An Unlikely Rider’s 2023 HuRaCaN 300 Journey

Words by Cathy Niebauer, photos by David Childers (@dchildersphoto)

At first glance, I don’t fit the typical profile of an ultra-endurance bikepacker. I have been a stay-at-home mom to my two sons for the past 10 years. I was a notoriously clumsy child and spent more of my childhood falling off bikes than riding them. I preferred to spend my summer days indoors reading or playing video games rather than camping outside with the bugs. It wasn’t until my kids were born that I found my path to loving distance running, cycling, and the outdoors. And, despite being a slower biker, I discovered I could ride for a long time—perfect for bikepacking at party pace!

My 2023 HuRaCaN 300 journey started last November when my husband Zach and my friend Jodi and her husband Mark decided to tackle the biggest bikepacking race in Florida. Our team of four had cut our teeth on the 520-mile Cross Florida The Spanish race in January 2022, and we wanted to try the most famous of the Singletrack Samurai’s events next.

As a former executive assistant, I had meticulously pored over the route and trail guide, making an excel spreadsheet with mileage for the next food stop, the quality of the bathrooms, and whether the next turn was a well-marked entrance or a fence hop into a state park hidden behind a vacant lot. “Failing to plan is planning to fail,” as the saying goes, and I knew I needed to set myself up for success as much as possible.

The start of the HuRaCaN was a stark difference from the Spanish 520. At the Grand Depart of the Spanish last year, there were about 12-15 riders, with Jodi and I being the only women. I had never done a multi-day bikepacking trip before and had never biked more than 50 miles in a day. We completed the Spanish route, but not without many tears and attempts to quit on my end. I was determined to enter into the HuRaCan as a stronger person, both physically and mentally.

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The night before the HuRaCaN was like a huge family reunion. It didn’t matter if you were strangers because we were all embarking on this incredible journey together. Karlos has done a fantastic job of cultivating an incredible community of Florida bikepackers, and this was evident throughout the entirety of the HuRaCaN.

One

Day one started off uneventfully. I have ridden in Santos before but still had to push my fully loaded Surly Ogre over many tricky features on the blue trails. Santos quickly gave way to Baseline Trailhead and Marshall Swamp, where we picked up and dropped other groups of party pacers here and there. Curious mountain bike riders on their sleek full-suspension rigs all echoed the same sentiment upon seeing our fully rigid steel bikes, “I would never try to ride these trails with a bike like that!”

Lunch was a quick peanut butter tortilla and gummy bears, with a strict 20-minute timer to prevent us from enjoying the quiet beauty of Marshall Swamp for too long. I had optimistically hauled a can of Pringles in one of my handlebar bags and found that 30 miles of singletrack reduced it to potato chip dust. Thankfully, the shape of a potato chip does not change its delicious flavor.

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We suffered our first directional challenge on the back roads south of Lake Bryant. We were enjoying the smooth, packed dirt roads, and despite having two bike computers loaded with the route, we missed a left-hand turn and didn’t notice for over a mile. Luckily, all roads lead to Rome in the end, and a very busy two-lane road got us back on track.

The Ocala National Forest is difficult to describe to anyone who has not seen it. When most people think of Florida, they imagine sandy beaches, palm trees, and maybe the occasional swampy alligator. The Ocala National Forest feels like another planet. It is vastly empty in a way that any suburbanite like me would struggle to comprehend at first glance. The unrelenting clay hills and sand stretch off into the horizon without end. Through the gaps in the trees, you can spy the giant chasms and pitted remains of long-abandoned mining projects. The only signs of human life are the four-wheeler treads that wind into the woods and the beer cans sadly strewn by errant campers.

Zach coached me on pedaling the downhills to get enough power for the next uphill while Jodi motivated the group with her Bluetooth speaker blasting her spin class and body pump workout playlists. A brutal headwind slowed our progress, and the sun set before we exited the park.

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For riders exiting the Ocala National Forest, the Shockley Heights Country Store is always a sight for sore eyes. The store is like a convenience store Room of Requirement, each room filled with a hodgepodge of refrigerators containing more energy drinks and beers than the last. The employees and locals are used to seeing grungy and tired cyclists leaving the Ocala National Forest, and they were a fountain of local information and well-wishes. Some brave souls decided to continue for the night, but our group stopped to camp in Alexander Springs, bringing our day to an end at only 75 miles.

While many bikepackers enjoy the feeling of freedom bikepacking brings and decide to sleep wherever and whenever they need, I am not one of those people. I must have a destination with a hot shower at the end of the day. It’s funny, the perspective shift that bikepacking brings. If I’d pulled over during a road trip and the only bathroom was covered in spider webs and questionable bugs buzzing at the windows, I would have held it until civilization. But when you’re exhausted and covered in clay dust, the lukewarm showers at a state park campground feel like the height of luxury.

