Following her triumphant completion of the 2023 Huracan 300 in Florida, Cathy Niebauer shares her reflections on how immersing herself in a bikepacking event allowed her to strip away everyday labels and fully embrace the experience. Dive into her account of the event, offering insights into participating as someone who doesn’t fit the conventional ultra-endurance mold, complemented by stunning photography from David Childers.
Words by Cathy Niebauer, photos by David Childers (@dchildersphoto)
Initially, I might not seem like your typical ultra-endurance bikepacker. For a decade, I’ve been a stay-at-home mom to two energetic sons. As a child, I was more prone to bike mishaps than smooth rides, often finding myself tumbling off rather than cruising along. Summers were for indoor adventures with books and video games, not outdoor escapades battling bugs. It wasn’t until motherhood that I discovered a love for distance running, cycling, and the great outdoors. And despite my slower pace on two wheels, I realized I possessed the endurance for long rides—perfect for bikepacking at a leisurely, enjoyable speed!
My journey to the 2023 HuRaCaN 300 began the previous November when my husband Zach, our friend Jodi, and her husband Mark, decided to take on Florida’s most renowned bikepacking challenge. Having successfully navigated the 520-mile Cross Florida The Spanish race in January 2022, our quartet was eager to conquer the Singletrack Samurai’s most celebrated event next – the Huracan.
Image: Bikepacking adventure during the Huracan 300 challenge in Florida.
Drawing on my past life as an executive assistant, meticulous planning became my forte. I meticulously studied the Huracan route and trail guide, crafting an Excel spreadsheet detailing mileage to each food stop, bathroom quality assessments, and whether upcoming turns were clearly marked entrances or hidden fence hops into state parks tucked behind unassuming vacant lots. “Failing to plan is planning to fail” resonated deeply, and I was determined to optimize my chances of success in the Huracan 300.
The Huracan start contrasted sharply with the Spanish 520. The Spanish Grand Depart hosted a small group of 12-15 riders, with Jodi and me as the only women. Prior to that, I had never embarked on a multi-day bikepacking trip, nor cycled more than 50 miles in a single day. We completed the Spanish route, but not without my share of tears and urges to quit. I resolved to approach the Huracan as a stronger individual, both physically and mentally prepared for the challenges ahead.
Image: Group of bikepackers at the starting line of the Huracan 300 event.
The night preceding the Huracan felt like a massive family reunion. Strangers became instant companions, united by the incredible journey we were about to undertake together. Karlos, the event organizer, has fostered an amazing community of Florida bikepackers, a spirit palpable throughout the entire Huracan 300 experience.
Day One: Navigating Santos and the Ocala National Forest
The first day of the Huracan 300 unfolded smoothly. While I had ridden in Santos before, maneuvering my fully loaded Surly Ogre over the technical features of the blue trails still required considerable effort. Santos soon transitioned into the Baseline Trailhead and Marshall Swamp, where we intermittently encountered and rode alongside other “party pacers.” Curious mountain bikers on their sleek, full-suspension rigs voiced a common sentiment upon seeing our rigid steel bikes: “I would never attempt these trails on a bike like that!”
Lunch was a quick and practical peanut butter tortilla and gummy bear affair, punctuated by a strict 20-minute timer to prevent us from lingering too long in the tranquil beauty of Marshall Swamp. Optimistically, I had packed a can of Pringles in my handlebar bag, only to discover that 30 miles of singletrack transformed them into potato chip dust. Thankfully, pulverized potato chips retain their delicious flavor.
Our first navigational hiccup occurred on the backroads south of Lake Bryant. Lost in the enjoyment of smooth, packed dirt roads, we missed a left turn despite having two bike computers programmed with the Huracan route. We rode over a mile before realizing our error. Fortunately, all roads, eventually, lead somewhere, and a busy two-lane road guided us back on course.
The Ocala National Forest defies easy description for those unfamiliar with its unique landscape. While Florida often conjures images of sandy beaches, palm trees, and perhaps the occasional alligator-inhabited swamp, the Ocala National Forest feels otherworldly. Its vast emptiness is initially incomprehensible to a suburbanite like myself. Relentless clay hills and sand stretch endlessly to the horizon. Glimpses through the trees reveal giant chasms and scarred remnants of abandoned mining operations. The sparse signs of human presence are limited to four-wheeler tracks winding into the woods and discarded beer cans left by careless campers.
