Ride Report: James Collins’ CTS ITT

Ridden and Written by James Collins

“You ever find yourself… asking yourself… what the hell you’re doing?”

That’s what I asked myself an overcast Sunday morning as I waded through Threadgill Creek twenty or so miles southwest of Llano, Texas, as the crow flies. My Giant TCR road bike rested on my shoulder, my shoes dangling from the brake hoods. The bike, the shoes, and my backside were streaked with grit from riding over wet, sandy gravel roads. My equipment and I had seen a lot over the past 36 hours.

The first weekend of June 2023, I attempted an individual time trial, or “ITT,” of the new Central Texas Showdown route. The 468-mile route is the newest addition to the Texas Showdown Series, a set of bikepacking racing events organized by the folks behind the Bikes or Death podcast. The series started in 2021 with the introduction of the East Texas Showdown, now a 400-mile course that winds through piney national forests, rolling farmlands, and idiosyncratic small towns. I’ve raced in every Showdown event since it began, and they are consistently well-organized and fulfilling events.

As soon as I caught wind of the new Central Texas Showdown route, I knew I had to ride it. Patrick Farnsworth, the host of Bikes or Death, sent me a draft of the route, and I saw it included many of my favorite roads, in terms of the scenery, surfaces, and memories I had already made riding them previously. I grew up in Central Texas, but I’ll move to North Carolina to start graduate school in August. Not sure if I could make it to the start line of the inaugural Central Texas Showdown in the fall, I had to at least try the route before I moved. That’s how I decided I would attempt an ITT.

THE ROUTE

The route promises to be as beautiful as it is challenging. The statistics ⏤ just under 268 miles long and just over 22,700 feet of elevation gain was ⏤ are only one consideration. There are also the matters of resupply options, exposure, and surfaces.

For resupply, services are unevenly distributed, open late, and close early. There are no formal public services for the first 110 miles, and the first stop, the Luckenbach bar and restaurant, doesn’t open until noon. The next big gap is between Bandera and Utopia. While not as long, one will embark on this stretch of gravel and climbing on fatigued legs. Depending on the timing, the ride after Kerrville can be sparse, too. The Doss General Store and James River Icehouse aren’t open all night, and a high proportion of gravel and water crossings on this stretch can slow progress.

In terms of exposure, the Hill Country doesn’t boast the same towering trees and shady canopy as East Texas. Around 95% of this route has no tree coverage over the roads. Light-colored gravel and rocky road cuts in the hills reflect UV and heat. Heat stress or worse is a real possibility.

The distribution of road surfaces is another challenge. Most of the route is decent pavement, and most of the gravel is hard-packed and rideable on narrow tires. However, there are some loose, sandy sections at the very beginning and very end of the route. Also, the majority of the gravel occurs in the last 100 miles, after Doss, so either weather conditions could change and make these roads harsh on a more road-oriented set up, or one could burn out unnecessarily pushing a burlier rig over 300+ miles of exposed, hilly roads. There’s also a significant number of creek and river crossings on this final, unpaved stretch which can become slow-going at best to hazardous or impassable at worst if rain falls through the area. The two James River crossings coming towards mile 400 are particularly long and potentially hazardous.

Those considerations aside, this route features some of the best riding in Central Texas, maybe the whole state. The climbs around Willow City, Utopia, and Leakey are incredible and reveal processions of hills and canyons marching into the horizon. The rivers around Castell, Garner State Park, and Hunt are often flowing and invite you to stop and take a dip. In a good, rainy year, the flora and fauna are amazingly diverse, from fields blanketed in wildflowers to morning bird choruses to foxes and lizards scurrying away into the brush. You’ll pass through iconic small towns with historic strips and gregarious locals. It’s not an easy route by any means, but it’s absolutely worth it.

THE RIG

At the time of my attempt, I owned only two bikes to choose from: a carbon Giant TCR road bike and a 1990’s steel Specialized Rockhopper mountain bike. Given how much of this route would be hilly road, I bet on the road bike. I’ve always ridden 28 mm tires on road, but I hoped to get a little wider for extra confidence on the unpaved sections. Avery, my mechanic at Velorangutan, tried mounting both 32 mm and 30 mm tires without success (no clearance on the chainstay and fork), so I was stuck with 28’s.

