Backcountry Adventuring

The Ozark Randonneur bridges the gap between one-day races and bikepacking endurance challenges.

story and PHOTOGRAPHY by Kai Caddy

ADVENTURE ON: The Ozark Randonneur route isn’t lacking scenery.

There’s no shortage of cycling events in The Natural State. A quick thumb through to the events section of this magazine will show you that. But, when faced with the challenge of coming up with a unique event, Andrew Onermaa of Ozark Gravel Cyclists found a missing link and started work on the Ozark Randonneur.

The rando will feature 120- and 200-mile routes. Onermaa expects the event to slot in nicely between one-day, fully supported gravel races (think Big Sugar, The Rule of 3 and the Chinkapin Hollow Gravel Grinder to name a few) and long-distance, self-supported bikepacking races (like Doom, another Onermaa creation, or the Arkansas High Country Race).

“I started thinking if my interests are more on the long-distance and bikepacking end of the spectrum and then you’ve got all the one-day gravel races on the other end, maybe I will start working my way from this end of the spectrum and meet in the middle,” Onermaa said.

SOMETHING NEW: Event creator Andrew Onermaa is looking to fill a gap in the events calendar.

Inspiration came from Colorado’s Jeff Kerkove, who won last year’s Ouachita Triple Crown. Kerkove is a fan of 24-hour efforts. His Triple Crown time was 23 hours, 5 minutes. He told Onermaa of his love of the old 24-hour mountain bike races that were once popular.

“You can be a weekend warrior for those efforts,” Onermaa said. “You don’t have to take time off from work, you don’t have to commit a week of your life or whatever. And so it’s kind of that format, except launching out into the forest versus you’re going to do a bunch of laps in one area.”

Loosely, a randonneur is a long ride with time cut-offs all done in one push. Riders are self-sufficient but can ride in groups or solo, and every finisher receives equal recognition regardless of finishing order. To be listed as an official finisher, riders will have 15 hours to complete the 120-mile course and 25 hours to do the 200-mile loop.

QUICK TIPS

A group of eight riders previewed the 200-mile course in July. Here’s some gear advice from those who have seen the terrain.

Jacob Loos of Bella Vista would opt for flat bars and a short-travel dropper seatpost “for getting speedy down the gnarly descents and through the corners.” Loos also wouldn’t ride the route on anything smaller than a 2-inch tire.

Alex Laitamaki recommends riders train on the chonkiest single track they can find, especially steep ups and downs, on their fully loaded bikes.

Bentonville’s Zach McCool said he would carry less bags than he did on the preview of the route to save weight. He also recommends that riders doing the 200-mile route have the 120-mile route loaded in their bike computers just in case they realize they’ve bitten off more than they can chew.

HALFWAY HOME: A view of the Buffalo River near Jasper will greet riders at just around the 100-mile mark of the 200-mile course.

“It’s very much so this is about a challenge versus this is a race,” Onermaa said. “Everybody gets the same thing for showing up. Everybody gets the same thing for finishing. There’s not a podium, there’s no first, second, third prize. If someone goes out and just really drills the course, and has a fast time, we’ll be like, ‘Hey, this was awesome, look at this time,’ but it’s still, at the end of the day, here’s our list of finishers.”

Onermaa is excited to showcase some roads not utilized in many events to this point.

“It’s highlighting roads that a lot of people still haven’t seen,” he said. “We get to showcase a really cool section of the Arkansas High Country route and get to show more of Madison County, where if you’re just doing a day ride from Fayetteville, you’re not seeing as much of it.”

Both routes start and finish from Puritan Coffee & Beer on Dickson Street in Fayetteville. The routes are the same through Huntsville, Purdy and split at Kingston. The shorter route loops back to Fayetteville from Kingston, while the 200-milers continue east to Ponca, Compton, Pruitt and, eventually, Jasper.

AN EVENT FOR ALL: The Rando has gained interest from the most experienced riders to newbies looking for adventure.

Jasper serves as the halfway point and the last spot to properly resupply for the second half of the trip. Two wells are the only water options noted on the route map for the second 100 miles.

“I’d say the next 30 miles after Jasper will be the absolute slowest section of the whole thing,” Onermaa said. “It’s back-to-back 1,000-foot climbs, all packed in that small space, and it’s loose, and it’s steep, and it’s not at the beginning of the ride, so you’re already a little tired.”

Onermaa says both routes get interesting at their halfway points.

“So the 200, that’s going to get into the biggest of hills, the steepest climbs and descents, a little bit more of the chunky stuff where people want the bigger tires,” he said. “The 120 — they get into some stuff where it’s going to be steeper and longer at times, even some double track, which you don’t really see a whole lot of double track if you’re riding just from out of town. They’ll go through some areas where cows may just be walking across the road. That’s something where people don’t even realize that exists in Arkansas, where you just might have a herd of cows in front of you, and how do I handle the fact that there’s all these cows blocking the road?”

