Ian Graber-Stiehl explores the current state of cycling in Northwest Arkansas, where Bikepacking Roots is working with the growing destination city of Fayetteville to establish six adventure routes that provide 750 miles of trails and pathways in the Ozarks. Does Oz live up to the marketing hype? Read on…

I growled out a mantra in a ragged breath, a way to count the tempo and drown out the strain of heaving an 80 lb bike up a road equals parts gravel and golf ball-sized stones as jagged as imp horns. 15 more minutes. The last 48 hours had come with three flats and a burgeoning case of strep throat that had devoured everything in my head other than my mantra and creative profanity.

It was a lie. I was 15 minutes past 15 minutes past closing when I made it to knock on the door of the general store at the peak of White Rock Mountain. As the ranger reached the door, I had two thoughts: Firstly: please let them have warm, soft food. Secondly: Potemkin capital, my ass.

Arkansas’ cycling reputation hangs on one city: Bentonville, the so-called “MTB Capitol of the World.” To hear it from many, that self-stylization comes courtesy of the Walmart Walton Foundation pumping some $85 million into MTB parks and branding. Hell, earlier this year they bought 2,700 acres in a nearby town to, among other things, further expand MTB trails.

That corporate cash has caught Bentonville plenty of accusations over being a Potemkin capital. However, that simplified story glosses over considerable investments from municipalities. Moreover, many cities have wagered on fostering a cycling culture. From what I’d heard, in Northwest Arkansas, affectionately known as Oz, it had stuck.

So, I was rather excited to get an invitation from Bentonville’s next-door neighbor: Fayetteville. They were working with Bikepacking Roots to map some 750-odd miles of backpacking trails through the Ozarks. There was an unspoken gambit here: Capitalize on an MTB-specific rep defined by one city, to turn the entire region into a Mecca for adventure cycling in all its forms.

On paper, Fayetteville looked like a cycling Second City. It already hosted several pro MTB and cyclocross events. The Razorback Greenway ran through town like the spine of commuter cycling infrastructure that not only made it easy to get around Fayetteville, but up to Bentonville (some 40 miles away). Not to mention, it seemed to have a bevy of cycling-friendly restaurants, bars, shops, and hotels.

I’d ridden many trails. I’ve gauged how bike-friendly many towns are. But I’d never had a chance to ride along the future of a region’s big bet to expand its cycling culture. A ride halfway across Oz, new routes, good dining, better drinks, some of the best river fishing in the nation, and some of my favorite country to pedal through — what could go wrong?

The 7 new routes being mapped by Fayetteville and Bikepacking Roots cover a wide flavor of rides. Here’s a few simple rules for all of them: As gorgeous as Oz’s country is, hit the town. Don’t ride through hundreds of miles of hill country with strep throat and a fever. Keep your tires fatter than 44mm. And don’t doubt the love for two tires.

I always bear some self-consciousness wheeling a bike into a hotel lobby smelling like days on the road. But finding the lobby of my Hyatt thrumming with cyclists wheeling bikes in and out on their way to and from the MTB Pro Cup took the wind out of that insecure sail. That was my first answer to the question of how ingrained cycling culture has become here.

It was a question I had a vested interest in. I do, after all, claim dual Midwest and Deep South citizenship. So much of this adventure cycling culture I adore regards middle America as the area you fly over to get to Appalachian trails or Western parks and BLM land. If there was going to be a heartland dark horse that could offer adventure and amenities (especially at a lower cost), here was going to be it.

All of the routes launch near Fayetteville. I may be a minority of one, but a good starting line is important to me. I eat much, drink well, subsist (as writer stereotypes necessitate) heavily on hipstery coffee, and — for as much as I obsess over optimizing gear — always forget something. A day to re-up, fuel up, and sleep up before the trail is a must.

I had four days and not nearly enough time to see it all.

The first two bars were right on the trail. My first night, after a downhill coast through forested collegiate apartments, the Razorback Greenway spit me out at a downtown railroad intersection. The red lights of George’s glinted down the tracks like a siren song lilting me to the crossroads before Arkansas’ oldest living music venue.

A few hours later, I flew over my handlebars and onto the ground after a bad turn and dead headlight. I discovered two things on the ground. One, whether you’re lodging in the hotel hodgepodge on Fayetteville’s Northside or riding through downtown, there’s likely a bike shop with extra patch kits within 2 miles. And two, I’d be having brunch the next morning a stone’s throw away from my earthen crash pad at Nomad’s, a trailside restaurant and entertainment venue bedecked in license plates and painted bikes.

In the next three days, I found where the commuter trails finally petered out. Ironically enough, it was on my way to the MTB Pro Cup at Centennial Park, where I had to cross between narrow highway shoulders. Off of the bike paths, but nestled a downtown imminently walkable and rideable, I found my new favorite bar — carved from a former bank vault. It was right around the corner from a basement hole-in-the-wall lunch spot, where my corner table melted into deep shadows between red lights that felt like they’d been bringing light below ground for a century.

My last night in town saw me taking a jaunt down the veins of the Razorback with a motley crew of the other kind of bikers. At a last-night-on-earth party for an apothecary/bar due to be converted into more bikeable trailside housing for college students, we raised glasses. Them by gas, myself by pedal, we’d all be setting off through Ozarks country come sunrise.

