothes. Kerry’s tent poles broke in a new spot, and we created a new splint with our dwindling supply of stakes. With camp set, we went looking for the community pool, with the promise of a shower and cool dip. We were distracted along the way by a pop-up coffee truck serving freshly dipped milkshakes … it was a wise idea, for recovery, of course.
The pool was closer than we were told, which was a relief. It wasn’t busy either, and I was cleaned up and in the water without a wait. It was soothing, but after an hour or so, my thoughts drifted to food… again.
It was only 2:00, our dinner service was still 3 hours away. After a quick search, we settled on the nearest option: Bailey’s, just a walk across the street, where we each had a hamburger (I couldn’t convince anybody to share the 2lb Caveman Burger with me). It was a low-key, spacious cafe, seeming almost out of place in the small town.
After lunch, it was back to camp, but there were still a few hours until dinner (the hamburger had only partially filled the void in my appetite). With time yet to burn and generally feeling good, it was the perfect afternoon to attend to the activities being hosted by the Arkansas Fish and Game Commission: archery and fishing. After a few rounds of arrows and losing a worm (without catching a fish), it was time to find shelter from the sun and secure a seat for dinner.
It was the last campout and the last night to be eating big for a ride the next day. I had a couple servings of the chicken teriyaki and an extra helping of the cabbage slaw with char-grilled carrots. After dinner, we hung around for a cut of the season’s first fresh watermelon, a funky Blues concert, and to close the night, a bicycle race, clownin’ style (with adults riding toddlers’ bikes) – Kerry made it look easy. The racing ran until sundown, then we were off to sleep in preparation for a 76-mile day.
Day 6: For the most part, it was over
Friday; June 28, 2024
Cave City to Jonesboro, AR; 76 miles, 1800 feet
We were all up around 5:30 and packing quickly. The kitchen seemed to be running early too, with coffee at the ready and breakfast not far behind. We were asked nicely to wait for a 7 am mass start – it was, for one, to provide a police escort across the main highway, second, for a ceremonious send-off by a local troop of bagpipe players, and third, a chance for some photos.
For some reason or another, Kerry thought it wise to sidle up to the front of the starting line – the three of us ended up leading out and pulling the front of the pack for the first several miles; we held the lead at least until the gravel started. Once on the dirt, the fast folks lit up the pace, but we did our best to hold their wheels, for a while.
We covered 10 challenging, hilly miles in just a little over half an hour, and rolled in hot to the first checkpoint. It was a small crowd at first, but just a few minutes later, a larger pack pulled in. We didn’t stop long, and we were sure to time our leaving close behind another pack of confident-looking riders, hoping to catch their draft.
It was only a few miles until we were back on a paved stretch. With flat terrain and a big group, we were pulling above 20 mph. Though I didn’t necessarily want to, I landed on the front with some regularity. We put another 10 miles behind us in just half an hour.
At mile 30, we turned back onto gravel and the pack broke apart. Us three were quick to find some similar-paced riders and to try falling in line. The plan went well, for a few miles at least, until we hit the sandy flats. The fastest folks got away, seeming to float gently over the sand; the rest of us were in for a fight, kicking at our pedals, spinning our wheels, and churning up dust. We stopped at mile 35, where a support car and staff were offering an impromptu aid station with water, chips, and sodas. It was an honest relief, as the next official aid was still 22 miles ahead.
Freshened up a bit from the stop, and past the sand, we formed a tight group on the gravel road. Together, we were pretty quick, and some folks were even jumping into our line as we passed, hanging on to our pace.
We reached Swifton and pavement, neglecting our option to stop at the local store. Instead, we pushed on thinking we could reach the next aid station in around an hour. Of course, there was another stretch of gravel which slowed the pace and skewed our estimates. By the time the aid station was in sight, I was feeling powerless.
There was less pressure to hurry onward than at previous stops. The end of the ride was only 20 miles ahead, and the packs were too spread out to count on catching one. Instead, it was more important to refuel and rehydrate, a bit at a time. A crop duster seemed to be putting on a show for us, which provided a convenient excuse to extend our rest.
The last stretch was interesting. On one hand, we were striving for the ride to be over, to be off the seat, off the bike, and done, not only for the day but for the entirety of the event. On the other hand, this was it … the last of the aid stations, the last of pacing and chatting with strangers, the last of our vacation: why were we rushing?
The gravel road ended and we turned towards the Jonesboro City Limits. Police escorts and Motorcycle Patrol cleared our way through the busy city, right through downtown, and on, to Arkansas State University campus. We rolled through the finish line, hearing our names called over the loudspeaker. There would be dinner, live music, and other festivities. But for the most part, it was over.
Acknowledgements & Epilogue
The Inaugural Arkansas Graveler was among the most challenging multi-day cycling events I have ever completed, and more than any other, my success depended on the support: this included the staff and volunteers of the Arkansas Graveler Team, the Ozark Foundation, and the Arkansas Department of Parks, Heritage and Tourism. In addition, there was the hospitality shown at Byrd’s Adventure Center, Horseshoe Canyon Ranch, the Kenda Drive-In and the Marshall High School, the Ozark Folk Center State Park, the Cave City Park, and at Arkansas State University; and in between, so many stores, restaurants, and communities, all of whom opened their doors so willingly to nearly 300 dirty, sweaty cyclists.
I would be lying if I didn’t say I thought about quitting if I didn’t despise the routing at times. But in hindsight, I did it; we did it! Thank you to the Director, Scotti Moody, to Kai Caddy for some pixel-perfect photos, and to anyone and everyone else I’ve missed, for those who came out to support the ride and those who participated.
And thanks is owed too: a special thanks to Eric and Kerry – peer pressure is a powerful motivator. (A round of applause to Kerry, for dusting us all on Day 3; and another round of applause for Eric: hitting the deck twice, without a single complaint!)
