March 21st has become my personal meteorological roulette wheel. This date seems to specialize in catching me unprepared, teaching me lessons about hubris, and occasionally delivering moments of unexpected grace.
The pattern started early with near-hypothermia on a rain-soaked ride in 2002, my core temperature plummeting while I stubbornly finished big ring climbs. That same year brought cancelled surgery news and three hours exploring Connecticut backcountry, proving even medical disruptions couldn't keep me off the bike. Two years later, the ticking clock of impending unemployment at Sikorsky created a different kind of storm, one that no amount of pedaling could outrun.
But March 21st also delivered spectacular moments. There was that 10.5-mile Montana hike in 2005, when snow surprised me near Lantern Ridge and a rainbow touched down three miles from the trailhead. The date has tested me with a pit bull attack while protecting Marcy, pushed through flu symptoms while ordering bike parts, and witnessed Thursday night rides through Rattlesnake drainage when winter refused to release its grip.
Years later, the pattern continued. A grayscale Missoula day in 2012 became a muddy dance through familiar trails. Simple photo galleries from Bozeman and Garnet Ghost Town in 2013 captured quieter beauty. Cape Meares exploration in 2023 traded mountain trails for rugged Oregon coastline. Snow derailed training camp plans in 2024, transforming athletic ambition into grocery shopping by bike.
Then came last year's ride into the snow I'd tried to avoid, when I realized that riding toward challenge rather than away from it reveals the real adventure. March 21st keeps teaching me the same lesson in different weather: conditions change, predictions fail, and the willingness to adapt matters more than the forecast.