Every summer I try to get to the top of all the high places around Missoula. That’s the goal, anyway, some kind of unofficial checklist I keep in my head. Looking back now, I’m starting to notice fall creeping in early. Oranges, reds, even our own tree in the backyard is turning. It’s not even September yet. August is barely hanging on, and the mountains already got the memo nobody sent me.

On this particular ride I set out for Marshall Mountain. Or is it called Marshall Mountain? No. Hold on, let me look it up. Turns out it’s Woody Mountain. Woody Mountain is also bigger than you’d think, one of those climbs that keeps unfolding new ridgelines every time you think you’re close, teasing you with a false summit or two before the real one shows up.

I did make it to the top. Got some pictures, the valley laid out below in that green and blue haze, the river cutting through town like it has somewhere better to be. Worth the burn, worth the wrong name I’d been carrying around all along.

Now I have to get back to work, since I promised the CIO a three-week turnaround on a major application for the entire university. So how did I get into this mess. I’m still not entirely sure.

August 18th, Twenty Years Deep

Twenty years of August 18ths, from packing for Glacier Park summits to peeing blood on Bloody Dick Pass to finally learning that showing up is sometimes the whole victory. The mountains changed, the stubbornness never did.

Read more: https://8i11.vercel.app/story/gds15hr7

This year is meant to be about catching up on the rides I do every year, the ones that have become a familiar part of my routine.

But somehow the timing keeps slipping away from me, and I find myself wondering how I've fallen so far behind on something so simple and repetitive. What is it that keeps pulling my attention elsewhere, leaving these rides unfinished on my list

Still, I'm holding onto the plan, trusting that I'll circle back and get through them before the year runs out.

Twenty-five years of August 16ths and somehow they all rhyme. Back in 2001 it was a sleepless night updating a website and dreaming up a hockey simulator called BHL, BHL Will Be Back, proof that this restless need to build something has been around a long, long time. By 2007 the restlessness had legs, literally, as a Wednesday night race turned into an unexpected solo battle for the podium, chronicled in Finishing Alone.

A year later came the punishing, glorious slog of South Side Dirt Road Ride, questioning life choices mid-pedal, the way we do. Then friends gathering for 27 Hours of Together, a moonlit scramble to a lake in Necklace Lakes weekend part 1, and a smoky, flu-tinged daydream of an emerald lake in Denial.

The years kept stacking, a parade stumbled into in Livingston parade, a lake-hopping singletrack epic in Hauser to Losekamp to Stockdale to Top, a stripped-down summary in Today in 30 seconds, a downhill run mostly for my own memory in Parker Point DH Full Run POV, a romantic wander through MaClay Flats in Joyful Trails, and last year’s honest wrestling match with the couch in Couch vs. Mountain.

What strikes me looking back is how little the core has changed. Still chasing the ride, still dragging myself off the couch, still finding friends at the end of a trail or a smoky race course. Some years I finished alone, some years surrounded, but every August 16th says the same thing: get outside, it’s worth it.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, the bear is getting into the bin again. This is apparently a recurring appointment on his calendar. Why bears are so committed to garbage, so willing to risk it all for a soiled pizza box, I genuinely cannot explain. There's something almost impressive about the persistence. It's also a little unsettling, not going to lie, picturing the aftermath waiting for us: lids ajar, liner shredded, the whole bin looking like it lost an argument. We've seen the crime scene photos before.

But here's the thing. Whatever's happening to those trash cans right now, it can wait. It genuinely, honestly can. Because right now there's a trail doing its dirt-surface thing at golden hour, a bike park full of jumps and berms and pine and momentum, and nowhere else either of us is supposed to be. The bear will still be raiding bins next week. This park won't wait around forever looking like this. Some things you clean up later. Some things you just don't leave early for.

August 15th, Every Time

A look back at over two decades of August 15th posts, from Mount Snow ski trips and grueling peak climbs to cyclocross builds, fat bike PRs, and a goat that wouldn’t yield the racing line. Turns out this date has always been about chasing mountains, one way or another.

Read more: https://8i11.vercel.app/story/c9d16f6v

Work has been a lot lately. Last night I turned to my partner and said, flat out, "I'm an idiot. I can't do my job. They're going to figure that out and get rid of me." Not looking for sympathy, just saying it out loud because it had been rattling around long enough. I have to imagine a good chunk of people reading this have had the exact same 11pm thought, staring at a ceiling, convinced the whole operation is one bad meeting away from finding you out. Maybe it's just what a hard season sounds like from the inside.

This morning, in the middle of all that, we checked the smoke forecast and Flathead Lake is supposed to be clear this weekend. So we booked a spot at Legacy Bike Park. Small thing, but now there's a reason to get through Friday that has nothing to do with spreadsheets or performance reviews. Even if the job goes sideways, I've got dirt jumps and clean air lined up.