Onermaa expects a wide range of riders to sign up for the event. At press time, 68 riders were already registered. The gamut ranges from experienced ultra-distance bikepackers, to one-day racers curious to try longer events, to the recreational rider who is bikepacking curious.

“We’ve got these people that have done these 1,000-mile, multiday races. You got some people where this is gonna be the biggest ride they’ve ever done in their entire life,” Onermaa said. “I think a lot of people are gonna walk away from it and have a deeper respect for riding in Arkansas and what it takes.”

And Onermaa is not shy about helping riders make the most of their time in the Ozarks. He led a group of riders on a two-day preview of the 200-mile course in July, communicates frequently with registered riders via email and is planning a packing clinic/route Q&A on Aug. 30.

Onermaa recommends riders see some of the roads as much as possible for the event so they can get a sense of the terrain.

“On long rides, practice continuous movement,” he said. “Make your gas station stops a little bit shorter, not going in and being in a hurry, but instead of sitting down in the AC and spending 35-55 minutes scrolling through your phone and getting your body template down, be used to being there for 10-15 minutes. I tell a lot of people, on your long ride day do as best you can to shrink that gap more and more and more. You want your moving time and your elapsed time to be pretty close.”

DON’T GO IT ALONE: Rando riders are expected to be self-sufficient, but there are no rules against riding in groups.

He also recommends being familiar with your equipment. If you’re going to use a bag, start riding with the bag. Determine which way you want to carry water — bladder or bottles. Dial in your nutrition.

“Get your setup as close as you can to what you think you’re going to use and start riding with it all the time,” Onermaa said. “If you’re carrying a little bit of extra weight on the bike, just recalculating what your pace is going to be. If you’re carrying three liters of water, realize you’re not going to go up some of those hills as quick as you normally would. Maybe that helps you make the decision of dropping your front chainring down by a couple teeth.”

Need some help from Onermaa? He’s down to respond to your questions via email. Don’t be shy: andrew@ozarkgravelcyclists.com. Register for the event at bikereg.com/the-ozark-randonneur.

“I think it’s gonna be eye-opening for a lot of people,” Onermaa said.

“It’s a way to really showcase some backcountry riding in Arkansas. Coming back to the finish, it’ll be kind of the reality of this is what a bikepacking event is, you get to the finish and there’s not a crowd cheering for you, just people going about their normal life. People are gonna be out on Dickson, you’ll be rolling up on your bicycle and some drunk person is probably gonna yell at you. There’s not some super big party being thrown for finishers. This is kind of like, you know what you did and you’ll have at least one person that’s saying, ‘Hey, good job.’”






A Bike For Every Body

Marley Blonsky leads a movement for inclusion.

By Lindsay Southwick

When Marley Blonksy dusted off her bike 10 years ago and started blogging about her experiences, she didn’t know there was a whole audience eager to listen. She didn’t know that that audience would turn into a movement. As she clicked away at her computer, she didn’t know that her “little blog” would be the pathway out of her 9-to-5 corporate job. She didn’t know that what she was saying was exactly what the bike industry needed to hear. She didn’t see any of it coming. And the bike industry didn’t see her coming either.

UNEXPECTED EXPERT: Marley Blonsky never thought sharing her experiences would lead a movement. (photo Fontaine Rittleman)

“I never thought of myself as special, or as an expert,” Blonksy said. “I was just telling of my experiences as a person with a bigger body, and people really responded to it. They wanted to know what bike I was riding, what I was wearing. I was saying things that people weren’t used to talking about and it really resonated with them. I started to realize that I did have expertise to share in this space.”

Without intending to, the bike industry has left a considerable segment of the population out of the sport. From bikes to apparel, gear is largely catered toward those deemed “fit.” In other words, small. As society grapples with its long-standing misperception of what a “healthy” body looks like, many brands have changed their tune and their sizing. Bringing awareness to any kind of discrimination is the first step. And it’s not an easy one. Nor is it one that is always welcome. But Blonksy had what it took for the bike industry to buy what she was selling — that all bodies belong on bikes.

Coming to realize she wasn’t alone in her struggle to find gear, clothing or to feel a sense of belonging on her bike was the force behind creating All Bodies on Bikes. The group is not gender specific, nor is it meant to be body positive, as Blonksy is anxious to point out.

“We get lumped into body positivity but that’s not really what we are,” she explains. “We’re body neutral. We just want people to feel like they can do what they want to do, with what they have right now. We’re not doing this for weight loss. To us, we don’t care why you’re riding a bike. We just want to empower you to do it safely and in a way that’s joyful for you.”

