Twenty-two years of March 14ths paint a curious portrait. In 2004, it was race schedules and anticipation. By 2005, Woods Gulch conquered me more than I conquered it, trudging through day 20 of a mountain running marathon at 4 AM. 2006 delivered broken ski boots and hot springs awkwardness, because relaxation must apparently be earned through wilderness treks and Coen brothers scenarios.
The self-sponsored warrior emerged in 2008, flying solo with budget jerseys and Un-Attached pride. 2010 captured "Clearing The Ridge" through my Canon point-and-shoot, a photo that earned permanent residence in my collection. 2013 found me defending yet another Missoula trip to my incredulous partner, while 2014 confessed my listening problems and tendency toward absurd honesty.
Life simplified to two bikes in 2016, extremes of fat and skinny. 2017 had me chopping firewood while sick, pondering marriage vows I once found ridiculous. By 2018, those finer things with Mo became the point entirely. 2023 brought lighthouses and history lessons, 2024 wove everything into tapestry, and 2025 left us gloriously undecided.
Somewhere between tentative race schedules and staring out windows, between solo racing kits and shared adventures, March 14th became less about what I accomplished and more about who showed up. That person kept changing, kept learning, kept pedaling forward anyway.