You'd think April 3rd would settle on a vibe and stick with it, but no... it insists on being everything all at once. One year it hands you a circus blanket and a surgical entry, the next it's landlord battles and racing journals without Wi-Fi. Sometimes it's forgotten sleeping bags and storm-soaked Idaho drives that somehow end in podium finishes. Other times it's snowstorms threatening races or broken wheels and birthday hill sprints.
The constant? Movement. Whether it's finding yourself in Jonathan Livingston Seagull, grinding through muddy Speedwagon loops with a disintegrating bottom bracket, or naming a new bike Gonzo and letting it drag you 50 miles. Even at 47, supposedly tired, you still detour through wildlife refuges instead of napping. At 48 it's navigating job circuses in BozeAngeles, and by 54 it's sheltering in place while remembering Rock Creek adventures. Then 55 brings Kafkaesque insurance wars, 58 delivers COVID as a birthday present, and 59 gifts you buttercups and trail clarity when you stop trying to decode everything.
This date doesn't do birthdays halfway. It gives you broken parts, wrong turns, and weather that won't cooperate... then somehow delivers exactly what you needed anyway. Maybe that's the pattern. April 3rd refuses to be simple, predictable, or easy. It just keeps insisting you show up and ride.