As Blonksy began doing advocacy work to bring awareness to this weight discrepancy in cycling, she became more immersed in the bike community. She found herself privy to great conversations being had about equity, inclusion and diversity — all wonderful things. But no one was talking about size inclusion. No one knew how to talk about bigger bodies in a way that was respectful and inclusive. She started doing workshops about it and found herself in rooms where people from the bike industry were. They heard what she was saying and were intrigued by her message.

“The industry has needed a little help in this area,” says Meredith Miller, road sports marketing specialist for Shimano, where Blonksy works as an ambassador. “The industry has taken steps recently to be more inclusive and Blonksy has helped ensure that people with larger bodies are part of that.”

Getting the bike industry behind them really legitimized what All Bodies on Bikes was doing. It was the impetus for Blonksy leaving her corporate job in Seattle, moving to Arkansas, and working with All Bodies on Bikes full time.

“It’s really exciting,” Blonksy said. “Through publicity we’ve managed to garner there is a recognition in the bike industry that there is a whole segment of people that they aren’t reaching, and they want to.”

There are some obstacles that are universal for all cyclists — confidence being at the top of that list. In this way, cyclists with bigger bodies are no different. There are many reasons people can walk into cycling and feel insecure. Maybe you don’t have a $10,000 bike. Maybe you’re slow, or you lack technical skill. Lack of confidence is a major impediment, regardless of the reason behind it.

“Confidence is definitely one of the biggest hurdles we see,” Blonksy said. “People I talk to think they’re too big or out of shape to ride. Or, they think that other people will think they’re too big or out of shape to ride. Neither of those perceptions are OK.”

In addition to the common barriers many cyclists have to overcome, people with bigger bodies also face challenges that are unique to them. For instance, the weight limits of bikes. Bike weight limits can differ depending on discipline, but some tap out at as little as 200 pounds. People with bigger bodies can have a difficult time finding a bike that is appropriate for them. Or, they find themselves on a bike that isn’t right for them that poses a safety risk. On top of that, finding the right apparel is also challenging. This very thing is what led Blonksy to co-founder Kailey Kornhauser, who posted on social media about her experience riding across Alaska without a rain jacket because she couldn’t find one that fit correctly. Any cyclist knows that riding without the right gear can be an issue of safety, not to mention very uncomfortable.

It seems representation is the word of the moment. We’ve all come to realize we carry biases intentionally or not. Often, once you realize the inequity in one space, it opens your eyes to inequities happening in other spaces as well. You start seeing things you hadn’t noticed before. The bike industry hasn’t been exempt from these realizations. Cycling continues to diversify itself and look for representation in groups outside what has been the presumed “norm.”

GROWING: All Bodies on Bikes has opened 10 chapters across the country. (CourtesyPearl Izumi)

Blonksy exudes positivity. She’s the kind of person you just want to be around. It’s easy to see how having open, honest, nonjudgmental conversations are happening with her. It may be safe to assume that her positivity combined with her approaching potentially sensitive conversations with empathy instead of shame have been key to the success of All Bodies on Bikes.

“It’s nobody’s fault,” Blonksy said. “We realize if you don’t live in a bigger body, if it’s not your lived experience, then the challenges of having a bigger body may not have occurred to you. I think approaching it gently has helped make change a little easier. In a lot of ways, the challenges of weight and body size are universal. Everyone knows someone who has a bigger body.  And we’ve all felt left out in one way or another. Even if you don’t have a bigger body, everyone knows what it feels like to feel isolated or out of place.”

“I think what Blonksy is doing is amazing,” Miller said. “Her voice allows for groups — not just All Bodies on Bikes — but all groups to be included in this sport. The way she’s spreading her message makes you stop and think.”

And that message has the potential to reach beyond the cycling world. The whole outdoor sports community could benefit from listening to what All Bodies on Bikes is saying.

In the last six months All Bodies on Bikes has had about 3,000 people on its rides. In the year since moving to Bentonville it has opened 10 chapters across the country, with many more interested in doing so. It hosts online classes, regular rides, weekend events and even has a podcast where the focus is on nontraditional athletes. It is all about telling the stories no one else is talking about. It looks for the exceptional in the less-obvious places.

“As a lover of this sport I’m excited to see it being expanded to more people,” Miller said.  “What Marley has done shows it’s possible for doors to be opened to anyone. They just need someone to open it.”

The hope for All Bodies on Bikes is that it keeps pedaling forward. It wants to continue growing across the country and having an impact on people. It wants to normalize the conversation about bigger bodies and make bike communities inclusive at every level, in every way.

“I believe in celebrating every ride bike. Every body,” Blonksy said. “Nothing inherently makes someone better than anybody else. I want bike communities to be inclusive beyond just body shape and size. Just generally inclusive. That’s the goal.”