I didn’t change much else about my road bike set up except getting new tires mounted and adding the frame and feed bags. I kept my usual gearing and, since I have narrow handlebars without much space, decided against mounting aero bars. Through previous bikepack races and trips, I’ve learned it’s worth curbing my tendency to overpack. I tried to keep my setup as minimal, light, and aero as possible for this, knowing that keeping a good pace would also keep my morale up.

My nutrition and water plan was a bit undercooked ⏤ in the months leading up to the attempt, I’d more often opt for gas station fare over mixes and gels. For the first 110 miles without resupply, I filled my bottles and hydration pack and stuffed the bags with snacks. I figured if the three liters of fluid capacity I was carrying wasn’t enough for the remainder of the ride, I could stow a plastic water bottle purchased along the way.

When it came to lighting and electronics, using lights that take AA or AAA batteries gave me more peace of mind, since it’s easier and faster to find spare batteries on-route than it is to charge off a battery bank. I also wanted to save my battery bank for my other electronics.

Overall, this was a great set up. The only things I would consider changing might be:

• Dropping the hydration pack if possible because it covered my back and prevented my sweat from cooling me.
• More tire clearance and possibly two-bolt mountain bike shoes for any mud.
• Maybe aero bars, although I didn’t need them on account of comfort.
• A stem bag on the top tube would have been more aero than the bar-mounted feed bag.

THE RESULTS

For those interested in attempting the route themselves, here’s my high level takeaways and lessons learned.

Bike and tire choice:

I had never tried this set up before and had no solid expectation of average speed and handling with the loaded road bike.

28 mm slick road tires worked most of the time, except for some sandy sections and wet gravel.

Lowering tire pressure helped with handling on gravel but made cattle guards pretty rough.

Muc-Off dry lube worked great, could be washed off with water and reapplied easily, and starting with a full bottle gave me peace of mind.

I haven’t had a bike fit on this bike, and I was running two different crank lengths (175 and 172.5 mm). I think this caused some pain just above the knee that kept me from pushing harder.

Very low tire clearance on the bike frame made me less confident about forging on in muddying conditions. 

Not using aero bars probably cost me a bit on pace, but I don’t know if they would’ve been a significant comfort gain.

Nutrition and hydration:

Using cooler nighttime temps to get through no resupply stretch was effective.

I held off on taking painkillers until Sunday, after doing 300 miles. Maybe they would’ve helped when I was suffering Saturday afternoon, but I also responded to the pain I felt and didn’t end up spraining or straining anything.

Strong coffee and caffeinated snacks were great. I tried a Thunderbird brand bar with coffee beans for the first time and felt like it woke me up the first night.

Finding a spigot in Crabapple was probably a lifesaver. The mass depart will allow racers to cache supplies here, which will be well-timed.

I often felt I was carrying too much extra stuff and not eating and drinking everything between stops. I tend to over-ration nutrition.

I ate an egg and cheese sandwich in Comfort and was in gastro distress between Utopia and Garner.

Gear and kit:

Wading in Swiftwick socks was fine… I didn’t want to take the time to take them off and put them back on.

My road shoes were surprisingly ok. They hurt at times, but I just let the pain wash over me and then subside. They didn’t work very well when I want to walk over mud and wet gravel.

I wanted to take my hydration pack off in the heat, but I didn’t bring a voile strap big enough to stow it. Putting ice in the bladder helped, though.

I didn’t clean my water bottles before leaving… I discovered some interesting things.

I didn’t have any music or entertainment. That probably would’ve helped lift my mood at times.

Training and planning:

I felt best when I wasn’t worrying too much about the distance to the next stop. I felt worst when I was staring at the numbers on my Wahoo, calculating and re-calculating distances and times and elevations.

There are a decent amount of residences along the roads for cover in inclement conditions (although this should be a second-to-last resort).

Getting real sleep and real food in Kerrville helped morale immensely. Also, waiting for Doss store to open at 8 AM made the ride after Kerrville less daunting.

Sheltering when I heard thunder felt like a good call. I used my Wahoo map to look for driveways off the route, found a hay barn, and set and reset a five minute timer every time I heard thunder.

Hitting the hardest climbs (between Utopia and Hunt) during the hottest part of the day sucked.

