Twenty-four years of February 25ths and the pattern is almost comical. In 2002 I was blue about weight, convinced that gaining muscle mass was "the worst thing in the world" for a mountain biker. This year? Coming off a 48-hour fast and immediately demolishing pizza, eggs, and a smoothie like someone handed a monk the keys to a casino buffet. The body composition obsession runs deep, apparently.
But between those bookends lives the good stuff. The 66-mile Lolo Pass ride in 2007 that ended with leg cramps and late-night blogging. The rain-soaked 60 miles on Route 200 in 2008. The Turah intervals that actually felt strong. There's that 2012 Mukluk descent through the trees, no brakes, just trust.
The rituals persist too, Break Espresso and caramel rolls, organizing photos like herding caffeinated cats, the hopeful waiting for team news. By 2015 I was climbing Avalanche Peak and discovering what real posers we are next to wildlife. The WNA fat bike tradition rolled on with its steady attendance of two.
Even 2003's Microsoft joke aged remarkably well. Morning trails at dawn, poems about roads less traveled, Lucy and Buck's fictional expedition, Copperway's medieval torture disguised as fat biking, and last year's muddy assessment of winter's retreat, they all point somewhere.
The sun showed up today and I walked. Simple forward motion that tells the nervous system we're not in danger, we're just learning. Still learning, after all these February 25ths.