Arkansas Gravel Doom 2025 With Dexter Kopas

Words- Dexter Kopas
Photos – Dexter Kopas + Kai Caddy

The sun had refused to shine for days. Water gushed down every low point in the terrain. A misty rain settled on every surface. Cold air wafted through the wide rip in the back of my rain pants. My eyes struggled to stay open after their frequently interrupted sleep. My legs felt heavy. The back of my mind wondered if I had enough food, as I struggled to down a wet, mealy no-bake cookie. There was nothing to do now but rumble. 

In the weeks leading up to 2025’s edition of the Doom bikepacking race, I was feeling more ready than ever. After many months working with a coach, I was more fit. I had a new bike that promised to be faster and comfier than last year’s. After a dry, hot race in 2024, there was now a chance of rain in the forecast, giving excitement to this PNW-raised lover of wild weather. There was to be a documentary crew covering the race, a good excuse to put on a show. And, perhaps most of all, I had the confidence that came with having won this race the year before. 

That was before Arkansas’ capital received its third-wettest 4-day period in recorded history. One high-profile racer, Dan Connely, couldn’t even make the race due to flight delays. As race organizer Andrew Onermaa opined, it was “weather of biblical proportions.” A little too wild, even for Doom, so Andrew wisely moved the race back a day, from Saturday to Sunday, largely to let treacherous stream crossings calm down and to avoid putting a strain on an emergency response system that was already eyeing a flood warning and a “State of Emergency” declaration from the governor. He also revised the 400-mile route just 60 hours before the grand depart to avoid the most dangerous stream crossings. 

With the event organizers putting in an ultra effort to put on this ultra race, I scrambled to find another place to stay that extra night and to put together a resupply plan after completely scrapping the one I had spent many hours on. The race week training plan my coach and I had put together flew out the window as I instead sat inside debating which jacket to bring, and downpours outside threatened to drench my gear. The only exercise I managed to work into my schedule in the 6 days before Doom was hiking a couple miles to build rock steps on a trail south of Tucson, and a brief jog to Walmart. 

Add to this the sort of hilarious misfortunes I have come to expect of myself when travelling to a bike race. I had left my shoe covers back in Tucson. United Airlines’ silly 50 lb weight limit meant I had to remove my cassette, necessitating a mechanic search in Bentonville. I found old rips in my half-frame bag and wheel rubbing on my frame the night before the grand depart. For the latter, blame my insistence on 2.2” tires and missing an overdue trueing of the wheels. I made new rips in my rain pants when I bent down to pick something up. When us tent-free travellers finally bedded down beneath the only large rain protection at race HQ, pre-race sleep was interrupted 5 or 6 times to defend against curious skunk incursions. 

Still, I had much to be thankful for at the startline on that misty Sunday morning: Rides offered by a fellow rider’s parents and by mobile mechanic Cycle OG; a place to stay, recipe sharing, a loaned pair of shoe covers, and much more from Doom alumnus Pat Worthley; and a snack of fresh parsnips found while walking back from the produce-free Dollar General. So, when Andrew blew his megaphone horn, my mind was clear. A blessing just to set off into the unknown. 

Off in the unknown, my start was slow. Fumbling with bags, I found myself at the back of the 200-ish riders. I enjoyed weaving my way up along the climb out of Horseshoe Canyon Ranch. It was cold. Garmin read 33F, but I felt plenty warm once we were moving. The misty haze set the scene for an epic adventure. 

Thankful to face the slow Buffalo Headwaters singletrack section on a relatively well-rested brain, I braced myself while descending switchbacks. Thanks were due to my Waheela C’s responsive handling, the Fox 32 TC suspension fork, and the many joyous riders I came across. Travis Jolly and I bushwhacked, trying to determine if the stream we were riding down was indeed a trail. It was. Hike-a-biking up a hill, my pocket was found to have no phone in it. ‘Hey Dexter, you lose your phone?’ came the voice of Jack Peck, and my heart began beating again. Such a mix of horrible and amazing luck.

My plan coming in was to resupply in Saint Joe, requiring a blazing 10.7 mph average speed for the first 14 hours. I felt flat, but comfortable taking it easy, stopping soon to put on rain mittens. As morning turned to afternoon, and a suggestion of sunlight peeked through the clouds, I started hitting a wall. My knee hurt. My legs felt weak and heavy. Mile 50 was rougher than mile 400 last year. Fortunately, Zeno Molteni was there. I rejoiced in the blessing of company by singing Break Stuff by Limp Bizkit with him. Zeno was less interested when I killed the mood with Everybody Hurts by REM (after the race he had REM stuck in his head). 

