Twenty-three years of February 8ths, and the pattern is almost too obvious. This date keeps catching me in recovery mode, whether from sickness in 2003 when a hike was the only medicine that made sense, or from dismal rain-soaked training conditions in 2007 that somehow still ended with 26 miles through Missoula's streets.
The thread continues. 2008 finds me at City Brew after an epic Bitterroots cabin descent, downloading photos and already scheming the next adventure. By 2010, the tone shifts toward something more reflective... Montana sunsets, friends who feel like family, coffee that ties it all together. 2011 brought Jill into the mix, and later that same day, I'm sipping Night on Glacier Bay tea at 2am, guilt-regenerating after couch-crashing post-ride.
The 2012 "Junkie" confession still rings true, that restless wall-staring when the workout schedule goes light. Then came the Buck Ridge incident in 2014, a saga of fat bikes, confused rangers, and wilderness violations that still makes my blood simmer. 2015 and 2016's Padre Canyon brought desert redemption. 2018's reflection on "routine" procedures hit different. And 2024's coffee basket catastrophe? Pure slapstick heroism.
Now 2026 at Lolo Pass, pushing past where the groomer quit, earning exhaustion the honest way. February 8th keeps asking the same question, and after all these years, the answer stays consistent. When things feel off, go outside. Go farther than seems reasonable. The mountains reward forward motion.