April 5th seems hell-bent on proving that weather has the final say. Twenty years ago, I watched snow plows roll by while planning another ride, having already logged 150 miles in four days. Eighteen years back, a blizzard canceled my Polson race before I could check my email, leaving me nursing cheap coffee and contemplating abandoning racing entirely.
The date itself became shorthand for confusion. Monday meant survival. Thursday turned into Friday while I scrambled for my training plan in a dark apartment, tripping over my bike. Twelve years ago, vertigo in Vegas taught me to look up, finding that third-floor balcony away from the crowds. A year later, 14 miles down Washburn left us wanting nothing but the porch.
By 2020, hunkering became the theme, pizza and snow-kissed paths replacing the chaos. Two years ago, COVID had me wrestling with grizzly metaphors and AI-generated harmony, wondering if balance was even possible. Last year, Rattler Gulch Road turned into soup, mud grabbing everything, optimism included.
April 5th consistently reminds me: plans are suggestions. Weather writes the actual script. And sometimes, the best move is looking up, hunkering down, or just admitting the mud won.