Some dates just keep circling back to the same bike, the same fatigue, the same stubborn need to get outside anyway. Back in 2002, work was stressing me out and my body was already sending warning signals, confirmed the next day with blood tests I couldn't really afford. By 2006 I was sweating it out at a laundromat, doing laundry and dreaming of a different life, student loans in default and all.
Racing gave some structure to the chaos. In 2007 I was clinging to a lead in the Montana Off Road Series standings, and by 2008 the mountains themselves were on fire, first with a hopeful angle on the burn closing Mount Sentinel, then the raw chaos of watching it happen in real time, everyone blogging about it. A 2009 Thursday night ride dodged rangers and lost a riding partner on the way home, while 2010 brought the eternal quest of riding Sheep, mechanicals and all.
Then came the quieter, heavier years. 2013 was self absorbed in the best worst way, wrestling loneliness on empty roads. 2014 found me riding to Yellowstone Lake, feeling like a run-down old biker among the ice. 2020 was messier still, a broken phone and a broken van somehow smoothed by Lulu Pass Road and a bison welcome. 2021's slideshow to ward off depression and 2022's storm left little behind but titles, which somehow say enough. And in 2025, Rock, Branch, Roll proved the formula never changes: frustration in, forest out, dignity questionable.
Twenty-four years of July 10ths, and the throughline is stubbornly simple. The bike keeps showing up when nothing else will.