Other thoughts:

Pace and timing is the hardest part about this route. Stores for resupply have limited hours out here. There long stretches without food and cell service, particularly between Bandera and Hunt. 96-98% of the route is exposed to the sun, so planning around potential heat and exposure is key. For me, the Ingram loop was particularly brutal, given the timing. It was a hard stretch to finish an almost 22-hour day on.

The best general stores in my opinion in were in Castell, Utopia, Vanderpool, and Doss ⏤ friendly shopkeepers and patrons who sometimes had stories to tell about past cycling events held in the area. Some general stores had slim snack pickings when I came through, particularly the Doss General Store. Race organizers should probably inform stores along the route that hoards of hungry cyclists will be stopping in during the mass start.

Nervousness, excitement, and curiosity are kind of the same feeling.

Be careful what album you listen to during the car ride to Castell; the lyrics may haunt your entire ride.

THE RIDE

My plan was to start at midnight on Saturday. I monitored the forecast throughout the week and had only seen a 30% chance of thunderstorms the following night. I figured starting overnight would mean I’d need less water for the first stretch. I also didn’t want to use vacation time, so I planned to work my normal nine-to-five and sleep a few hours between arriving in Castell, then start at midnight. 

After work I packed, dropped my dog off with a friend, and drove the two hours from Austin to Castell. I got into the Leifeste campground around 8 PM and checked in with the owner, Bobette. She’d talked with Patrick about the bringing the race to town in October, but she didn’t realized the route was so long. After assuring Bobette that I was mostly sane and fairly safe, she showed me where to stash my vehicle.

After parking the car, I called Daphne to wish her good luck at Unbound. I rode to the Castell General Store, ordered a Topo Chico, and thought over my plans and packing strategy. Mosquitoes kept biting me, and I found a scorpion hanging out in the bathroom sink. When the owner locked up the store around 9:45 PM, a husky middle-aged man walking towards his pickup asked where I was going. I said, “Towards Llano,” telling a small piece of the truth but too preoccupied get into a whole conversation. He seemed concerned and asked if I needed a camp, offering his ranch as a place to sleep. I insisted I was ok. “I’m exactly where I want to be,” I thought.

I got back into the car to try and sleep there, but my plans were scuttled. I saw the forecast had changed, and rain was now expected right at midnight. This wasn’t good. I knew the first two gravel sections came early in the route, and I didn’t want to start a 468-mile ride on wet grit. At around 10 PM, I decided to leave early and ride those sections before the rain came. I downed my thermos of coffee, started the tracker, and got rolling.

CASTELL TO COMFORT

Starting off alongside the Llano River, I felt really good ⏤ perhaps too good, as I pedaled aggressively into the night. As I crossed the first bumpy crossing of the Llano River, I passed a family of four or five exploring the low slab of river-carved bedrock with flashlights. I rounded the corner near Llano and began heading south. Distant lightning flashed intermittently across the sky, dramatically illuminating the clouds hidden in the dark expanse. In case I had to backtrack to shelter from a storm, I took note of each house I passed and the distance at which they appeared so I’d know how far back to go.

I climbed up to the first gravel section, concerned about both being exposed to lightning and descending on the first gravel section. I took a beat, let some air out of my tires, and started back down. This was probably the loosest gravel I encountered through the ride, and I found myself fishtailing around a bit. I gently tapped the brake levers, stayed cautious, and cleared the first, then second unpaved sections with no issue. 

The southern leg towards Crabapple battered me with headwind. Lightning was still dancing in the sky. The wind shifted dramatically, and a hot mass of air blew in. It was instantly a few degrees hotter. I laid down on the road for a bit, wondering if I had doomed my ride by starting early and without any sleep.

After a steep climb, I soon found myself in Crabapple, about 58 miles in. My bet on finding a spigot here paid off ⏤ I had to turn on the PVC valve under the pipe, but a spigot near the historic school building produced a trickle. I ran it for a minute to clear the line, then filled up. The possibility of the water being contaminated run off or well water occurred to me, but I couldn’t worry too much. I needed the water to ease the headache I was developing.

The descent north on the Willow City Loop was welcome. Halfway through the loop, drowsiness was setting in, so I laid on the road and set a 10 minute timer on my phone. I did this two more times throughout the night. Although I was starting to feel the effort, the moon began to come out from behind the clouds, which lifted my spirits.