Two

Day two started early, with oatmeal Pro Bars and instant coffees. I knew we had a lot of ground to cover, 98 miles on paper, but with detours to food and lodging, I anticipated hitting my first-ever century by the evening. Paisley mountain bike trails were sandy and beautiful, rolling through dense thickets of trees before opening back up into foggy hills and the ashy remains of controlled burns. Our group attempted to start keeping track of falls; I fell once that morning while looking down to grab my water hose, Mark had an uncharacteristic fall in the sand, and Zach fell later that day in the mud.

We soon left the quiet beauty of the Ocala National Forest and ventured into the famously sandy seven-mile stretch of Maggie Jones Road. There is something oddly comforting in seeing the bike tire treads of those who have wiped out and fallen before you. I had a small feeling of satisfaction for every footprint or crash mark I was able to surpass while staying upright on my own bike just a little bit longer. The most common refrain of the day was, of course, “What the hell, Karlos!?”

Seminole State Forest was a calm before the storm and gave us a surprisingly clean pit toilet and smooth and uneventful rolling for several miles. The Wekiva Falls RV Resort brought a high-caliber backpacker’s lunch of Bugles, a Snickers ice cream bar, peanut butter tortillas, and the most deliciously cold can of Coca-Cola that I’ve ever had in my life. The Wekiva River Crossing is perhaps the most talked about obstacle of the HuRaCaN, and I was eager to see if it lived up to its scary reputation. We wound our way through nearly invisible trails, guided by the GPS arrow, markers tied to trees, and the helpful words of Karlos, “If you’re bushwacking, you’re going the wrong way.”

I tried pushing my bike through the narrow path through the saw palmettoes but quickly realized that it was easier to ride my bike than to push it. We got our feet wet in shoe-sucking mud while attempting to find the next turn-off and alternated between deciding mud holes were rideable or a fall waiting to happen. Mark’s phrase of the weekend was, “Don’t worry, guys. It’s rideable!” while the rest of us slogged behind on foot.

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The crossing at Rock Springs Run could not have been more beautiful. Once we picked our way down the muddy bank, the water was clear and refreshing, and the path to the other side was obvious. We came across a kayaker who was surprised to see us in the middle of his path as he paddled downstream. I wish I could say I carried my own bike across, but alas, my squat weight isn’t what it should be, so my husband made the sacrifice of making multiple trips to carry my bike safely.

Exiting Wekiwa Springs was jarring as we shifted from muddy trails to busy road riding. With 50 miles left before our hotel reservation in Clermont and the sun setting, we ate a Taco Bell feast in the parking lot before setting off on the Apopka Trail. The sun setting over Lake Apopka was absolutely stunning and kept my mind off the burn in my legs as I approached my highest-ever one-day mileage. A kind soul posted trail magic in the HuRaCaN Facebook group, so we feasted on a potato chip cache at the Green Mountain trailhead before tackling the biggest obstacle yet, Sugarloaf Mountain.

I am a flatlander at heart. My home trail has at most 20 feet of elevation change over the course of 10 miles. I knew I wasn’t prepared physically or emotionally for the unending climbs that the highest peaks in Florida would bring. Around 3,000 feet of climbing with the most prominent peak at just under 300 feet might not seem like a lot to those from hillier areas, but for me, it was insurmountable. As I zigged and zagged my way up the hills in the dark, I wished for a lower gear to propel my body upward. Several times, I decided walking was better than risking falling over in the dark, and my team kindly waited for me at the top of each hill to catch my breath.

In a brilliant spark of planning, I decided to reserve a hotel in Clermont two miles off trail. I neglected to look at the elevation map and soon discovered the hotel was on the third highest peak of that day. We rolled in just before midnight and managed to stuff four bikes safely into our room without any strange looks. The comfort of the hotel bed after a warm shower was almost foreign to my exhausted body, and I had trouble falling asleep.

Three

We woke up eager for the hotel’s continental breakfast and coffee. But first, we had to dry out our socks and shoes. We didn’t have time to use the hotel laundry, and Mark reckoned it would be faster to dry our socks by putting them over the nose of the hair dryer rather than having them flat on the table. Jodi’s arm warmers were a breeze, and up next were my socks. Something about the old hairdryer, swamp mud, and wool socks combined to set off the room fire alarm at 5:30 a.m.!

We were convinced that the room sprinklers would turn on, the entire hotel would evacuate, or the management would barge in and find that we’d brought four muddy bikes inside their nice clean rooms. None of those things ended up happening, but we did sheepishly come down to breakfast and hoped no one connected us to our sock-drying crimes.

Day three was a gorgeous ride through the Green Swamp. Knowing we wouldn’t have a chance to resupply for well over 80 miles, we stocked up on sandwiches, drinks, and candy at Publix before turning off rural back roads into the forest roads of Green Swamp. We spied alligators sleeping on the banks and hunters sleeping in the backs of their trucks. Gator and hunter alike seemed baffled to see us. The highlight of the East Tract was seeing the state park fire helicopter and crew on the ground. We could see the smoke of their controlled burn in the distance, and we hoped the smolder would clear before we reached it.

