Twenty-one years of July 2nds, and the through line is almost embarrassingly obvious: something breaks, something hurts, something refuses to cooperate... and then you go outside anyway.
It started in a cafe. 2004 had biscuits and gravy, a banged-up bike, keys left in a parking lot door, and Lance Armstrong on the horizon. Somehow everything worked out. Two years later, Stewart Peak nearly caused a blackout at the Trail of Tears junction, but the granny gear got the job done in 1:53. By 2007, sleep was impossible and the state championships were looming, so the obvious move was uploading hill climb photos at 3 AM.
Then came Galena, Idaho, where the trails were so endless that three years of riding wouldn't cover them. In 2010, a Thursday night group ride turned into something unexpectedly memorable when Jill Homer turned out to be a real person instead of an endurance myth, just another rider climbing toward the MIT Tower. A year later, post-race fog and a pending move had the momentum theory doing the heavy lifting: put one foot out the door and see what happens.
Not every July 2nd is a summit. 2013 was coconut water and a moon photo over the Absarokas, nothing more, nothing less. 2020 stared straight at the bridge and almost turned around. And just last year, a server meltdown and a chatbot lying about its own existence ended the only sensible way... tires on dirt, trail dust, heartbeat.
July 2nd doesn't promise a good day. It just keeps asking whether you'll show up for it. Apparently the answer, most years, is yes.