Throughout the day, Zach provided coaching on downhill pedaling techniques to generate momentum for the subsequent climbs, while Jodi kept spirits high with her Bluetooth speaker, blasting energizing spin class and body pump workout playlists. A relentless headwind hindered our progress, and dusk settled before we exited the park’s boundaries.
Image: Bikepackers navigating a sandy trail section of the Huracan 300 in Ocala National Forest.
For Huracan riders emerging from the Ocala National Forest, the Shockley Heights Country Store is a welcome sight. This store is a convenience store marvel, with each room overflowing with refrigerators packed with more energy drinks and beers than the last. The staff and local patrons are accustomed to the sight of weary, clay-dust-covered cyclists emerging from the forest and offered a wealth of local knowledge and encouragement. While some intrepid souls opted to continue riding through the night, our group decided to camp at Alexander Springs, concluding our first day at a modest 75 miles.
While many bikepackers embrace the freedom of spontaneous bivouacking, sleeping wherever fatigue dictates, I am not among them. A designated destination with a hot shower at day’s end is essential for my bikepacking comfort. It’s remarkable how bikepacking shifts perspective. Under normal road trip circumstances, a bathroom adorned with spiderwebs and buzzing insects would prompt me to wait for a more civilized facility. However, when utterly exhausted and coated in clay dust, the lukewarm showers at a state park campground feel like the epitome of luxury.
Day Two: Century Milestone and the Wekiva River Crossing
Day two commenced early with quick oatmeal Pro Bars and instant coffees. I knew we had significant distance to cover – 98 miles on paper, but factoring in detours for food and lodging, I anticipated achieving my first-ever century ride by evening. Paisley mountain bike trails presented sandy yet scenic riding, winding through dense thickets of trees before opening into misty hills and the ashen remains of controlled burns. Our group initiated a somewhat haphazard fall count; I took a tumble that morning while glancing down for my water hose, Mark experienced an uncharacteristic sandy spill, and Zach later succumbed to the mud.
Image: Bikepacker pushing their bike through a sandy section of the Huracan 300 route.
We soon departed the serene Ocala National Forest and ventured onto the infamous seven-mile stretch of Maggie Jones Road, notorious for its deep sand. There’s a peculiar comfort in observing the tire tracks and wipeout marks of those who have struggled and fallen before you. A small surge of satisfaction accompanied each footprint and crash mark I managed to surpass while remaining upright, even if only for a little longer. The day’s recurring refrain, unsurprisingly, became “What the hell, Karlos!?”
Seminole State Forest provided a tranquil interlude before the next challenge, offering surprisingly clean pit toilets and smooth, uneventful rolling terrain for several miles. The Wekiva Falls RV Resort delivered a high-caliber bikepacker’s lunch: Bugles, a Snickers ice cream bar, peanut butter tortillas, and the most exquisitely cold Coca-Cola I’ve ever experienced. The Wekiva River Crossing, perhaps the most discussed obstacle of the Huracan, loomed, and I was both apprehensive and eager to see if it lived up to its daunting reputation. We navigated nearly invisible trails, guided by GPS arrows, markers tied to trees, and Karlos’ helpful advice, “If you’re bushwhacking, you’re going the wrong way.”
Initially, I attempted to push my bike through the narrow path choked with saw palmettos, but quickly realized riding was less strenuous than pushing. We sunk our feet into shoe-swallowing mud while searching for the next turn-off, oscillating between judging mud holes as rideable or imminent falls. Mark’s catchphrase for the weekend, “Don’t worry, guys. It’s rideable!” often preceded the rest of us slogging behind on foot.
The crossing at Rock Springs Run proved unexpectedly beautiful. After carefully descending the muddy bank, the water was clear and refreshing, and the path to the opposite bank was obvious. We encountered a kayaker, surprised to find bikepackers amidst his downstream paddle. While I wish I could claim to have carried my own bike across, my squat strength fell short, and my husband graciously made multiple trips to ferry my bike safely across the river.