I rolled into the barren Luckenbach town (or bar? or fair grounds?) just before sunrise. I knew there was an outhouse building, but I found the bathroom doors were locked. Next to the building sat a cooler of drinks from the night before. I thought about nabbing a coke but then thought better of it. I probably moseyed longer than needed, sitting on the benches and charging devices.

I got rolling again as the sun rose. The ride from Luckenbach to Comfort was fairly short and enjoyable. I saw a few cars outside of the restaurant(?) at Bankersmith, and the descent past Old Tunnel State Park and downward grade through dewey farm fields around Comfort offered a nice break from more strenuous pedaling. Coming into town, I startled a gaggle of rotund turkeys congregated in the street.

Arriving 20-30 minutes earlier than planned, I was pleased to find the Comfort Coffee Shop (and antique store) was already open, ahead of its posted hours. No other customers had already arrived, and I drank my black coffee (the best I found on-route) and ate breakfast silently amongst the baubles and wares. I gave myself about 25 minutes, took a full bathroom stop, and tried to strap my hydration pack to my handlebars. I wanted it off my back already, thinking it would be cooler without it, but the extra voile strap I carried wasn’t long enough.

COMFORT TO GARNER STATE PARK

The short stretch from Comfort to Center Point was along a somewhat busy state highway with a fairly comfortable shoulder. From what I saw rolling trough, Center Point had a convenience store, and some other things on old town strip. I think I spotted some kind of “world’s biggest” tourist trap.

The roads to Bandera were pretty! I saw madrones, wildflowers, and the first glimpses of undulating hills on the horizon. It was a classic Texas Hill Country scene ⏤ whisps of clouds, a glaring sun, cattle pastures and oak trees rolling over the savannah. In Bandera, I made a quick stop for water, electrolyte drinks, and a small slushie. I applied sunscreen for the first time, and while unconsciously seeking shade in the shadow of the gas station, I realized it was starting to feel hot.

After Bandera I hit some exposed climbs up to Hill Country State Natural Area (HCSNA), but I was still feeling good. Another gravel section started right after the HCSNA sign and was a little loose and washed out. I didn’t stop in HCSNA, but I suspected there was a spigot on the headquarters building or in the nearby equestrian camp if I needed it. The gravel road was fun at first, winding and without car traffic. However, I soon encountered the a dark patch of clayey mud, the first of several I’d see throughout the ride. I optimistically tried to ride over it but immediately heard my bike protesting from mud caking on my fork and chainstays. After taking time to clean off the worst of it, I respected the dark clay and either steered clear of it or just got off and walked.

I finishing the southernmost gravel section and found myself on long stretches of hot, exposed, unbending road. The sun was now high overhead, and the sparse trees cast precious little shade over me. Although not especially steep, the climbs into Utopia felt arduous, as I was beginning to overheat and needed to cool off.

Utopia, a pocket of activity in an otherwise quiet, sweltering landscape, lived up to its name. I rode past bustling cafes and antique stores to the general store on the northern end of the old town strip. If not for the rush of the ITT, I would’ve stopped at famous Lost Maples Cafe next door. It was about noon, time for lunch, and I hoped to snag some prepared food, but the store didn’t provide such fare other than a meat and cheese deli. But the grocery selection was extensive. I bought chips, a bottle of Dr. Pepper, water, and a cup of diced mango. I sat on a bench in the back of the store and made small talk with one of the owners as she swept the floor. Before leaving I approached the register a second time with an Oreo ice cream cone in hand ⏤ a cold treat to resurrect my sun-sorched spirits. I wasn’t stoked to get back in the saddle; a sign on the edge of town read, “Garner SP 16 miles.”

I don’t remember this stretch well. I was pretty out of it, just grinding up gradients in the heat. I do remember these being the hottest climbs of the ride. Creeping uphill next to walls of blasted rock that, rising perpendicularly to the black asphalt, created a solar oven of sorts. Sweat made my arms shine and dripped from my helmet. My computer read 41 degrees Celcius, about 105 degrees Fahrenheit, at one point. A distant part of my mind registered the vistas around me were dramatic and beautiful, but I was too out of it to engage this thought. And I really needed a bathroom.

