April 13th seems to be a date where things are always in motion... whether I'm ready or not.
Twenty-two years ago, I was boxing up computers and navigating life changes in flip-flops—not ideal, but possible. A year later, I was juggling contracts and side projects, trying to turn temporary work into something permanent. Then came the shift outdoors: organizing race lists and buzzing about Thursday night rides, finally reuniting with friends after a long winter.
The mountain biking years brought their own flavor of chaos. There was that seven-hour drive to Idaho, sleeping in my car, racing like a possessed mountain goat, then hitting Pipestone for six hours the next day (sunburn included). A few years later, confessing my chunky feelings to a random cyclist—because apparently I turned into a biking advice column. Then getting ambushed by birthday celebrations I'd completely forgotten about, complete with custom wrapping paper and a sweet Kali helmet.
Fast forward through finally breathing fresh air after battling State Farm, to charging up Marshall Grade with Mo like Tour de France wannabes, testing new single track and grinning ear to ear. Most recently, debating truck camper weigh-ins reminded me of trying to weigh my bike on two bathroom scales years ago.
Twenty-two years of April 13ths, and the constant is this: I'm always moving forward, even when the path gets weird. Sometimes in flip-flops, sometimes on two wheels, sometimes just trying to figure out if gravity's playing fair.