Twenty-four years of February 17ths, and the throughline is this: showing up imperfectly still counts.
Back in 2002, I was racing a snowstorm home from Montreal, buzzing on three coffee shops worth of lattes and cookies, feet revolting after underground city tacos and art festivals. Pure chaotic tourism energy. By 2010, the vibe had shifted to dreading workouts that turned out fine, pedaling through drizzle in Hellgate Canyon, surprised when thirty-minute time trials didn't break me.
Then 2012 brought the beautiful workout, showing my girlfriend interval stats like they were sunset photos, legs still shaking from Bridger Ridge sprints. Getting smoked by an ultra runner? Details. The data was art. Four years later, 2016 delivered the fall at Elkhorn Hot Springs, a reminder that perfect fat bike conditions and twisted fingers can share the same day. We remember the bad stuff to survive, apparently.
The 2021 entry on cabinets sits quietly in the archive. By 2025, I was navigating digital minefields, writing about fact-checking erosion and platform policies... a different kind of endurance test.
And this year? Six PM on a Wednesday, heading out late, underequipped, snow packing into tire knobs while Missoula glowed below like a circuit board. The mountain doesn't check your watch. Neither does February 17th. It just keeps showing up, asking if you will too.