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We popped out of the swamp briefly to eat a picnic lunch at the Van Fleet Trailhead, a paved multi-use trail that borders the east edge of the Green Swamp. The picnic table and pavilion we had hoped to use was occupied by a group of retirees on tandem bikes who’d set the table with a checkered tablecloth and an array of finger foods from their coolers. We plopped down on the ground in the shade of the pavilion and promptly removed our socks and shoes to let them dry in the sun. They offered us a seat at their table, but they seemed relieved when we turned them down in favor of the floor.

The Green Swamp is a wild place full of natural beauty. Rusted-out buses, a bridge made of railroad ties, and a serendipitous faucet of drinkable water outside a ranger station were just a few of the surprises. I had started growing tired as the day stretched on, but around mile 60, I seemed to find my diesel mode and kept cruising. We let ourselves enjoy the easy-rolling limerock forest road for miles. However, as things often do at a Karlos event, as soon as we got comfortable, the sun set, and everything got worse.

We crossed into the West Tract just as we switched our lights on, only 10 miles away from the gas station and the end of the swamp. We immediately hit the cloying smoke of the controlled burn, which made our high-powered headlamps next to useless. The road was littered with constant muddy pits that slowed our progress considerably, as we couldn’t see far enough to tell if it was rideable or not. Even on the smooth limerock of Lacoochee Road, our imaginations went wild with the constant rustling of trees and the light of still-burning trees amid the pitch-black darkness. The most difficult trial of the evening was on Graveyard Road, a two-mile stretch of unrideable sugar sand that culminated in a knee-deep Cypress bog that seemed to go on forever. The dissonance of hearing the busy traffic of Cortez Boulevard while slogging through stinking mud under the full moon was the only thing that got me through.

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After realizing it was only 8:30 p.m. and not, in fact, midnight, we regrouped at our team’s favorite restaurant, Taco Bell, to decide on our plan for the evening. With soaking wet feet and our final day ahead of us, we decided to eschew our campground reservation for a cheap hotel with warm beds and hot showers at mile 97. Not daring to risk a repeat of the hair dryer incident, I dug into my pack for my final dry pair of socks I’d been keeping safe.

Four

We rolled out early and joined the pre-work crowd at Racetrac for coffee and breakfast sandwiches. There’s nothing quite as delicious as gas station breakfast when you’re 300 miles into a bikepacking tour. Our morning dragged on with 25 miles of mountain bike trails. Being a Tuesday morning, our only companions in the mountain bike park were retirees on e-bikes. After about the 10th sandy, rooty climb, I almost wished I had one too. I am not ashamed to admit we took the bypass on the more technical trails as my mountain bike skills are lacking, but otherwise pedaled through Croom for hours.

After Croom, Lake Lindsey Mall and Deli was a delicious local lunch spot with freshly made hot food, even for our vegan teammates. I devoured my chicken quesadilla with another can of Coke and a side of fries for strength. The kitchen staff had been serving bikepackers all weekend and cheered us on with an encouraging, “Only 63 miles to go!”

After a few hairy miles of narrow bike lane, we entered the Citrus Forest. Again, I fell behind the group on the constant rolling and dusty clay hills. I reached deep down for motivation and put on my BTS workout playlist. I quickly took off, pumped up, and reenergized as my tinny phone speakers blasted my favorite song, Outro: Wings. With diesel mode activated and the safety of the familiar Withlacooche Trail ahead of us, the next few hours of daylight rolled easily. The only blood of the trip was drawn by me when I failed to unclip at an intersection on the paved bike trail and did the humiliating slow tip onto the pavement. We had one last gas station meal at sunset before turning on our lights and heading back into Santos bike park for 15 miles of technical singletrack in the dark.

The last 15 miles were the slowest and most emotionally difficult. I was exhausted from three full days of riding, my hands and feet were numb, and my right knee was throbbing and stiff from my fall onto the pavement a few hours earlier. I could hear coyotes howling in the woods, and I remembered that a mama bear and her cubs had been seen in the area. Every ascent felt like it cost me all my energy, and every descent brought a too-short moment of relief. Jodi and I crashed into each other, trying to judge the appropriate following distance for singletrack in the dark. Even opting for a green trail versus the final, most challenging blue didn’t save me from crashing my bike or walking over features. My smartwatch was a constant buzz of well-wishers hoping to be the first to congratulate us on our finish, but the last five miles dragged on for well over an hour.

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The finish of a bikepacking race is always a little bittersweet. There is usually no finish line or fanfare. We got lucky and had a bit of an audience in the form of an earlier finisher waiting for his friends, but otherwise we silently headed back to our car to unpack our gear. The reality of the scope of my accomplishment has still not settled. Sitting at my cozy computer desk with my kids and a cup of coffee, the me who rode 100 mile-days and walked through mud and sand feels like a different person. That’s the beauty of bikepacking. For four days, I didn’t have to be Cathy the mom, the wife, the daughter, the sister. I was Cathy the adventurer, only responsible for myself and my survival. And isn’t that what we’re all chasing out there in the end?

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