March 26th seems to be my annual reset button, whether I'm ready or not. One year I'm declaring a much-needed chill session while my patience runs thinner than an old t-shirt. Another year I'm waiting on 60-degree weather that refuses to show up, stuck in a cold weather slump. The pattern holds: sunny but deceptive days in Montana, where six laps up South Sentinel feel like spring until the descent turns brutally cold again.
Sometimes the day brings quiet gratitude, like friends setting me up with lodging for a world championship debut. Other times it's cheering on Jill Homer during her hundred-mile snow bike race, hosting sporadic spot-watching parties. There's the great bike parts race, where Price Point and Jenson USA dead-tie after five days while some dude in California gets lost on course. And arriving at Fox Creek Cabin completely after dark to find nothing but a broken stove and mouse-infested bunks.
The deeper resets hit harder. Deciding to stop taking photos for an entire year to understand why cameras dominated my life. Ripping off the bandaid of school-year rage through Jinjer's primal scream. Then the Orca battling frozen terrain with studded tires, proving myself as winter warrior.
This year brought a single purple bloom in the backyard, six petals fading violet to white, a quiet little victory announcing spring's arrival despite winter's stubborn grip. Twenty-four years of March 26ths, and the thread is clear: this date forces recalibration. Sometimes it's external, moving apartments and calling utility companies. Sometimes internal, questioning why I hide behind a lens. But always, there's that insistent nudge toward something new, even when it's just the smallest flower shaking up the gloom.