Seventeen entries now, spanning from Plattsburgh poutine pilgrimages to frozen Montana valleys, and the thread running through them all is... well, me making my own chaos and then riding a bike through snow to sort it out.
The 2002 trip with Paul kicked things off, all bookstores and carb enthusiasm, followed immediately by Montreal tales of cobbled streets and poutine dreams. Then 2004 arrived with weight, Dad's chemo rounds and rising prostate counts, the kind of February 16th that reminds you not every entry gets to be about gravy and adventure.
By 2006 I was biking to work in Arctic blasts, complaining about stamps, and wiping out on ice patches near gun ranges. The 2007 weekend plans carried a somber note, a cyclist lost on Reserve Street. 2012 found me on Wikipedia at midnight, reading about withdrawal like finding a mirror in unexpected places.
Then the fat bikes arrived. 2016's Pioneer Mountains, 2018's Dark Tower homage across frozen valleys, 2021's pantry and photo albums. Utah routes in 2022, Cape Lookout firsts in 2023, Lake Como goals and RabbitAir filter frustrations in 2024. Last year, Jinjer soundtracked the apocalypse. This year, Deer Creek held the snow without complaint.
Twenty-four years of February 16ths, and the formula hasn't changed much. Break something, fix something, point a tire into fresh snow, watch the week's inventory of small disasters lose its grip. The trees keep standing there, stoic as ever, and I keep showing up to say hello.