HuRaCan 300
This trip held many adventures all at once—especially for someone who has always been shy and would never describe herself as outgoing.
Flying with a bike is an exercise in surrender—especially with a bike you cherish. But I wanted to live, to do things outside my comfort zone, and that meant watching my bike disappear into pieces inside a box I had spent nearly a month researching and overthinking before finally committing to.
The bike box weighed sixty-five pounds at the baggage check—fifteen pounds over the limit. With no idea what to do about it, I found myself unknowingly practicing letting go. Evelyn, a United agent with the calm competence of someone who has solved harder problems than mine, helped me reprocess my baggage ticket and reassured me it would be fine. I paid the extra hundred dollars. I put my trust in the system, and I believed Evelyn.
Somewhere high above the ground, shaken by excessive turbulence, I realized that having so much outside my control felt strangely freeing. I couldn’t optimize this. I could only be present. That was what I was really seeking on this trip—not just miles or terrain, but a lesson in being fully here.
Here I was, heading to Florida to visit my sister and enter my first bikepacking race. I’d describe myself as a competent gravel rider, but still relatively new to this kind of riding. The 330-mile route was billed as a more gravel-friendly alternative to the main mountain bike course, but it still included singletrack, deep sand, and long remote stretches—complete with alligators. I knew enough to take it seriously, but not enough to know exactly what I was getting into.
Friday was about arrival and hesitation. I went to the race expo to check in, look around, and quietly take stock of what I had signed up for. It felt safe to observe. I could gather information, listen to conversations, and remain on the edge of things a little longer.
At the last minute, I decided to join the women’s group ride. It wasn’t part of any careful plan. It was more a response to the small, persistent feeling that I should say yes while I still could.
The ride introduced me to terrain I knew I would encounter but wasn’t sure I was fully ready for—narrow singletrack, tight turns, and a style of riding that felt unfamiliar and slightly uncomfortable. I remember thinking, I’m not sure this is for me. Not in a dramatic way, just an honest recognition that this might push me beyond what I usually choose.
Later, there was pizza, music, and a roaring bonfire. The vibe was very chill. There’s an easy connection that comes from being around people who seek these kinds of challenges and adventures. I met other women preparing for the race, including Delinda, who had once worked as an Adventure Cycling tour guide. Her confidence and openness made the whole thing feel more approachable. She had experience with this event too, and she was patient with all my questions. I met Charlotte, who happened to also ride a Liv Devote gravel bike. There was Hannah and Allegra, who were planning to ride together, determined to finish this time after abandoning a previous attempt.
At the pre-ride meeting, the event director, Karlos Bernart, gave a heartfelt speech. Known as the Single Track Samurai and the mastermind behind this crazy ride, seeing him in person revealed a softer, deeply genuine presence. He wanted people to have an adventure and a good time. He wanted us to experience the beauty of Florida. He wanted us to succeed—each riding our own ride. While there was still so much unknown ahead, the day softened the edge of doubt just enough to let me step forward.
Saturday — The Start
One thing I should mention at the outset is that the most important piece of gear I’d be relying on—a bike navigation computer—was brand new to me. The Coros Dura had been my main Christmas present, chosen for its incredible battery life. I wouldn’t need to worry about charging it at all, leaving my battery pack available for other things, like my phone and my primary bike light.
I had expected to have more opportunities to practice with it before the event, but an unusually cold and snowy January limited my time outside. In the early hours before the race, I found myself watching instructional videos, learning how to illuminate the screen while riding in the dark. Navigation would be everything out there, and I was taking a chance.
My friend Pedar drove me from my sister’s house to the start in the early morning. Though he lives in Connecticut, he happened to be visiting family in the area. It meant more to me than I realized to have a familiar, bike-competent friend see me off. His last-minute gift—chocolate-covered espresso beans—would become a much-needed boost at the very end.
The ride started off feeling amazing. I now knew what to expect from the singletrack leaving the campground, and everyone was buzzing with excitement. Early on, I recognized another rider from a Huracan documentary I had watched several times on YouTube. We chatted briefly, and it felt surreal to be there myself.
I felt strong—confident and fast. My bike handled terrain more difficult than anything I’d ever taken it on. At times, the route turned onto deep sandy roads for miles with sections that were impossible to ride. I rode what I could, jumped off when needed and stayed cautious. Even so, I fell once early on and unknowingly lost a taillight.
Other sections required hoisting my bike over locked gates or fences—moments when I silently thanked myself for keeping up with upper-body strength training.
