Twenty-four years of April 4ths, and apparently this date has a vendetta against simplicity. Back in 2002, I was juggling work chaos, Starbucks salvation, and a free-hub quest at North Haven Bike while contemplating pizza and the complexities of Connecticut living. Fast forward to 2008, and I'm in Missoula overdoing it at the Adventure Cycling Party before tackling fire roads despite snow advisories. The pattern continues in 2012 when intuition finally convinced me to turn back from a snowfield crossing, camera in hand, adventures still ahead.
By 2013, my closest friends—Askia, Turner, Gonzo, Big Fat Larry, and Lammy—threw me a surprise party that derailed any workout plans. 2020 brought that pre-COVID Livingston spring, cold and relentless, yet still pulling us outside with stupid grins. Then 2023 delivered escape from Montana snow to Oregon's salty warmth, becoming Mr. Bear, the resident.
Last year's COVID marathon of anti-productivity proved April 4th's continued commitment to chaos, while this year's blog migration saga turned into a neurodivergent odyssey through 4,086 posts and existential dread.
What strikes me isn't the recurring chaos... it's the stubborn refusal to disappear quietly. Every April 4th, whether facing snowfields, technical meltdowns, or simple pizza cravings, there's this consistent thread of showing up anyway. That's the real adventure.