Roadmaster Days

Eyewitness recalls AMF bike manufacturing in 1950s Little Rock.

By Stephen Koch

CRUISER: This AMF Roadmaster Nimble from the 1970s is one of the last styles of bike manufactured in Little Rock before the company moved. (Photo Kai Caddy)

Today, Arkansas is known as a haven for cycling, an oasis of trails and bike-friendly roads. But when AMF bicycle moved to the capital city in the mid-20th century because of a labor dispute in Cleveland, Ohio, the “Land of Opportunity” was better known for its acquiescent workforce.

In the mid-1950s, Beth Cripps, now 87, was part of that factory workforce. She was born in Murfreesboro, and grew up in Little Rock.

“I guess I was about 17, and I left school to work,” she said. “I didn’t go back for senior year — my family needed the money.”

She attended what’s now known as Central High School — and later did get her high school diploma.

Her then-boyfriend/future husband Jim Cripps had heard about the AMF company’s impending move to Little Rock, and he convinced Beth — then known as Beth Stuart — that this would be a good job for her.

FOR THE LADIES: Another AMF Roadmaster from the 1970s, this one is a women's model. (Photo Kai Caddy)

“It was considered a sought-after job,” she said. “I started downtown. I was there on the very day they opened in East Little Rock, before they even moved to 65th Street.”

She soon got the impression that AMF brass from out-of-state regarded the workforce as rubes.

“They were coming to the South for the cheap labor, and there we were,” she said.

Teenage Cripps worked at AMF from 1955 to 1957.

For a period, the AMF Roadmaster bikes were a hot property, and the original location expanded a couple of times, Cripps recalls. But it soon moved to 4300 W. 65th St., with the company building a facility that could make 3,000 bikes a day. The new Southwest Little Rock factory was said to have held more than a mile of conveyor belts.

“At that time, there were a number of basic factories downtown, like Tuf Nut,” she said. “When [AMF] moved to 65th Street, it was one of the first, if not the first one, out there.”

There was a ‘cafeteria’ – just vending machines, really – “but a lot of us brought our sack lunch, and we would buy chips or a Coke there.”

Said to be the first major ‘cycle unit’ ever located in the Southern United States, AMF President Morehead Patterson assured a reporter for a Chamber of Commerce-style city booster booklet that the new site “will in all respects be the most modern bicycle factory in the United States both in design and production methods.” Employment was expected to reach 1,000 people when the $1.25 million-dollar plant was in full operation – with 95% of the jobs going to locals. “We regard Little Rock as the ideal spot,” Patterson said.

“Yes, this AMF Roadmaster is really a lot of bike,” an era print advertisement for the Little Rock-made 3-speed “Flying Falcon” touts, noting its “racy” front luggage carrier and standard front searchlight. “Cornering … cruising … or ‘dragging,’ nothing can beat an AMF Roadmaster. Why? Because only AMF Roadmaster is ‘Action-Engineered.’ ” Potential riders were encouraged to send off for a free 36-page comic book called “Buddy Wins His Wings” that included bike safety tips and bicycle games.

Some 65% of all parts for the bicycles were made on-site; the rest were shipped in. Cripps ended up in what was called the paint shop. Workers in the paint shop were mostly women, she said, but their supervisors were exclusively white men.

“Other departments had more men workers,” she noted.

She says the paint shop “was probably the easiest and the cleanest job” at the factory. “But it was hot!”

“There was no air conditioning — but there wasn’t any air conditioning at home, either,” she said. “There was a conveyor belt; it made a long circle through my part that went through these baking ovens that dried the paint. Everything was hanging on chains.”

Cripps did decaling and silk screening on bike parts.

“I squeegeed on the decals, and there was a vat, or basin, to wash the silk screens in,” she said. “I only remember us doing two colors of bike — red and blue.”

Others in the paint shop actually did hand painting.

“One lady, with her hand and with a tiny brush, did pin-striping on all the fenders,” Cripps said. “She’d paint one side, then flip it over and paint the other side.”

The facility made bikes for other companies, too, she recalled, like Western Auto. Same bike, different decals.

ACTION-ENGINEERED!: An AMF Roadmaster Flying Falcon ad targeting children from the 1950s. (Courtesy Old State House Museum)

Besides the relative cleanliness and ease of her department, another positive aspect of the paint shop was a lessened opportunity for dismemberment.

“I would say the paint shop was among the safest,” she said. “Other people were there working dangerous machines. People in other departments lost fingers and hands.”

Cripps recalled one chilling incident where “one guy, who we all loved, was overcome with fumes while working in a pit and died. He was about 19 years old. His job was to move the materials around, so most of us knew him. Many of us went to his funeral. [Working conditions] probably got better after I left.”

Despite its size and capacity, during her time there, the bike plant did not operate year-round — by design.

