April 9th seems perpetually torn between collapsing into itself and launching off a cliff. Some years I'm horizontal on the couch with black corn chips and Slap Shot II, declaring victory over my cycling shorts. Other years I'm solo-ing 75 miles to Lolo Pass with minimal supplies and a river filtration plan that would make any safety coordinator weep.
The pattern holds: epic rides followed by driveway collapses, mechanical failures met with rage-kicking, and bacon-fueled race victories that somehow work despite all logic. There's waving goodbye to people, staring at ceilings making promises, and discovering I have an entire secret world between first and second coffee. I've been called old while living in a van by the river, captured Gooseberry mornings in slideshow thingies, plotted RMVQ solstice madness from my COVID couch, and somehow ended up podcasting about toothpaste.
Twenty-four years of April 9ths, and the through-line is clear: this date refuses to let me settle. It demands I either rest completely or push absurdly hard, no middle ground allowed. And honestly? I wouldn't have it any other way.