What is it about March 29th that keeps pulling me back to transition?
Twenty-one years ago, I was recovering from Lolo Peak, switching from climbing legs to road cycling mode, overheating cheap tires and dreaming of 50-mile loops. The whole meal-to-meal existence hadn't kicked in yet. Three years later, I was building up Lolo the bike at City Brew, racing plans uncertain but ready to roll anyway. A year after that came New Bike Day, that Christmas-but-muddy feeling where every hill transforms from chore to challenge.
Then the pattern deepens. In 2010, I was coasting into Lolo on fumes, literally, scones packed for friends, headed to Devils Slide with that bundle-of-nerves happiness. By 2011, the joy had fizzled into a 60-hour fast, trying to untangle why food had become my entire emotional landscape. Three years later, guilt drove me up Lick Creek for a post-work ski quickie, while earlier that same day I'd been fidgeting at Headwaters State Park, too cold to appreciate history.
Fast forward to 2020, and I was recognizing a trend, each move chasing warmer, shorter winters, never quite escaping March's extended cruelty. Two years later, Valley of Fire held me spellbound despite its rough edges. Then came 2023, the hardest March 29th, saying goodbye to Mom.
Last year brought Missoula's freakish early spring, pedaling through a stolen month with that "is this for real?" feeling. And this year, sharing resources for understanding myself differently, another kind of transition entirely.
Turns out March 29th has always been about preparing for something, whether it's road season, a race, spring, loss, or just understanding who I've been all along. The date keeps arriving like a checkpoint, asking, "Ready for what comes next?"