“We worked hard all year for Christmas delivery,” she said, “then we shut down for three months after, and had a Christmas party.”

Everyone went on unemployment until spring, she said.

“So we had a nice vacation around Christmas,” she said. “I’d never worked in a big factory before. I thought everybody was like that.”

Cripps got married to Jim during her time at AMF, and moved away.

“I lived in Indiana for six months til I got homesick and we came back to Arkansas,” she said.

But when she returned to Little Rock, she didn’t return to the bike factory.

Despite the rough working conditions at both Little Rock sites — which included actual death and dismemberment — Cripps remembers her time at the bike factory fondly.

“Actually, I loved it,” she said. “I was young enough and dumb enough that I didn’t know what hard work was; and that was hard work.”

However, Cripps never owned her own made-in-Little Rock Roadmaster bike.

“I had a bike in elementary school that I got for making straight As,” she said. “And I didn’t drive then. But I didn’t have a Roadmaster.”

There were factory employee reunions over the years, Cripps said, but she only went to one.

“I would guess there aren’t many of us left now,” she said.

AMF bikes did not remain a legacy manufacturing brand for the city of Little Rock. Seeking to expand again — and, ironically, having labor disputes again, but now in Little Rock, where it had moved to avoid them — the company subsequently moved its “wheeled goods” operations to a larger site in Olney, Ill. However, AMF Roadmaster bikes manufactured in Olney were said to be of such poor workmanship and substandard quality that some bike shops allegedly wouldn’t work on them. Eventually, the company shifted focus to bikes for younger children.

Today, Cleveland- and Little Rock-made Roadmaster bikes are prized by some collectors for their nostalgic caliber. And two Little Rock-manufactured models are even part of the permanent collection at the city’s Old State House Museum.

A Group Ride

By Bryce Ward

PHOTOGRAPHY courtesy the group riders

ON THE ROAD: The group ride hits the streets.

Open your eyes.

Find the snooze button.

Fall to your feet.

What day is it?

Sunday. One more day of freedom.

Wait – the group ride.


Stumble to the caffeine, fumble through the wrinkled laundry: jersey, bibs, socks — where is the other one? Chug the caffeine, climb into your second skin, stuff your pockets with food, fill two bottles with fluid, press your thumb against the tires — good enough — fasten your feet to your shoes, tighten your helmet, follow your bike to the door and exhale the conditioned air.

Push your heavy legs in circles and glide across the oily road. Feel the ground shake beneath you as a person, somewhere inside a massive machine, which protects them from the wind and hills and cold and heat, rushes by your sweat-stained body. Watch them shrink into the distance they have cheated.

Wait — what time is it?

Push your chain down the cassette and lower your head into the invisible resistance.

Jovial voices and the scent of brewed coffee beans greet you when you open the door. Heads turn and watch the oddly dressed person with skin-tight clothing and loud clicking shoes waddle across the lobby of the coffee shop, toward a small congregation of brazen individuals, both young and old, who chat among themselves like land-weary sailors. The cyclists.

“It’s about that time,” one of them declares, and one by one, they gather their strange items, stow away their smartphones, and march out the door, their hardened soles clashing against the concrete floor.

The procession floats along the busy streets. Their bodies play with gravity and lean into sharp-angled turns. Their hands reach out from their sides and point where to go and where not to go, a fluid mass that contorts itself to the surrounding environment.

The sane people watch. Some look with wonder, some with scorn. Some follow with their heads, some with their eyes. But they all look at least once, even just a glance, because how can one not look at such a disruptive activity.

A group of grown adults, riding bicycles on public roads, roads designed for massive automobiles and high-speed transportation, and there they go, laughing into the face of industrial progress, willfully subjecting themselves to the toils of an antiquated machine, and slowing down the ones who seem to think life goes on forever.

THE GAS STATION: A mid-ride refuge for the cyclists.

Languid cattle heads rise from the grass and turn in unison to process the unfamiliar intruders; the voices push the cattle up into a state of tense anticipation — not quite standing, not quite prone, their big round eyes and wide open ears searching for the slightest excuse to run.

But the excuse never comes; the intruders move between two long strings of barbed wire and dissolve into the distance as the wind carries away their laughter and lively voices. The cattle stoop back down to the grass and rest their heavy heads.

Like a flock of geese fleeing to warmer air, the cyclists take turns battling the strong headwind. But instead of a V formation, they adopt a sort of W — two at the front, giving shelter to two long lines behind. In regular intervals, set into motion by the outward flick of an elbow, the two riders at the front part in opposite directions and allow the wind to drag them backward, past the conversations and labored breaths, until at last, a space opens for them.

On and on this dance goes, down unfamiliar roads and foreign landscapes. The riders shuffle up and down their formation like pews, exchanging signs of peace with those around them: friends, acquaintances, strangers — anyone who longs to endure.