I finally descended into Garner State Park area and continued west to the Citgo gas station a few miles off route. Crossing the bridge over the Rio Frio, I saw folks wading below and considered joining them. The cool water and scalloped bedrock, blue-green from algae, was an inviting sight. The store was busy with river floaters and fishers. I bought a several bottles of electrolyte drink and took a nap on a bench outside with my legs raised. Color was leaving my face.

GARNER STATE PARK TO KERRVILLE

After napping in the hot shade of the Citgo overhang, I felt decent getting back on and finally had some tailwind. I realized the wind had been shifting all day. Riding past all the houses along the Rio Frio, I thought it was strange to see almost suburban development so far out from any notable town or city. I turned back east onto a gravel road. I missed this section when studying the route and wasn’t expecting to leave pavement, but the surface wasn’t too bad, just exposed to the sun.

Turning back onto pavement just east of Leakey, I knew I was approaching one of the biggest climbs on the route. I had done this climb as part of my cycling team’s training camp in January 2022. I was much more trained at that time, I remember it being challenging then. As I approached the climb, I saw the road snake up and around the hillside. I ate some candy and dropped to my easiest gearing. I labored up the grade, trying to hide in any shade the rock faces offered. Going slowly, I could appreciate the ferns and forbs clinging to the rock and nestled in damp crevices. I stole glimpses of the view back behind me, fighting a creeping sense of dizziness that seemed perilous as sports cars and motorcycles zoomed downward in the oncoming lane.

After the climb, I stopped on the ridge line and took a minute to cool down, sitting on my top tube under a short mesquite tree which offered scant relief from the desiccating sun. Feeling well enough to descend off the ridge safely, I continued on. I was excited for the descent and tried to rail the corners as much as possible. The sweeping turns were lined with arrowed road signs that lit up with yellow lights in succession, which always struck me as a sight out of a video game.

Getting to Lower Sabinal Canyon Road, I again took a break in under some trees to re-lube my chain and further cool down. Lower Sabinal was nice ⏤ the gravel was decently packed and the road gently sloped down the canyon for several miles. There were some rocky washouts with grapefruit-sized cobbles, but I was able to slowly roll over them without issue. I was soon back on pavement, the route making a 180-degree turn back up the canyon. Heading towards Vanderpool, I considered the next climb that awaited. I expected more tailwind from the south but didn’t feel as much relief as I might’ve hoped.

The Vanderpool General Store was nice and shady, with ample bench seating on the porch. The owner seemed a little wary of me. She charged me for a cup of ice when I asked if I could fill my hydration pack, which was understandable ⏤ cold was a luxury not to be taken for granted. At her prompting, I explained my route, and she seemed unimpressed, relating other rides and races in the area. 

After lingering in the shade a bit too long, I was off to tackle the Vanderpool climb just north of Lost Maples State Natural Area. The climb sucked, frankly. My knee was hurting at this point, probably thanks to my crank arms of differing lengths. I creeped up the wrong side of the road so I could be in the shade of the rock face. Around the last quarter of the climb, I heard a little pop and saw tire sealant. “Shit!” I jumped off and spun the wheel but couldn’t locate the puncture. The grade was so steep and I was so tired that I was content to walk up the rest of the climb.

Although I didn’t feel strong on the climb, getting it out of the way gave me new motivation. A welcome breeze swirled around the ridge. Around me processions of hills and canyons marching into the horizon. Smaller, one- to two-meter tall road cuts along this stretch displayed the underlying geology, which even to my only-slightly-more-than-untrained eye was clearly different from where I had been earlier in the day.

The highway from Vanderpool to the Hunt and Guadalupe River area was unremarkable ⏤ just creekbed rollers with punchy uphills that needled my sore legs. I started getting microsleeps and felt my head sinking below my shoulders. I added an envelope of instant coffee pack to one of my water bottles. It helped a little. Although this seemed like a bigger highway, few drivers passed me, perhaps because it was late in the afternoon at this point.

The stretch coming into Hunt was more of the same rolling and punchy terrain, but I appreciated some additional shade and interesting rock faces carved by the Guadalupe River. I quickly noticed the river crossings, which seemed to come every few minutes for an hour or more, all had different names emblazoned on road signs. “Mystic Crossing,” I remember, was fitting. I knew it was named for a nearby youth summer camp of the same name, but several large boulders in the river and grotto-like rock faces bordering the narrow road hinted at the mystical power of the water that could flow through here, pushing, carving, and reforming stone. Shortly after, I saw a group of girls at the Heart o’ the Hills camp. I thought of a ex-girlfriend who grew up attending the camp and had taken me to see the grounds once. I could smell the bug spray.

