Across 24 years of March 15ths, one truth keeps surfacing: I'm always in motion, even when standing still.
In 2002, I was literally metamorphosing, shedding sleep and pounds while prepping bikes and dreaming about New Haven apartments. That same restlessness showed up later that day, juggling bike maintenance, trail time, and mysterious new beginnings. Even 2003's sunny afternoon carried that familiar tension of possibility versus indecision.
By 2008, the stakes had changed but not the pattern. Racing upgrades, epic road plans, that perpetual hunger to squeeze more miles into finite hours. 2010's 82-mile zone-1 cruise over Lolo Pass proved I'd learned nothing about moderation, while 2012's couch-nap confession showed the inevitable crash that follows constant motion.
The dirt kept calling. 2013 at Pipestone, 2015's 15-mile Beartrap adventure, 2017's sick-but-we-go-anyway Togwotee trip. Each year, a slightly different excuse for the same compulsion to be somewhere wild, doing something physical, pushing through.
2023's forest musings and 2024's bootstrap assessment hint at evolution, maybe. More reflection, less frantic pedaling. But then 2025 arrives with Mo struggling behind me up Point Six, and there I am again, born for this stuff, pretending to adjust gear while really just being that person who could keep going forever.
Twenty-four Marches, same restless soul, slightly better at recognizing it.