Hearts pump blood at a rate constantly above rest; legs fall in a perpetual loop; the riders cannot afford to waste their energy on worldly worries; their eyes point to the road ahead and the land around it. They share their voices without reservation, letting thoughts escape with little resistance.

The cyclists descend upon a rural gas station store, release their feet and rest their bikes against the nearest flat surface.

They swarm through the door and permeate the cramped aisles in search of nourishment, hauling their discoveries back to the front counter where a woman — head tilted down, feigning disinterest of the sudden disruption to her quiet office — peers above the frames of her glasses.

“Will that be all for ya?” slips from her mouth like “bless you” after a sneeze.

She scans the trove of product, one after another. Coke, Red Bull, liters of water, a honey bun, chips, a corndog. She doesn’t ask questions. She just scans and repeats her song to each odd traveler until the bell above the door finally subsides.

Through tinted windows she watches them: laughing and conversing with each other, excusing themselves to confused locals, recreating experiences through their hands. And she wonders.

A six-pack of Miller Lite clings against the counter.

“Will that be all for ya?”

The tired procession crests a hill that hides their home, a wide cityscape that seems so small and insignificant in the distance. Pedal stroke upon pedal stroke they push their weary bodies back into the painting, to their places among the tall buildings and weaving automobiles. But they move slow, in long labored circles, crawling up steep grades, coasting down hills, immune to the rush of time.

As they sink further into town, the herd thins. One by one, riders veer into the wind and lean into streets that return them to their worlds, to families, careers, school work, car payments and mortgages, dreams and expectations, dirty dishes and wrinkled laundry.



Release your foot.

Squeeze the brake.

Swing your leg around the saddle.

Fill your lungs with unconditioned air.

Open the door.

The Artist’s Touch

Ed Drew showcases the beauty and strength of Arkansas Mountain Bikers through portraits.

“Michelle,” Hot Springs Lady Gang, dry plate process, 4x5 shot on an Aero Ektar/Speed Graphic.

Fate has an interesting way of bringing things together. For Ed Drew, a fine art photographer based in Little Rock, fate has brought his camera and the mountain bike together.

After Drew’s father died and left him some money, one of the first things he purchased was a Minolta camera.

“From the moment I used that camera, it was instant love,” Drew said. “The two things in my life that I instantly fell in love with were mountain bikes and cameras.”

His most recent work is an ongoing series of Arkansas mountain biker portraits. It seems like an obvious connection, but fate sometimes takes its time.

Drew grew up in Brooklyn, New York. You won’t find any singletrack mountain bike trails in New York, but it’s where he fell in love with mountain biking.

“The first time I ever saw a mountain bike or a bike, I fell in love,” he said. “That was back when I was like 15 or 16. And I begged my father to get me a mountain bike. He finally got me one.

“I would ride my bike through the streets of New York. That was my mountain biking. And occasionally, my mom would take us out to New Jersey or upstate New York, and I could run actual dirt. Mind you, I had no idea what I was doing. I was a hazard to the trees. But that little taste of dirt and actually, the bike shop itself was a huge refuge for me.”

Drew would ride almost every day to Bayridge Bicycle World from his home in Bensonhurst.

“I’d spend a lot of time in the bike shop, just staring and drooling and all these different bikes, just absolutely enamored with them,” he said.

After graduating high school, Drew spent six years on active duty in the Air Force. He took photographs throughout his active duty years and fell deeper in love with art while stationed near Tokyo, Japan.

“Richard,” owner of Arkansas Cycling and Fitness, dry plate process, 4x5 shot on an Aero Ektar/Speed Graphic.

It was when he arrived in California, though, that he decided to pursue art as a career. He enrolled in the San Francisco Art Institute. His mountain bike education also grew while in California.

“Once I moved to California, and I was in the San Francisco area, I got to ride in Marin County and Tamarancho, which is supposedly the birthplace of mountain biking,” he said.

He became friends with one of the founders of mountain biking, custom bike builder Steve Potts.

In 2013, as a member of the California Air National Guard, he was deployed to Afghanistan, where he would produce his first major body of work.

“It was interesting, to say the least, to go from the middle of San Francisco and art school, to the very conservative, helicopter combat search and rescue, which kind of folds into that whole special operations lifestyle,” he said. “I’ve always been an artist or thought of myself as an artistic person. So the whole idea of creating art in everything I do, it flowed, so to speak.”

In Afghanistan, he created tintypes of fellow combat rescue airmen. A number of those original plates are now part of the permanent collection in the Smithsonian American History Museum.

Drew’s first experience in Arkansas was in 2000 when he was stationed at the Little Rock Air Force Base.

“To go to Arkansas, it was kind of a shell shock, culture shock moment for me,” he said. “But I ended up meeting my wife here. And we got married in 2001.”