I came across “The Store” in Hunt. It was starting to get dark. Two motorcycle riders were talking under the porch overhang. I stopped to only sit on the bench a minute. At this point I really wanted to be in Kerrville and was feeling pretty discouraged about the slow pace.

Ingram seemed nice, with plenty of services. My concerns about pace were calmed by a beautiful sunset reflected off the glassy water of the Guadalupe. I took another short stop before continuing on Ingram loop, the last push into Kerrville.

This loop also sucked. I wasn’t familiar with the area and wasn’t expecting to find a couple steep climbs here. After the sun had fully set, I stopped to call and reserve a hotel room in Kerrville. At this point I knew I needed real sleep.

I limped up the last climb on the Ingram loop, then rounded a corner to see a valley of lights — Kerrville. After a quick descent, I was under streetlights and pausing at stoplights. I searched for services and found several 24-hour fast food restaurants and convenience stores around the Super 8 where I had booked a room. I climbed up to the other side of town and rolled into the Whataburger drive through. The teenager in the window was amused. 

“Are you going to eat that while you ride the bike?” 

“I wish.”

I called Daphne, and we talked about Unbound. She had the last 78 miles or so to complete. The conditions she described sounded awful. She had switched from mountain bike shoes to Shimano sandals with SPD cleats at the first aid station — at mile 40 of 205. I was grateful to have mostly favorable conditions in comparison.

An overly professional clerk checked me into the motel. I rode around back and unlocked my door while a man and a woman sat at picnic table and side-eyed me. The room reeked of cigarette smoke, but I was too exhausted to care.

I peeled off my jersey, rigid from salt, and quickly washed it in the sink, showered, and scarfed down the Whataburger. I looked at my phone a bit and made a plan to get to the Doss General Store by about opening time, 8 AM. I set my phone alarm for 3:15 AM and finally fell asleep around 10:30 or 11:00 PM.

KERRVILLE TO THE BAIL OUT

The alarm rang too early. I snoozed it at least once. While packing up I realized my GPS tracker had been on all night, draining the battery as it searched unsuccessfully for signal. I plugged that in for a bit, an excuse to linger a few minutes longer. The coffee I could brew in the room was not strong enough at all. I took my first painkillers of the ride (400 mg Tylenol) right around 4 AM and rolled to the front desk. An older woman was now behind the counter. “Be safe out there,” she admonished.

A convenience store across the street would do for breakfast. The cashier was a 30-something, bearded, tattooed man in a relatively chipper mood. “How am I doing? Oh, can’t complain,” he said as I filled a coffee cup. I packed away Oreos, a pop tart, and an electrolyte drink for the ride to Doss. I rejoined route at 4:30 AM.

Climbing out of Kerrville was hard. My legs and back were stiff from the last 300 miles. The Exxon leaving on the edge of Kerrville was closed — last stop before Doss. I noted how dry my mouth felt.

The McCollough Ranch Road climb was tough, and I was back to slow-and-steady efforts. I saw lightning in the distance and once again considered how I was climbing up on a ridge. Some bolts stretched across the sky, others struck down to the ground and left a glowing halo either in the air or my retina. I kept going, thinking about the emergency bivy in my framebag and scanning my little computer map for possible driveways to structures.

Maybe 20 to 30 minutes later, the wind shifted and dropped three to five degrees Fahrenheit. I felt a few small rain drops and then heard low thunder. It was time to find some shelter. The next driveway I came across had a study-looking hay barn at junction with road. This was perfect. It was accessible — I jumped over a wooden gate in the open entryway — and there’d be no one to bother or be bothered by. I ate a lot of my stashed food, took a video, and napped sitting against the hay for a bit. I started a five-minute timer and reset it every time thunder woke me up.

As the sky lightened a soft rain began to fall, making a white noise against the barn’s metal roof. I decided if the sun was rising and the rain was so light, the worst of the storm danger had passed. After a chilly re-start, I was on my way again past fenceposts and pasture. It had clearly rained north of me. Water sat puddled or flowed in sheets across the roads.

