June 23rd has never once let me off easy. Twenty-five years ago I was navigating New Haven bus lines to retrieve a car that cost me $1,399 in clutch and flywheel drama. A reasonable person might have seen that as a bad omen for this date. I did not learn.
By 2005 I had traded car troubles for saddle time, riding the American West daily and feeling smugly out of the news cycle. Then came 2006, foggy and mostly foodless after spending the grocery budget on racing and camping. No regrets, apparently.
June 23rd also became, almost by accident, Rapelje Season. In 2007 I won my sixth straight race at Soldier Mountain, hiked a bike up the Sawtooths, and went looking for aspens to hang a hammock in. The same day I also marveled that Soldier Mountain had wireless internet, which felt miraculous at the time. By 2009 it was 24 hours of Rapelje, then 2010 brought the full logistical breakdown involving Carbo Rocket, caffeine research, and prepping pit crew flip sheets for mom and dad. 2011 meant going off the social media grid entirely, smoke signals only. 2012 was just five words: the heat in Rapelje is 103. That tracked.
2016 brought vertigo the day before a Casper race, which is extremely on-brand for this date. Then van life arrived, and 2020 was about dialing in the bike situation inside Buttons the Van because nothing else matters if you are bike unhappy. Also in 2020, an introvert exception was made for family and a bike park in Billings, and it worked out fine. 2021 offered a quiet Yellowstone Lake slideshow with jazz. And 2022 pulled the covers over its head in Livingston and dreamed of Cathedral Gorge instead.
Twenty-some years of June 23rds. Clutch repairs, podium wins, starvation budgeting, 103-degree suffering, van optimization, vertigo, family exceptions, and jazzy winter slideshows. The common thread is just showing up and making the most of whatever the day hands you, even when the day hands you a repair bill.