Saturday Continues
As the day wore on, riders became more spread out. By the first checkpoint, around mile sixty-five, it was clear that some were starting to fade—long faces, extended breaks outside the general store. The effort so far had not been trivial. A steady pacing strategy and diligent fueling kept me feeling strong and clear-headed.
Still, the miles ahead were almost incomprehensible. I had booked a hotel at mile 157. There was a long way to go.
I reached mile 108 around 6:15pm. The sun set quickly. I needed real food, not just the sugar I’d been consuming all day. There was a McDonald’s along the route in Apopka. Outside, several bikes leaned against the building as riders finished eating and rolled back out. I had a brief exchange with Chris, riding a Salsa Fargo, and offered him an extra order of chicken nuggets I’d received by mistake. He thanked me and set off into the evening.
Some people carry a positive energy that lingers. Chris was one of them. I was buoyed by our simple encounter. When I learned he planned to ride straight through, I felt a quiet surge of momentum.
I set off in the fading light. When darkness fully arrived, I was alone. An urban bike path gave way to something quieter and more secluded, and fear crept in. At one point, I couldn’t tell where the route was taking me. The line on my screen appeared to send me down a dark trail that felt wrong and unsafe. Could that be right? My intuition said no, but I couldn't figure out where to go. I nearly turned around completely, tempted to retreat to a previous town where I knew I could stop for the night.
Then I remembered a tip Delinda had shared about using heat maps in the Ride with GPS app, which showed heavier traveled paths with dark lines. This was an alternative way to view the route on my phone, not just from my bike computer. Looking at the route from a different perspective revealed a short, simple reroute. Relief washed over me. I had figured it out. I reminded myself to take things one step at a time and trust myself to figure things out.
That decision to keep moving forward carried me into the most intense section of the trip. I entered the Lake Apopka North Shore Restoration Area—a true wilderness. Black water stretched along my left, endless marsh to my right. Far in the distance, faint city lights glimmered, impossibly far away. I had to commit to miles that disappeared into darkness. I focused on the ten to fifteen feet illuminated by my headlamp, keeping my composure and staying present.
I wasn’t as alone as I thought. Herons appeared at regular intervals, quietly wading in the dark water. Their familiar presence was reassuring. Then I noticed glowing yellow orbs along the surface—more and more of them. Slowly, it dawned on me that I was seeing alligator eyes reflecting back my light. At one point, a large cat watched from the edge of the path, likely a bobcat. When my presence disturbed them, owls lifted silently into the darkness overhead. I rode through that wilderness for what felt like hours, trusting it would work out.
I did not take this actual photo - I didn't stop at the time, but I recreated the image from one I found online to show what I saw, also at regular intervals in the water.
Next came the “Florida Pyrenees”, nearly twenty miles of rolling hills. I was tired. I was cold. But beyond them lay Clermont, and the knowledge that a warm bed awaited me kept me moving.
Near the top of one hill, I saw a bicycle lying on the roadside and a rider beside it. Immediately concerned, I asked the rider if he was okay. He hadn’t fallen and didn’t have a flat, but he was clearly worn down and taking a break to eat. I asked if he wanted company for the remaining eight miles into Clermont. He agreed.
His name was Raffaele, and he rode a beautiful white Lauf Seigla. Riding together lifted both of us. We talked, checked directions, and shared the road. He had planned to ride straight through, and I think the realization that stopping for the night was the wiser choice weighed on him. After Clermont lay ninety miles of emptiness through the Green Swamp.
ItIt was midnight when I checked into the hotel. Warm, safe, and utterly spent, I was deeply grateful for rest.
Sunday
Raffaele decided to stay at the same hotel I did, but I left early, out the door by 5:30am before I saw him. I knew that if I wanted to finish on Sunday, I had more than 170 miles ahead of me and that was going to be a challenge on tired legs. I also wanted to finish before it got too late into the night, if possible.
Even so, progress was slow. The temperature hovered in the low thirties, and I had to stop frequently to warm my hands. I briefly crossed paths with Charlotte and another rider, but we were on different routes and soon diverged. It sounded like they’d had a rough, cold night. Once we split, I was on my own again.
The Green Swamp was monotonous and unforgiving. Difficult terrain stretched on without variation, and it wore me down. The temperatures rose. After about eighty miles, I didn’t think I had it in me to finish. I wasn’t even sure how I’d manage the miles to the next town, where I knew there were plenty of hotel options if needed. I was miserable.
