Twenty-five years ago, May 21st looked like this: alcohol poisoning, a heroic rescue by Sue, puking in front of a professor, a brawl outside the Field House, and somehow, at the end of it all, a diploma and a job offer from Sikorsky. That post reads less like a graduation story and more like a survival report. And yet, there it is. The beginning of everything.
Ten years later, May 21st had evolved, sort of. The chaos was still present, just repackaged. That S.O.L.O. post is one of the best things ever written on here, a mock personal ad for someone willing to unlock a car door with hypothermia hands and call it a good weekend. The self-awareness is sharp. The longing underneath it is sharper.
Then came the quieter May 21sts. Packing for a 24-hour solo race. Testing a hammock. One last failed attempt at a forest service cabin, turning around in the snow again, and somehow finding peace on the other side of the pass. A quiet exhale in 2020, when the world needed one. A 2009 flashback surfacing in 2021. Something called Lovers in 2023.
And just this past year, Lake Como with Snuggles, snow on the trail, slow shutter speeds, and the usual magic that somehow never gets usual.
May 21st has always been a little chaotic, a little tender, and completely unwilling to be ordinary. Some things really do stay the same.