Twenty-two years of March 7ths, and what a strange through-line emerges. We start in 2004 with the Comanche helicopter, that stealth wonder destined for the "almost was" pile, and somehow end up at alpine meadows and letting go of mountain biking dreams. The dreamers and their dreams, indeed.
The middle years though... that's where the magic lived. In 2006, the Web Lodge was rising from digital ashes with mysterious BORTAL technology, and by 2007 I was winning races at Devils Slide, surging ahead into dusty Idaho singletrack. The weather whiplash of 2008, going from hypothermia to sunshine in 48 hours, feels like a metaphor for everything that followed.
March 7th kept returning me to the same themes. The deceiving tailwind of 2010 that made me feel invincible until I turned around. The 2011 pilgrimage to Lewiston through blinding snow, chasing bare ground and new bikes. By 2012, I was already dreaming of fat tires and the Susitna 100, even while visions of granite canyons interrupted my morning routine.
Fast forward to coastal scenes, Haystack Rock standing sentinel in 2023, and then last year's bittersweet farewell to MTB racing. Transitions, as I noted then, are what define us at any age. And this year? A hidden meadow at Lolo Pass, the kind of place that makes you want to flop down with a sandwich and just watch clouds.
Maybe March 7th has always been about things taking flight, whether they're helicopters that never quite made it, race victories that exceeded expectations, or simply letting old passions evolve into new ones. Here's to the overlooked, the overshadowed, and the endless adventure of finding out what comes next.