While Drew was finishing up his active duty, his wife was in medical school. Her residency took the couple back to New York, but eventually she got a job in Little Rock and the couple returned to Arkansas.

“I absolutely love it. Now,” Drew said. “Back then, I was like 18-years-old, coming to Arkansas from New York City. It wasn’t really the dream for somebody from New York City.

“Now, I’m older, I’m more calm. Wiser. I like going out and doing outdoorsy stuff. I absolutely love the state. I’m always singing its praises. And it’s because it’s the truth.”

“Bobby,” dry plate process, 4x5 shot on an Aero Ektar/Speed Graphic.

Back in Arkansas, taking mountain biking seriously and looking for his next project, it was a nudge from his wife to do something a little closer to home that led to the mountain biker portrait series.

“Sometimes the greatest things happen without you even trying,” he said. “I’m a series-based photographer, so I go for different cultures in different sections of the state. Like I’m also doing work in the Ozarks and I started doing work in the Delta. My wife was complaining because I would have to drive like two hours to the Ozarks and two hours to the Delta. She’s like, ‘Why don’t you start a photo project that is actually close to home for once?’ So it was like, I don’t know, I guess I could do mountain biking. And that’s literally how it started. It was just that simple.”

So far Drew has mostly photographed riders from Central Arkansas and Hot Springs. He’s also a NICA coach and has taken some portraits of the athletes at NICA races.

Drew says the invitation is open to any mountain biker in Arkansas.

“If you want to please do, and I will be happy to travel to you and photograph you and all that,” Drew said. “It’s a really flowing series.

“I want it to be as big as possible. I stress the point where I’m an artist, over a photographer, because my motivations and the concepts for the work I do are all conceptual. It’s a feeling I get like, OK, I think I’ve done enough. And honestly, this project is really, really about Arkansas. Like I said, I really love the state and I really want to highlight its beauty and also the strength of mountain biking in the state. It’s way bigger than I thought it was.

“When I started this project, it was like, I’ll take some photos of friends and it might turn into something. And then as time went on, I met more people and I’m like, wow, this is like high school football in Texas. It’s just huge here.”

Being involved with NICA, the National Interscholastic Cycling Association, has really ramped up Drew’s enthusiasm for the sport.

“The enthusiasm of the kids is what motivates me the most,” he said. “They train, they show up to training consistently. And then, you know, the parents are really into it. So all of that combined makes for a great atmosphere. And also provides motivation for me to want to do this series more. Because it really does show mountain biking is a big deal here. And I think it needs to be recognized for what it is.”

Drew’s portraits for this series have been shot on glass plates, 4-by-5 film negatives in black and white and color and he’s even done some digitally.

“I don’t want the process to dictate this series itself so much,” he said. “I think variation of processes, looking at not only black and white, but also color kind of shows the breadth of it because the colors in mountain biking are important. People spend time with their mountain bikes picking them out, they liked this color more on this or that, I thought it was kind of an interesting thing to look into.”

He would also like to include those who make mountain biking happen for the riders as well, like shop owners and local framebuilders and bike manufacturers like Allied Cycleworks in Bentonville.

“I think shops, because growing up that shop meant the world to me, it really did,” he said. “To be able to go physically to that place and see those bikes and be inspired by the bike.

“I race for the Arkansas Cycling and Fitness team. [Owner] Richard Maycheck is amazing. He’s the best guy. And the guys that work there, Frank and Robert and Tommy, all those guys are just so welcoming, and warm, and it creates an atmosphere and an outlet. And a lot of these kids when they go to these bike shops, they’re inspired by the bike shop owners and the bike shop workers. And they ultimately go for these bikes because of that. So I thought it was an integral part of the mountain biking world to include them.”

Interested in sitting for a portrait? Contact Drew at end2end@hotmail.com or on his Instagram page @eddrewphotos. Visit eddrew.net to see more of his work.

“Kiyoko,” Hot Springs Lady Gang, dry plate process, 4x5 shot on an Aero Ektar/Speed Graphic.

King Overthrown

Lechuga takes High Country crown in record time.


Story and photos By Kai Caddy


Nevermind a severe pain in the neck and dead devices galore, Ernie Lechuga was ripping his 43-pound, fully loaded Rodeo Labs Flaanimal down the final gravel section of the Arkansas High Country Race at 23 mile per hour.

Lechuga, from Bentonville, was ready for his 1,011-mile journey to be over. He was riding the last 20 or so miles, all pavement, back into Hot Springs, looking every bit of the national champion road racer he used to be. But now he was doing it with bags strapped to his bike and fully self-supported.

He arrived back in the Spa City, showered in champagne, to conclude the Arkansas High Country route faster than anyone has ever completed it: four days, 14 hours and 13 minutes.