Exiting Wekiwa Springs marked a jarring transition from muddy trails to bustling road riding. With 50 miles remaining to our Clermont hotel and the sun setting, we indulged in a Taco Bell feast in the parking lot before embarking on the Apopka Trail. The sunset over Lake Apopka was breathtaking, diverting my attention from the burning sensation in my legs as I approached my highest-ever single-day mileage. Trail magic appeared in the Huracan Facebook group – a potato chip cache at the Green Mountain trailhead – a welcome treat before tackling the day’s biggest challenge: Sugarloaf Mountain.
Image: Bikepackers crossing the Wekiva River during the Huracan 300.
As a flatlander at heart, accustomed to minimal elevation changes on my home trails, the unending climbs of Florida’s highest peaks presented a significant hurdle. Approximately 3,000 feet of climbing, with the tallest peak just under 300 feet, might seem insignificant to those from hillier regions, but for me, it felt insurmountable. Zigzagging up the hills in the darkness, I longed for a lower gear to propel me upwards. Several times, walking seemed preferable to risking a fall in the dark, and my supportive team patiently waited at the summit of each hill for me to catch my breath.
In a moment of questionable planning, I had booked a hotel in Clermont, two miles off-route. I neglected to consult the elevation map and soon discovered the hotel resided on the third-highest peak of the day. We finally rolled in just before midnight, successfully smuggling four bikes into our room without attracting undue attention. The hotel bed, following a hot shower, felt almost alien in its comfort to my exhausted body, and sleep proved elusive initially.
Day Three: Green Swamp and Graveyard Road
We awoke eager for the hotel’s continental breakfast and coffee, but first, the critical task of drying socks and shoes. Lacking time for hotel laundry, Mark devised a plan to expedite sock drying using the hairdryer. Jodi’s arm warmers dried quickly, followed by my socks. However, a combination of an old hairdryer, swamp mud, and wool socks triggered the room’s fire alarm at 5:30 a.m.!
Image: Bikepackers enjoying a resupply stop during the Huracan 300 challenge.
We braced for room sprinklers, hotel evacuation, or management confronting us about muddy bikes in pristine rooms. None of these scenarios materialized, but we sheepishly descended for breakfast, hoping our sock-drying crimes remained undetected.
Day three featured a stunning ride through the Green Swamp. Anticipating a long stretch without resupply for over 80 miles, we stocked up on sandwiches, drinks, and candy at Publix before venturing from rural backroads into the forest roads of Green Swamp. We spotted alligators basking on riverbanks and hunters slumbering in truck beds. Both alligators and hunters seemed equally bewildered by our presence. A highlight of the East Tract was observing a state park fire helicopter and ground crew tackling a controlled burn in the distance. We hoped the smoke would dissipate before we reached the affected area.
A picnic lunch at the Van Fleet Trailhead, a paved multi-use trail bordering the Green Swamp’s eastern edge, provided a brief respite. The picnic table and pavilion we targeted were occupied by a group of retirees on tandem bikes, complete with a checkered tablecloth and a spread of finger foods from coolers. We opted for the ground in the pavilion’s shade, promptly removing socks and shoes to air them out. The retirees offered us table space but seemed relieved when we declined in favor of the floor.
The Green Swamp is a wild and beautiful place, full of surprises. Rusting buses, a bridge constructed of railroad ties, and a fortuitous water faucet outside a ranger station were just a few of the unexpected discoveries. Fatigue began to set in as the day wore on, but around mile 60, I seemed to find my “diesel mode,” maintaining a steady pace. We indulged in the easy-rolling limerock forest roads for miles. However, as is typical of a Karlos event, comfort is fleeting. As soon as we settled in, sunset arrived, and conditions deteriorated.
Image: Bikepacker riding through a lush, green section of the Huracan 300 route.
Crossing into the West Tract coincided with switching on our lights, just 10 miles from a gas station and the swamp’s edge. We immediately encountered the thick smoke of the controlled burn, rendering our high-powered headlamps nearly useless. The road was riddled with constant muddy pits, significantly slowing our progress as visibility was severely limited. Even on the smoother limerock of Lacoochee Road, our imaginations ran wild with rustling trees and the glow of still-burning trees in the pitch blackness. The evening’s most grueling trial was Graveyard Road, a two-mile stretch of unrideable sugar sand culminating in a knee-deep Cypress bog that seemed endless. The surreal juxtaposition of hearing the traffic of Cortez Boulevard while trudging through stinking mud under the full moon was the only thing sustaining me.
