May 30th has a history of doing whatever it wants with my plans. Back in 2001, Pat Lannon and I were sitting in Shelton, Connecticut, just waiting to find out if we'd have a roof over our heads in Hamden. Credit checks, applications, the whole adult performance. Four days of limbo. Not exactly thrilling.
Fast forward to 2005 and the plans got a lot more fun to abandon. The big weekend up Rock Creek started with a sold-out campground charging six bucks a night, which, hard pass. Kept driving, found a free spot, set up the tent, napped in the hammock, got sunburned into oblivion, and somehow called it a success. Because it was.
By 2008 things got theatrical. Team Unattached dropped me, apparently one crashed jersey too many, and I landed on Team Muleterro, a development I remain proud of. That same week the Thursday night ride had me grimacing on the descents but feeling like a world cup contender on the climbs, which is honestly a fair trade.
2012 went full science fiction with a story about escape pods, rebel humans, and a woman with beautiful eyes in a diner at coordinates I'd rather not try to explain here. Something about that one still feels true.
Then Sluice Box State Park showed up in 2015 and reminded me that some places just earn a slow walk. No bikes needed, which is almost something I never say.
By 2022 there were two versions of May 30th running simultaneously. One was staring at desert photos while wind shook the windows in Livingston. The other was getting rained out at Acton Bike Park and calling it not a wash, which is exactly the right attitude. And then 2025 handed us a blown valve guide on Snoqualmie Pass and a friend named Ramsay who materialized out of nowhere, which is the Ellie story in a nutshell.
May 30th, across two and a half decades, keeps proving the same thing. The plan is just the starting point. What actually happens is the story worth keeping.