Singletrack/MTB
Gravel/All-road
Dirt-road Touring
Fat-bike
Looking to take on a route he’d eyed up for a few years, Nic’s DOOM 2025 Scratch Report is a brief but in-depth detailing of a race that ended all too soon. For more details on this brutally short ride, read on below…
Additional photography from Kai Caddy, whose race coverage you can check out here
Just getting to Horseshoe Canyon Ranch was a task. With the weather threatening the event itself, I realized I still had to drive through whatever weather would affect the course. It wasn’t ideal, but I made a plan and attempted to thread the needle through what Andrew Onerma, race director and organizer of the Ozark Gravel Doom routes, called “biblical rains.” And biblical they were. As the wipers of my truck furiously whipped back and forth, I wondered if I was risking life and limb just to risk life and limb.
Nevertheless, after a few days of driving, I arrived. While no longer the stuff of testament, the conditions were dreadful. Misting, frozen rains drenched the jagged edges of the Arkansas skyline. Creeks-turned-rivers rushed with the kind of ferocity that made it seem like a supernatural tap. “How on earth am I going to ride through this?” I wondered. And it was a sentiment we all shared. Underneath pavilion and car camper, just over 200 cyclists collectively questioned their sanity.
On check-in day, a calm yet ominous feeling swept over Horseshoe Canyon Ranch. We knew what we’d signed up for. In the best of times, it was one of the most challenging courses on offer. In the worst of times? Lord knows. Like any good race director, Andrew’s passion quelled the feeling of anxiety. As he ran us through the bell-ringing tradition, you could tell this was something he loved. Speaking to him later on, I gained an understanding of the draw behind this weird, wondrous event.
“I’ve always been attracted to counter culture sports. You know, a guy ripping a 10-stair with a cig in his mouth. Something where people are high performance, sure, but also with a sense of style.” When asked about the semi-satanic, doom-y aesthetic of the promotional material, Andrew said, “When people see a race out here in Arkansas, the general feeling is usually the same. ‘What the heck is out there?’ There are no mountains or anything. But anyone who has ridden out here knows it’s brutal. I want to show people that, and I also want to accurately represent what people are doing. Bikepacking and cycling are sort of slow-motion sports. It’s high performance with a sense of style. I think what we’re doing out here is badass. And I want to communicate that.”
After a rousing speech, we retreated to whatever semblance of shelter we’d made for ourselves. As the night plummeted into further frigidity, we prepared as best we could, shared in hopeful embrace, and prepared to meet our DOOM.
To say the sun rose would be a lie. The dark, hazy mist of an apocalyptic skyline went from dark to dim. Still misting, we tried to stay as dry as possible as we strapped on the last of our bags. Not wanting to be late, I didn’t bother with breakfast and assumed the 4,000-some calories jammed into my frame bag would be sufficient. After cramming some Oreos into my mouth, I headed to the bell ceremony and the grand depart. What I saw was exactly as expected. With the backdrop of an appropriately dreadful Horsehoe Canyon, nearly two hundred cyclist stood with their bikes on the ground next to them. On Andrew’s count, we removed our gremlin bells from their pouches and blessed the bikes with protection from the spirits said to inhabit the hills of northwest and central Arkansas. Intent on sharing in the blessing, those nearby shook their bells onto their neighbor’s bikes. We were all in this together, at least conceptually. Taking off from Horshoe Canyon, the first climbs hit like a brick wall. Singlespeeders of immense accomplishment hopped off before leaving the property. This was going to be a long one.
Cruising over the ridgelines, it was clear why this event exists. Often, there are questions when people learn of races anywhere other than the picturesque peaks of more typical cycling locales. “What the heck is out in Arkansas?” To imagine I could summate what exactly the Ozarks contain would be a task well beyond my linguistic capacity. The unending, unknowable beauty of the cavernous gorges and canyons is the stuff of myth. Like a land lost to the aimless blade of packagable race marketing, the Ozarks are the perfect place for riding a bike, provided you can survive it. Entering the first section of singletrack and river crossings, I was met with the alien-like lichen green sprawling over anthracite rock and crag contrasted by the gloom of a dark and dour chasm. It was horrifically magnificent. And I loved every moment of it.
Sadly, at the fifth or sixth river crossing, the Buffalo River, which had reached flood stage due to the rains that preceded the event, took me down and my shoes with it. Having successfully shouldered the bike over the last crossings, I’d become too confident and allowed the river to take one of my shoes. After a few minutes of searching, I figured my race was run and retraced my steps to the aid station at the start of the headwaters loop. Luckily, someone taking on the Dread course, a last-minute addition from Andrew for those who couldn’t complete their initial route due to the race being delayed by a day, had called a friend for pickup.
Hopping in with them, the end felt all too abrupt. One minute I was finding my groove on one of the most enjoyable sections of the course, and the next my foot was engorged from walking five miles of rocky singletrack as the car weaved its way through the ridges of the Ozarks. To say I’m disappointed in how things panned out would be an understatement, but I suppose that’s the nature of these events. Anything and everything can happen, and the experience of failure is wide-ranging and never quite fits how we imagine. Returning to Horseshoe Canyon felt like purgatory. As a combination of Dread riders and scratches rolled in, we shared in stories and commiserations.
Eventually, finishers of varying distances rolled in. Looking like they’d been through hell, I thought about what a friend who lived in Arkansas told me about the place he cherished. The Ozarks, while steep and rife with elevation changes, are not “actual” mountains. Eroded by millions of years of rain, the Ozarks primarily exist as an ancient, eroded plateau. In a sense, instead of rising toward the heavens on steps created by the collision of tectonic plates, anyone who endeavors upon a route in the Ozarks descends to whatever hellish ends exist below. It’s a beautifully evil place to ride a bike, and Andrew and the small team putting events on in the region deserve all the plaudits for making an incredible experience. I know I’ll be back in the future to make things right, but for now, I’ll let the brief but memorable scenes of my short ride haunt my memories until I get another chance to meet my DOOM.
Check out the Doom Tracker page to follow along on the live tracking map, watch for ongoing race updates, and tune in for more event coverage. Find it here.
Further Reading
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