Realizing it was only 8:30 p.m. and not midnight as it felt, we regrouped at our team’s preferred restaurant, Taco Bell, to strategize our evening plan. With soaking wet feet and the final day ahead, we abandoned our campground reservation in favor of a cheap hotel with warm beds and hot showers at mile 97. Not daring to risk a hairdryer repeat, I retrieved my last dry pair of socks from my pack.
Day Four: Croom and the Final Push to Santos
We rolled out early on day four, joining the pre-work rush at Racetrac for coffee and gas station breakfast sandwiches. Nothing rivals the deliciousness of gas station breakfast 300 miles into a bikepacking tour. The morning progressed slowly 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 tenth sandy, rooty climb, I almost envied them. I’m not ashamed to admit we opted for bypasses on the more technical trails, as my mountain biking skills are still developing, but otherwise, we pedaled through Croom for hours.
Post-Croom, Lake Lindsey Mall and Deli provided a delightful local lunch stop with freshly prepared hot food, even catering to our vegan teammate. I devoured a chicken quesadilla, another Coca-Cola, and a side of fries for refueling. The kitchen staff, seasoned in serving bikepackers all weekend, cheered us on with an encouraging, “Only 63 miles to go!”
Image: Bikepacker enjoying a scenic view during the final day of the Huracan 300.
After a few stressful miles in a narrow bike lane, we entered the Citrus Forest. Again, I lagged behind the group on the constant rolling and dusty clay hills. Summoning inner motivation, I put on my BTS workout playlist. Energized by my favorite song, Outro: Wings, blasting from my phone’s tinny speakers, I surged forward. With “diesel mode” re-engaged and the familiar safety of the Withlacoochee Trail ahead, the remaining daylight hours passed smoothly. The only blood of the trip was drawn by me when I failed to unclip at a paved bike trail intersection and endured a humiliating slow-motion tip-over onto the pavement. We had one final gas station meal at sunset before switching on lights and re-entering Santos bike park for 15 miles of technical singletrack in the dark.
Those final 15 miles were the slowest and most emotionally taxing. Exhausted from three full days of riding, my hands and feet were numb, and my right knee throbbed from my earlier pavement encounter. Coyote howls echoed from the woods, and I recalled recent reports of a mama bear and cubs in the area. Each ascent felt like a monumental effort, and each descent offered only fleeting relief. Jodi and I bumped into each other, misjudging following distance on dark singletrack. Even opting for a green trail over the most challenging blue trail couldn’t prevent crashes and walking sections. My smartwatch buzzed incessantly with well-wishers eager to be the first to congratulate us, but the last five miles stretched on for what felt like hours.
Image: Triumphant bikepacker at the finish of the Huracan 300, reflecting on the accomplishment.
The finish of a bikepacking race is always somewhat bittersweet. Often, there’s no grand finish line or fanfare. We were fortunate to have a small audience in the form of an earlier finisher waiting for his friends, but otherwise, we quietly returned to our car to unpack our gear. The magnitude of my accomplishment is still sinking in. Sitting at my comfortable computer desk with my kids and coffee, the “me” who rode 100-mile days and persevered through mud and sand feels like a different person entirely. That’s the profound beauty of bikepacking. For four days, I wasn’t defined by the labels of Cathy the mom, wife, daughter, or sister. I was simply Cathy the adventurer, solely responsible for myself and my survival. And isn’t that fundamental self-discovery what we’re all ultimately seeking out there on these adventures?
About Cathy Niebauer
Cathy Niebauer, a lifelong resident of Lutz, Florida, discovered her passion for bikepacking in mid-2020 and has since completed three major bikepacking expeditions in Florida with her husband of 15 years, Zach. She aspires to undertake solo trips in the future. Beyond cycling, Cathy is a devoted stay-at-home mom to her two sons, a dog, and four rats. Connect with her on Instagram @cathy_the_nieb.
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