Ed joined us and we watched dirt bikes do wheelies in a paddock. Close to Kingston, the first and only reliable resupply, my crank arm came loose. ‘Just slam it together and crank down hard on the bolts’ advised Ed, speeding away to the thought of pizza close ahead. Just make it to resupply, I thought. Then I can reassess. You feel bad now, but take your time, eat some food, and see how you feel. This race can’t be won on the first day. But it can be lost. It took a couple tries, but eventually my pedals cooperated.

With a census population of 97, Kingston is a metropolis by Doom standards, and its single business, Kingston Station, is a paradise of ice cream, soda machines, and hot food. Inside, I found a half dozen Doomers basking in its shelter. Travis had bought their one tub of cornstarch, and was sharing it with all to rub on wet feet. Justin stuffed paper towels in his shoes. Joy returned as I ordered egg rolls, pizza, chicken fingers, and four corn dogs, all hot and ready to eat. All the while photographers and camera crews captured the hurried moment of shared respite. Many riders left, but I took my time while commiserating with Chris Joice on the personal challenges that each of us faced at the moment. 

After leaving, I realized I had never actually stopped to consider whether to continue on, as had been the plan. The stop in Kingston had been so invigorating that the idea of stopping vanished from my mind. My belly was full, I was warm, and there was so much yet to explore. Naturally, my crank fell off once again. Demonstrating the type of kindness typical in the area, a local middle-school-aged youth, Caleb, stopped to offer help while driving his mom around. ‘My brother has tools back at his shop if you need any.’ His older brother promptly showed up on motorbike. Moez Bhatti offered help, and showed me some things I didn’t know about GRX cranks. When it fell off a fourth time, someone showed me even more things I didn’t know about GRX cranks. It takes a village. 

With the promise of mechanical solidity I settled into a groove. Strength was returning and darkness was approaching when I topped out on the hill overlooking the Ponca downhill singletrack. When I turned the knob to open my Fox TC, it opened up in a way I’d never seen before. Gears were floating in a pool of spilling oil. I narrowed my wide eyes to screw things back in place and pretend I hadn’t just seen it. I figured I’d deal with that later if I had to. 

Once again, the singletrack was beautiful and challenging. Though I generally prefer the freedom and speed of a dirt road, I appreciated getting up close and personal with the trees and rocks. In the last trail section, my head raised from focus to view sunset light wafting around the tree-filled canyon. 

Back on roads, with fading light showing the closed few businesses in Ponca, it was starting to feel like a bikepacking race. Nighttime means settling into a focused solo groove, digging deep into my soul powered by music. Grinding up a 1,100-foot paved climb eating pocket corn dogs, I saw Zeno zoom by in a flash going the opposite way. I was saddened to see him pull out of the race, but the indication was clear. This race was about survival. At the top I turned my phone on for the first time that day to start my 50 hour custom Doom playlist and read messages from family, before pushing on, with faith that the tortoise would catch the hare. 

Disco, trance, 90’s Indian electronic, and Japanese math rock blasted me up to Compton and down rutted, engaging gravel descents to a handful of large stream crossings, each one a meeting point of riders taking shoes off or putting them back on. I passed several riders, but found myself keeping pace with Carter Persyn, whom I recognized from our time riding together at Doom the year before, so we kept each other company, suffering up endless steep gravel climbs in the dark. If I could make 195 miles in 21 hours (a reasonable 9.3 mph), I would make resupply at Byrd’s Adventure Center, which would certainly split the field in my favor. Three local fans cheering from the roadside long after dark came perfectly timed for even more encouragement. 

Around midnight, I intentionally separated to listen to A Moon Shaped Pool without distraction. Solo, I enjoyed my aero bars while passing through the silent town of Saint Joe. Legs feeling heavier than lead once more, I longed for heartier food than candy. I had used up the mountain of fried food stuffed in my pockets from Kingston. When I came up on him, Mathew Turner was also feeling low, so we ascended with little more than the sounds of panting, our grinding, de-lubed drivetrains, and the increasingly powerful voice in my head telling me I would not get to Byrd’s in time.

Light was visible in the sky when I came upon the carrot we had both been chasing: the Witt Springs community center. This is frequently a feature on the Arkansas High Country Race, and Andrew Onermaa had managed to get us access to this wonderful oasis, in light of the reroute and wet conditions. I walked inside the large gym to draw inspiration from pictures of past cyclists as they rested up within this sanctuary. In the kitchen, Photographer and well-loved fixture of Arkansas bike racing Kai Caddy awoke from a nap while second-place rider Jacob Ashton sat cuddled in an emergency blanket on the couch. We shared few words as I entered my routine. 

With jaws tired from noshing all day, I dunked large bites of food in milk to help them down the gullet. This feast would hopefully bring me back to life. There wasn’t a ton of food to be found, and I wanted to leave enough for other pedallers on their way. Sleep was faintly on the mind, but my main concern was now getting to McCormick’s One Stop before closing at 6 pm. 100 miles in 11.5 hours, or 8.7 mph. Surely a downright comfortable pace. 

