Funny how April 15th keeps showing up with the same lesson dressed in different weather.
Twenty-four years ago, it was lobster-red sunburn and Paris-Roubaix dreams. A year later, pure gratitude for 70 degrees and rolled-down windows. Then came 2005's brutal 42-mile battle against high winds and bitter cold that had me dreaming of warm beds while climbing a thousand feet on a three-percent grade.
The date seemed to specialize in hard-earned wisdom. One Rocky Mountain Roubaix taught me about dropped water bottles and misjudged finish lines, while another version found me plotting 14-mile adventures up South Fork Lolo Creek at 25 degrees. By 2008, I was completely recovered and sad there were no races for three weeks, working in a closet with my bike for company.
The Barking Spider years became a tradition. 2010's war map of scrapes and nearly-penguin river plunge. 2012's waterfall ritual and surge button that went on strike mid-race. Then 2014 arrived twice, first with a dark chocolate shootout that crowned Divine the winner, then with Mr. Couch and Mrs. Dinner conspiring against my fierce core workout plans.
2016's frame bag accusations stung enough to consider driving cars again. 2020 reminded me what quarantine steals. And last year, Blue Mountain's transformation broke my heart until pasqueflowers showed me how to bloom anyway.
Turns out April 15th isn't about perfect conditions or flawless rides. It's about showing up when the weather turns, the body rebels, or the trails disappear. Those purple flowers had it right all along.