Twenty-four years of April 11ths spread before me like trail maps from different eras. Some years I'm fighting funky moods with mantras, grinding through the metaphorical sourdough phase. Other years I'm updating my mountain bike site without internet, which sounds like the setup to a bad tech joke but was just my life in 2002.
Then things get interesting. In 2005, forgetting my gloves triggered a crisis that somehow turned into forty miles of glory, complete with broken spokes, marble-slick descents, and big cedars that demanded photographs. Three years later I'm riding in actual snow, which apparently counts as Thursday night fun in Montana.
The pattern holds. Brutal climbs at Lewis and Clark Caverns, mine shafts full of bats, and me walking those cliffside switchbacks because sometimes walking is the smart play. Later years bring gravel road obsessions, wolf sightings on fat bike rides, and the admission that sometimes good enough really is good enough.
But April 11th also hands me curveballs. One year I'm philosophizing about fun versus greatness. Another I'm drowning in snow while clinging to Gooseberry memories. Then suddenly I'm diving deep into AI and neurodiversity, which has absolutely nothing to do with bikes but everything to do with making sure technology sees the whole human picture.