One Jacob took off and was replaced by another, one Mr. Loos. He was a two-time Doom veteran and friend from a past life living in northern Illinois. We had the same plan, so we rolled off together, confident in our mission under bright sunshine. Laughter was in the air as we discussed our silly self-made predicament. ‘Try bikepacking: you’ll spend all your money on gear and then go break it.’The laughter didn’t last long for me. Jacob danced away on the climb from pristine Falling Waters Creek, while I wallowed in rapidly growing fatigue. Maybe sleep? 20 minutes made me feel worse. Passing the town of Ben Hur, it was clear I would not make it to resupply in time. Pushing on would mean digging myself deep into a calorie deficit, further harming my knee, and flirting with missing my flight back home. My spirit feeling lower than it ever has in an ultra effort, I laid down next to a church to ponder my failure and figure out how to get home. 

——

Two days later, gazing out an airplane window at verdant fields below, listening to Automatic for the People, tears clouded my view. Though my race faced bad luck, I couldn’t help feeling immensely lucky for my trip to Arkansas. A chance to reflect on my ride with documentary crew Danny and John. Learning the history of the Ozarks from Zachary Loudon as he drove me and Matthew back from our scratches. A bed at a cabin offered by crusher Bryan Dougherty. Discussions on the politics of local conservation with Doom do-it-all hero Taylor Gremillion. Cheering on finishers as they crossed the line (and sometimes laughing at them as they tried to route find in the dark). Witnessing women’s winner Natalie Peet utter the instantly memorable finish line zinger “well, I might not know who I am, but mom didn’t raise a bitch.” Cooking an impromptu breakfast at Zeno and Ed’s rental cottage with Nate Griffee and Jen Swartout. I could go on with many pages of heartwarming stories, but you’ll just have to go experience it for yourself. 

Doom is growing, and becoming more competitive every year. That competition draws great feats out of everyone. But Doom brigs something extra out of you. Somewhat it’s the remote, beautiful location at Horseshoe Canyon Ranch, necessitating sharing of resources, rides, and space. There’s the local support of businesses, towns, and bystanders. Most of all, there’s Andrew’s monumental dedication mixed with a subtle balance of laughing at the difficulty while disseminating so much love and support that the most ludicrous ride seems approachable. It brings a desire to connect with and be kind to everyone you see. Putting in such an effort while off in such vulnerable places not only bonds people through a shared experience, it forces them to reveal their true selves. Energy can’t be wasted on appearances and projections, and the barriers we put around us in daily life melt away for a time. When fellow scratcher Jen drove me to the airport, we had no disappointments to talk of. We were just happy to have touched the lives of so many curious, fun-loving, adventurous souls in the wild hills of the Ozark Mountains. 

In my life, I’ve seemed to seek out small, open-minded, supportive, beautiful communities of weirdos. Beloit College, the Wild Arizona trail crew, and now, I am seeing that same sense brought to bike racing in the kind of event shown to be possible by the folks of Doom. It’s this kind of energy that I am trying to emulate in the race Henley Phillips and I are hosting down in Tucson, the SAUER. I see Jack Peck bringing a bit of it up to the driftless area in his Driftless Dagger. Those are just some races I know of. The culture found at the ranch in those few days of April is blooming. The seeds are spreading. Head over to Arkansas, fill your cup, and bring some home to plant. 

Gear Highlights

Other than the obvious broken and forgotten things mentioned above, I was pretty happy with what I brought. A slightly smaller chainring would be nice to avoid too much low cadence grinding up steep climbs, which was hard on my knees. Though there isn’t much flat terrain on the course, I still love having the aero bars to take weight off my hands whenever I can. Other than singletrack, there is not much MTB gravel, in my opinion. With the setup I had, I was able to bomb down just about every hill without worry. 

• Otso Waheela C, size medium
• Redshift Shockstop suspension seatpost
• Redshift drop bar grips
• Fox 32 TC suspension fork
• GRX 800 1x (9-52T cassette, 36T chainring)
• Good Dog Packs half frame bag (afraid Jake is no longer making these)
• Tailfin 1.5L flip-top top tube bag
• Rogue Panda Rincon top tube bag
• 2.2” Maxxis Ikon tires
• Aero bars
• Fenix BC26R front light, with one extra battery to swap. 
• 20,000 mAh battery
• Two small rear lights

Pat Worthley’s no bake cookies: 

(I used a bit too much chocolate and butter in mine. His turned out better)

Mix in saucepan-

2c sugar

1/2 c butter

1/4 c cocoa powder

1/2 milk of choice

Heat until bubbling, then add 1/2 c peanut butter, stir until melted.

Remove from heat and add 3 c oats. 

Drop by spoonfuls on a sheet pan and let set up.

You can add a few tablespoons of chia seeds to give them a little more structure.

Good mix ins are cranberries or raisins, chocolate chips, nuts. The usual.