“That was a hell of a ride,” Lechuga said. “It was a perfect ride, everything that could go wrong went wrong. This is why we do bikepacking, so we can learn how to manage life.”

Lechuga’s time bested that of former World Tour professional Ted King, who finished the 2020 race with a time of four days, 20 hours and 51 minutes. Lechuga’s wife, Scotti, won the 2021 edition of the race with a time of five days, 10 hours and 49 minutes.

Lechuga’s final issue in the race that covers some of the most brutal gravel roads Arkansas has to offer and nearly 80,000 feet of elevation gain came within the final 9 miles of the journey when he missed a turn.

“Everything that could hit me, hit me,” he said. “Right down to missing that last turn.”

The hits came early. Lechuga was side-swiped by a truck about 200 miles in in the Poteau Mountain Wilderness area near Waldron. He was descending a super chunky section of road when he was confronted with a pickup truck that wouldn’t move over. Lechuga maintained his composure and just braced himself against the truck as he continued down the mountain.

The run-in with the truck resulted in Lechuga losing his battery pack, an important piece of kit for bikepackers. To save weight, Lechuga opted not to run a dynamo front hub, which would’ve been able to power lights and charge devices. So, the lost battery pack would’ve been the best way to keep his lights, GPS, emergency tracker and phone charged on the go.

Over the course of the race, Lechuga purchased four more battery packs. He only slept about six hours on the journey, leaving him little time to fully charge any of the battery packs.

In Bentonville, Lechuga purchased a larger, heavier headlight. The weight of the new light combined with the rough roads of the route caused the light to point more downward than straight ahead. This caused him to look down more than expected, causing the severe neck pain that plagued him on the final day of the race.

Between Bentonville and Eureka Springs, he broke a spoke. He had to waste precious time in a Eureka Springs bike shop while the owner finished his lunch before having his spoke tended to.

Somewhere near Mountain View, a sprocket on his cassette became loose.

In a Greenbrier gas station the morning of his last day of the race, he was feverishly trying to charge devices.

“We rode the Big Dam Bridge 100 in 4 hours and 5 minutes,” he said. “I’m not sure I can do this last 120 miles in 20 hours.”

He made one last long stop in Maumelle for a pre-charged battery pack and a foam neck brace like the ones victims of fender benders wear in court to gain sympathy.

Over the Big Dam Bridge in Little Rock, a group of friends followed him over the bridge, encouraging him as he closed in on the finish.

After climbing Wye Mountain, the last bit of gravel awaited — about 45 miles of it. Through Thornburg and back into the Ouachita National. The final big climb at Flatside Pinnacle comes around 975 miles in. Just before that climb, the rain came. A short, steady downpour hit Lechuga just after he had to stop to tighten his rear derailleur after he noticed his shifting becoming poor.

The rain would come and go for the remainder of his time in the forest. Lechuga looked pained on the final climb. Once the road pointed down and the gravel ran out, though, his demeanor changed and he was laser-focused on the finish line.

A large group of racers who had completed the 500-mile short circuit race, local cycling fans and Hot Springs Mayor Pat McCabe  awaited Lechuga’s arrival in Hill Wheatley Plaza.

Lechuga came across the line with a dead headlight, phone, a tracker that hadn’t worked until just after he crossed the Big Dam Bridge and just enough life left on his GPS to find his way to the finish. McCabe presented him with a Mexican Coke.

The new champion received his prize for winning, a custom belt buckle, while seated in a cast iron bathtub. As the celebration wound down he held court for around an hour chatting with fans about the experience.

His attempt at the race in 2021 ended in dramatic fashion when he found himself in an ER battling severe dehydration after a hard effort on an unseasonably warm start to the race. That experience served as a wake-up call to Lechuga, who realized he had not taken proper care of his body in recent years. He stopped drinking and focused on nutrition like he hadn’t done since retiring as a pro in the lead-up to this year’s race.

“To have what is quickly becoming one of the toughest races in the country start and finish in Hot Springs has been so inspiring and exciting to watch,” Visit Hot Springs Trails Coordinator Traci Berry said. “Ernie came back with a mission this year and he completed it. How awesome that an Arkansan now holds the fastest known time.”

Lechuga was a national time trial champion as a junior in Mexico. He rode for several professional teams before retiring. He and Scotti founded Leborne Coaching in 2010, where they help develop athletes. This past season he started the OZ Development junior mountain bike team, a longtime dream of his.

“This year was a perfect storm for Ernie’s attempt,” race director Andrew Onermaa said. “I couldn’t think of a better person and a better time in his life for all of this to come together. It’s fitting that an Arkansas rider has the new fastest known time, and I dare anyone out there to try to take it. From the bottom of my heart, kudos to Ernie for being an inspiration to us all.”

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