Twenty-four years of April 16ths, and somehow I keep ending up sunburned, pissed off, or both.
The pattern started simple enough in 2002, sunburn layered on sunburn after a two-hour road ride. By 2004 I was selling off my life on eBay, trying to escape. Then came 2005, when I realized what we lose when people move somewhere but refuse to live with the place itself. Bears died because newcomers wouldn't secure their garbage. Montana was killing its soul for the evil dollar, and I was furious.
That same day in 2005, I got attacked at a bank by a cyclist and chased down by a pickup driver while a state trooper watched. Thanks for nothing, buddy. The 2006 tension between mountain bikers and the Forest Service felt like another version of the same fight, people who don't understand the land making rules about it. Meanwhile, I was dodging tax bills and threatening darkness on an 80-mile ride to Wisdom.
But April 16th wasn't all rage. There was perfecting recovery wraps in 2007, helping a friend search for her son's lost journal in 2008, and finally riding White Bird Grade in 2010, a road I'd passed a hundred times saying "one day." One day arrived.
The race reports came: barking spider champion turned fifth place after skipping breakfast. The reluctant workout in 2013 when I hated being outside until the intervals fixed my attitude. Marcy tumbling down Mossy Cascade in 1999, twice a goner, twice surviving. Solo cabin trips to Calf Creek, simplifying to one bike, waking to fresh snow in Bozeman again. The last great adventure before everything changed, and finally healing.
Twenty-four April 16ths. Still sunburned. Still fighting. Still riding anyway.