March 24th seems allergic to moderation. Over two decades of posts, this date swings between extremes like a pendulum that refuses to settle.
There's the spiritual biking nirvana of Gilford, CT in 2002, too transcendent for words. The sudden arrival of mountain bike season in 2006, complete with mud-caked wheels and fresh possibilities. A brutal road race in 2007 where leading the pack still meant getting boxed out in the sprint.
That same year brought rage about police targeting cyclists, while 2008 delivered wonderful Bearmouth sunshine (if you ignored the 140 mph winds). The spectacular sunset on MoZ trail in 2010 contrasts with work-induced exhaustion a year later.
By 2012, we're grouchy and missing races, trudging through mandatory single-track sorrows. The group hike in the Rattlesnake of 2013 felt celebratory until everyone froze. Then 2014's realization that Bozeman is not your place, followed by 2016's zero-attendance fat bike ride where miscommunication and running out of gas became the story.
COVID turned Livingston into a snow-globe ghost town in 2020. A year later, someone was stranded and dancing with winter. By 2024, we're studying Mo's cactus photos like desert botanists, and finally, this year's morning rescue finds wisdom in a cow untangling herself from fence wire.
Twenty-three years of March 24ths reveal a truth: this date doesn't do lukewarm. It offers glory or frustration, connection or isolation, but never anything in between. Maybe that's the pattern worth noticing.