Twenty-four years of March 5ths, and you know what I've learned? This date has a thing for knocking me down and seeing if I'll get back up. The answer, apparently, is always yes... even when it's stupid.
Back in 2001, I was pedaling 171 miles while fighting the flu, because why suffer one thing when you can suffer three? By 2002, I'd learned to appreciate recovery days, though "great training weather" in early March should've been a red flag. 2007 brought Idaho adventures and work chaos, the eternal seesaw of escape and obligation.
Then there's 2008's Hell Ride, when I became a human popsicle because turning around felt like quitting. That stubborn streak runs deep. 2010 found me in Canmore, sick as a dog but forcing myself to photograph elk because opportunities don't wait. Meanwhile, 2012 and 2013 had me battling vertigo and procrastination respectively, both keeping me floor-bound when I should've been moving.
The 2018 Togwotee Winter Classic nearly killed us, and we weren't even supposed to be there. That spectator's voice still echoes... "she is running, holy shit." Pure survival mode. By 2020, I'd learned that curiosity and sunshine could turn fat bikes into vessels of wonder on frozen Lake Superior.
2023's Cape Lookout beach ride threw storms at me, while that evening's beach sunset brought Mo and burgers and peace. Last year's Costco run turned supernatural, because even grocery shopping can become an adventure.
And this year? Mud season reminded me that getting thoroughly, gloriously dirty sometimes washes you clean. March 5th keeps teaching the same lesson... keep pedaling, even when it makes zero sense.