Twenty years of May 17ths, and a pattern emerges. Not a tidy one, but a real one.
Back in 2006, the frustrations were social, the saving grace was a new bike and the road ahead. By 2008, it was a sunny Missoula day, a sore ankle, no meds, and a trainer ride hard-won. Small victories, honestly reported. The Coyote Classic photos from that same year hint at bigger adventures just beyond the frame.
In 2012, a 24-hour race loomed like a dinosaur. In 2016, the beast took a different form entirely, a literal wall of wind pushing back hard on a canyon trail. The response was the same both times. Gear up, pedal, retreat if you must, try again.
The gentler May 17ths show up too. Snuggles reviewing a hammock in 2015. A homestead gallery from that same year. A weekend getaway in 2021. A birthday ride in 2018 where the real gift turned out to be sharing trails with friends, something only understood in hindsight.
Then 2023 on the Sidewinder Trail, balsam root in full bloom, pedaling through what felt like living art. And most recently, 2025, nursing a knee injury while absorbing a blindsiding work reversal, still showing up, still doing the ankle pumps, still muttering the truest sentence of the whole archive: "Fuck you world, I just wanna ride my bike."
That line could caption almost any of these entries. It is not defeat. It is direction.