I argued with myself. I can’t tell if I’m just in a low, or if I’ve done enough for today. I wondered whether stopping would feel like listening to myself—or if I'd be disappointed in myself later. At a small general store, I bought ice cream and sat with the decision.
That’s when Raffaele arrived, along with another rider, Kat. Kat was energetic and upbeat. I admitted that the Green Swamp might have done me in. She told me she rides those roads often and that the route would improve from there. “If you can,” she said, “try to finish today.” It was exactly what I needed to hear, and I was grateful for her straightforward encouragement.
I set off with her and Raffaele. Soon after, we crossed paths with Rasch and Eric —fixtures of this event and astonishingly strong riders. I was only beginning to realize their status; they often ride it straight through and frequently win, though the cold had slowed them this year. Despite their imposing accomplishments, they carried an outgoing friendliness that embodied the spirit of this crazy ride. Being around them lifted me. Kat, Rasch, and Eric eventually pulled away, and Raffaele and I continued on together.
From the checkpoint at mile 245, the next resupply wasn’t until mile 310—a long, daunting stretch. Darkness returned, and the cold deepened. I was barely holding on, taking it mile by mile. I was grateful for Raffaele's steady company. At times I worried he was sacrificing a faster finish by staying with me. But I also began to suspect that maybe the company went both ways.
We reached the Sunoco at 9:05 p.m. only to discover it had closed at nine. Our hearts sank. Raffaele voiced his frustration after the long, cold miles. I stayed calm, but only because I knew I still had some fuel left: mainly the chocolate-covered espresso beans Pedar had given me.
We regrouped outside. I gave Raffaele hand warmers and foot warmers. The store owner hadn’t left yet, and after noticing us lingering, he took pity and let us inside to grab a few essentials. Relief flooded through us.
The final twenty miles were mostly singletrack—slow, technical, and demanding. We heard a coyote’s bark-howl nearby in the woods as we pedaled under dense trees. At one point, the route seemed to vanish entirely. Then we noticed a rider pushing through thick brush on the other side of a tall fence. He called out, letting us know the way. Without that perfectly timed presence, I’m not sure we would have realized the route continued there. Even now, remembering that moment gives me chills. By the time I started climbing over the fence, that rider was nowhere to be seen.
By then, I had developed a system for lifting my bike over obstacles (I had probably done this about 5 or 6 times by this point) —hoisting it overhead by holding the fork and chain stay, setting the back wheel down first, then easing the front wheel down. It wasn’t graceful, but it worked.
The trail narrowed the rest of the way in. My helmet light went out. Then Raffaele’s did too. Thank goodness for my Outbound handlebar light—I could keep it on full brightness thanks to its pass-through charging. With two miles left, Raffaele lost all of his lights. He rode close behind me, following my beam, all the way to the finish- 333 miles total. It was 11:42pm. Surreal.
Reflection
Looking back, I’m struck by how much of this trip depended on preparation—and how little control that preparation actually promised. I planned obsessively: my bike choice, tire clearance, lighting, bags, navigation, charging strategy, route planning. I worried over details because I knew that once I was out there, I’d be alone with my decisions.
In the end, that preparation mattered. My bike carried me through sand, singletrack, gates, cold, and long nights without complaint. My gear did what it was supposed to do. Even the riskiest choice—the new navigation computer—worked even better than I could have hoped. That reliability freed up mental space. I could stop problem-solving and simply ride.
What surprised me more was what I found in myself. There were moments—especially deep in the Green Swamp—when I felt spent. Not injured or broken, just worn down. I questioned whether continuing made sense. And when I paused long enough to listen, what surfaced wasn’t toughness or bravado, but patience—the ability to keep moving without needing to feel strong or confident.
Just as often, help came from outside of me. A brief conversation that lifted my mood. A rider who needed company into town—and later provided the support I was in need of. A few well-timed words of encouragement. A store owner who unlocked the door after closing. A rider appearing at a crucial juncture of the trail. None of these moments were dramatic on their own, but together they carried real weight.
I came into this trip wanting to step outside my comfort zone—to loosen my desire for certainty and see what would happen. What I found was that surrender wasn’t the opposite of strength. It was another form of it. It meant trusting the work I had already done, trusting myself to adapt, and staying open to the people and solutions that appeared along the way.
That approach carried me to the finish in 1 day, 14 hours, and 42 minutes—good enough for second place female on the LiTe route. I’m proud of this. But what stays with me even more is the entirety of the event, from preparation to reflection—finding myself steady, patient, and braver than I realized.
I felt deeply alive.
