Twenty-four years of August 13ths and the throughline is stubbornly the same: get out there, get wrecked, come back changed, complain a little, do it again. Back in 2002 you were back from Cali, mentally stuck out west before you'd even unpacked. By 2006 you were frying hash browns before a Mosquito Peak re-do, and 2007 gave you both a smoke-choked Sheep and E. Fork epic and a shout-out to Charlie and Ed back east, racing roads while Missoula burned orange through the windows.
Then came the Butte 100, twice, in 2008 and 2010, both full of cramps, storms, and the particular madness of promising yourself you'll pace better next time. Some years left barely a trace, like 2009's fragment or the quiet Rut and Battle Lines entries. Monday grumbling showed up right on schedule in 2012, followed by the simple joy of Wednesday night rides and a moonlit, photo-less adventure on the Mystically Hidden Trail.
Later years brought practice day photos, a rambling porch-and-highway wander in Gardiner, a strange protest video called Mr. Disgruntle, nostalgic fat biking in Whitefish snow, and finally the muddy, knee-blown honesty of May 2025. Same restless spirit, different terrain every time. Turns out August 13th was never really about the date, just about being out there, again and again.