Prior military. Current wildland firefighter. You’d think I was beyond letting my GPS turn-by-turn lead me into running the route in reverse. Yet, after a wrong turn, a 5-6-mile detour, and too much photography, my first day on my route saw me taking a lunch break too late, with miles to cover.

All of the routes being published offer different aesthetics and challenges. The Razorback Greenway loop splits the difference between the area Oz is known for, and the town writing its next chapter. It runs up north, along its namesake trails and on through Bentonville, before detouring through country roads back down. Largely paved, it’s a simple 78-miler ideal for those who might want to enjoy the food, drink, and culture of Fayetteville, before setting off on a simple, scenic, and bustling route to the region’s singletrack superstar.

The Lake Wedington route is nearly half-and-half gravel and pavement. At 63 miles, with 3,400’ gain, it could be done as a challenging day route. Although, with numerous campsites and a few singletrack detour opportunities in the forests around the Lake Wedington recreation area, the route offers a tight 2-day adventure.

Devil’s Den kicks things up a notch with a choice between a 73- or 83-mile route with 4,900’ or 5,700’ of gain. This 2-3 day route has more pavement than the Wedington Loop. However, the ample options for MTB and day hiking detours around the trails and waterfalls of Devil’s Den make an easy argument for doubling the days you spend on this loop.

Both the Buffalo River and Tour de Ozarks loops go all in on adventure. The former offers choices between 187, 158, and 120 miles loops with 11,000’, 15,000’, and 16,000’ of gain, respectively. The Tour de Ozarks can either be ridden as a 190-mile route with 15,000’ of gain, or, swallowing much of the Buffalo River Route, expand to a 264-mile odyssey with 23,000’ feet of climbing. Either route runs through a gamut of paved country roads, chunky “roads,” and ATV tracks, and includes some of the best smallmouth and heartland trout fishing in the country.

Any other time, I would’ve opted for the longest loops. However, with 250 miles between me and a redeye train from Little Rock to Chicago, I found myself riding a little more than a third of the Boston Mountain Loop in reverse.

In theory, the BML is a 3-day, 145-mile route, with many long, steep (around 17%) climbs along a one-third, two-thirds mix of pastoral pavement and gravel. That gravel transition is exactly where I found myself starting day two of what should’ve been a one-day stretch to White Rock. My start time the day before having run late and my kit now running low on patches, I had to set up a stealth camp on the fringes of someone’s property.

I’d run into some water district personnel the evening before. Framed by a xanthous sun that cast long shadows on the road ahead, they leaned out of their pickup. They informed me that a 2-mile detour would take me to a flat stretch of publicly-accessible rocks along a stream bed where I could camp.

I thanked them for the intel. It’d be a great note in Ride With GPS. As for me, I had only 13 miles between me and the first of the Boston Mountain area campsites. Light work.

I made it nearly one whole mile before a hissing sound from my tire marked the end of my day.

Two hours into pedaling on the second day, what started as a sore throat was growing into a leadening fatigue and a dread of swallowing water. By midday, 15 miles out from White Rock Mountain, steep had gotten steeper. The gravel went from being peppered with jagged golf ball-sized stones, to being well-seasoned with golfies and peppered with chunky tennis balls.

On my usual 50mm tires and GRX brakes, I’d be bombing down generously wide, drifty curves. Instead, I was testing a Walmart bike for an article. On 40mm tires and brakes that disagreed with the notion of downhill deceleration, the descents became slick and challenging. With a granny gear meant for asphalt, I ended up walking at least 2 of the steepest miles. The last few miles of White Rock had seen my mantra start to fade to plans of how I’d have to reroute from here on out to save my tires and tame my brakes.

One more climb. One final gritted charge from the shade into dying light, by a body losing steam like an open kettle. My head rang with dehydration. My fever was rising. And judging by a few wayward glances, I likely looked as ragged as myself (and my inner tubes) looked. No matter. I’d made it up to White Rock’s General Store.

The only lights in or on the building were the last glints of a sun racing over the cliffs, from where I’d be watching the eclipse the next morning. Closed. So, when a light suddenly flicked on and a smiling woman opened the door with offers of hot tea and fresh pizza, I could’ve been forgiven for thinking she, and indeed all rangers, were angels incarnate.

An influx of people coming for an eclipse festival the next day had taken the last of the camping spots. However, she offered me a spot to hang a hammock on the overlook, where I could watch the sun over the Ozarks. She wasn’t surprised by a last-minute cyclist. This was usually a road trip pit stop, but she’d been seeing more pedalers climb White Rock lately.

I told her about testing for the route. It was more than that. There was something in the air. The winding, chunky access roads were seeing steadily more bikepackers. I wasn’t the only gravel cyclist that car campers told me they saw fishing off the side of pastoral pavement. And, of course, the paved paths were busier than ever.

Even this early in my journey, with almost 200 more miles to go, I could see the writing on the wild walls. From pavement to hill country, a new day for adventure cycling was about to rise over Ozarks country.

Its herald wouldn’t be trumpets; it’d be the bluegrass the band would be playing here on the mountain come morning. Its toasts wouldn’t be with wine, but bourbon country Old Fashioneds. And though the day had dawned with corporate cash, the culture of those that would be cycling down wild trails under a new sun would be as genuine as any I’ve known.

Welcome to wonderful Oz. Grab a drink. Take a seat. And enjoy your ride.