The morning views were punctuated by some longhorn cattle sightings and framed by clouds that hung just above the horizon. They were wide, pillowed, rounded at the margins, like gold bars. I took in some lush vistas on the way to Pecan Creek Road, which would take me into Doss. I passed baby goats with their mothers and was startled by what must’ve been a wild turkey flying from the side of the road towards the brush. The descent to Doss was fast and opened to the horizon of a new valley.

Towards the end of the descent, I came across and tried to ride through a flowing low water crossing. I rolled in a few feet and realized it was too deep, unclipping a plunging my shoe in the water. I took shoes off and walked though this and other crossing.

I slid up to the Doss General Store and immediately plugged my phone into an outlet on the building’s exterior. A thin tattooed man in a baseball hat sat smoking on the patio, carrying on a choppy conversation with a women sitting further down as we all side-eyed each other. Turns out, this was the owner. I said good morning as I clip-clopped past.

There wasn’t much in the store side of the establishment. I grabbed a few plastic-wrapped bricks of peanut butter crackers and pouches of Haribo candies and asked for a cafe menu. I ordered a waffle plate then changed to tacos and a coffee. The owner walked back to the griddle and made the tacos right away. I asked about the previous night’s rain, and this softened him up a bit. He asked where I was coming from.

I ate out on porch, and we talked about the area. He said he liked the rain out here better than in Houston, where he was from. Storms are special in Hill Country. Another patron stopped by and asked how far I was riding, and we chatted about local cyclists he knew. In a good mood, I posted a few updates to Instagram. I rinsed and re-lubed the chain and got rolling again.

The climb out of Doss didn’t feel too bad, nor did Cherry Spring after it. Actually, everything felt good until getting to Threadgill Creek Road, the first section of gravel for the day. Immediately, my pace slowed to a crawl as wet, sand gravel and mud clung to my slick tires.

Despite my memory of these roads being fairly hard packed, there were lots of muddy bottom outs. I tried to use vehicle tire tracks to read the surface, but they came and went.

I waded through a steadily flowing Threadgill Creek, walked through several other water crossings, and carefully stepped around muddy patches by trampling the bordering plants. My road cleats started to fill with mud and refused to clip back in. I eventually took my wet, gritty socks off and strapped them to bars. I rode up to RR 783 with bare feet in my shoes, just trying to get to a stopping point.

Just past the crossing of RR 783, I tried the next section, remembering it as rockier and potentially drier than the first. But it was more of the same, and I decided another 25 miles of this wasn’t going to happen — it was already almost noon, and I had to work the next day. Plus, I knew I’d come upon two crossings of James River after those 25 miles of gravel, a much larger channel than the creeks I waded through. Continuing on meant potentially slogging through several hours of muddy conditions to find those crossings too full and dangerous to cross. I sat on the side of RR 783 a bit, recorded a video explaining my reasoning for ending the attempt, then booked it back to Castell.

The wildflowers and hilly vistas on 783 were a fine consolation prize. As I rode I thought, “This is well managed land. People have humility here, they hide their houses away from view, they let the rolling land shine.” The wildflowers on 152 into Castell were otherworldly, even as late as June. They covered the ground as far as I could see, reds and yellows swirling around shrubby trees, each species giving a different visual impression of line and color while I observed at speed. I rolled into the Castell General Store, where a musician sang and played guitar for quite a few occupied tables.

After ordering a pizza and Lone Star, I sat at my own picnic table and listened to the music and locals talk about their concerns — a proposed cell tower folks were opposed to, someone boasting 2″ of rain at their property. I devoured the pizza, went back to camp, sat in the Llano River for a few minutes, submerging my head. I thought, “there’s nowhere better on Earth.”

•••

It would take a week or for my body to process and recover from the stress of the 400 mile ride, and longer for my mind to consolidate the sights, sounds, and sensations of it all. This wasn’t the longest or grandest of all tours or bikepacking rides. Based on the distance and the percentage of pavement, this was relatively tame. But we don’t experience a place by the numbers. An experience is a collage of memories and meanings and emerges from the dialogue one’s presence has with place, people, plants, animals, weather, water. I rode from Castell under a cloudy night sky to recreationally recreate and add to the lifetime of memories I’d made in this place before I uproot myself from it. In that mission, I succeeded.