Which got me thinking about the last time we were out there, camping at one of the state parks on the lake. Marvelous time. The kind of trip where you watch the light change over the water for an hour and don't feel one bit guilty about it. We're already talking about doing it again Sunday night, dragging the tent back out before the smoke rolls back in and reminds us who's really in charge of the schedule.

Funny how a body of water and a couple of nights outside can put a whole spiraling week back into proportion, not by fixing anything, just by being there, patient and unreasonably pretty, waiting for you to remember it.

August 13th, All Along

A look back at every August 13th on record, from a 2002 California comedown to 2025’s snowy misadventures. Butte 100 cramping, smoke-filled Missoula rides, mystical hidden trails, and a lot of stubborn love for the outdoors tie it all together. Turns out this date has always been about getting out there, no matter the year.

Read more: https://8i11.vercel.app/story/tdsdkj4w

We started the week the right way, plushies parked at Whitefish Mountain Bike Park with the lift line and the pines and the whole postcard version of Montana behind them. That was the good part. Flash forward to the next week, July 11, 2026, and I was riding at the Kellogg Bike Park at Silver Mountain when I hit a jump at roughly 28 mph. I launched an estimated 30 feet through the air before going over the handlebars and crashing into the woods. The impact left me with two significant injuries that, at the time, had not yet been examined by a physician or imaged. The bear handed me the keys to a long road to recovery, which felt about right given the timing.

My right hand had gone through the spokes during the fall, tearing off my glove and burning my thumb and hand against the rotor. I initially suspected a hairline fracture, but after seeing a physical therapist on July 28, he suspected a severe sprain or strain rather than a displaced break, based on the soft tissue swelling and how the tendons were moving. Just as troubling was the massive impact I’d taken to my chest from the handlebars, even with body armor, I lacked a chest plate, and I couldn’t breathe for about 30 seconds at the scene. My PT believed I had badly bruised ribs and costal cartilage, possibly even a bruised diaphragm. The following week, I felt a rib pop in and out, and every sneeze or cough set my recovery back and sent pain radiating through my back. I couldn’t lie flat without spasms and losing my breath, so I had to sleep propped up on pillows just to get through the night.

My mind has to be in plushie land. The real world is not acceptable.

I started physical therapy at Axis PT, where my rehab has focused heavily on thoracolumbar breathing exercises meant to engage my deep abdominals and stabilize my ribcage. When my PT screened my lung oxygen levels, they came back normal, reading between 96 and 97 percent, a small but reassuring sign as I continue working through the recovery process.

But as of today things are looking up and I am riding a lot again. Back to the plush life. Turns out the felt version of me heals a lot faster than the real one, and I’m finally starting to catch up to him.

August 12th, Every Year Apparently

A look back at every August 12th on record, from a Ray Charles concert on the New Haven green to trail falls, ranger run-ins, and an argument with a stuffed bear at Lake Como. Different years, same instinct: get outside and let the story write itself. Turns out this date has a pattern, and it’s a pretty good one.

Read more: https://8i11.vercel.app/story/6tjt0j51

That got us wondering: what if the air is actually clear up there right now? Would it be worth taking an extra day off just to go back? It’s the kind of question that lingers, half plan and half daydream, the way ideas do when you’re stuck inside and the smoke is pressing in close enough to taste.

My fondest memory from that last trip was watching Mo finally ride the Runaway Train run, which I’ve decided should really be renamed “Crazy Train” in honor of Ozzy Osbourne. Those were good times, fun times, one of my most cherished memories, especially since it was before my accident, back when I was really ripping on my blue downhill bike like the mountain owed me something. Looking at those photos now, the pines, the dumb grin on my face before every drop, it’s less nostalgia and more proof of life, evidence that I did in fact used to move like that.

For now, though, I think I’ll just try to hold my breath and see if I can walk around the block without breathing. Scientific method, more or less. It’s not Whitefish, but it’s what the day’s giving me, and some days the whole trick is just noticing what you’ve got left to work with.

August 10th, Every Which Way

Twenty-five years of August 10ths, from heat-exhausted races and rainy century rides to Yellowstone floods and creaky-kneed birthday bike camps. Every entry says the same thing in a different voice: get outside, suffer a bit, and love it anyway. A little archive of showing up, year after year.

Read more: https://8i11.vercel.app/story/r8e67ruj

So anyway, my thoughts are running through my head, but sometimes they step off the trail and end up trampling the wildflowers inside of me. Kind of like that PSA we put together: everybody stay on the trail. It’s strange how easily a mind can wander off course, even when it knows better. One second you’re thinking about coffee, the next you’re three tangents deep into whether marmots dream, and somewhere behind you a little sign is asking you, politely, to please stay on the path.

But for me, my big hope every day is to find a new trail so I can ride my e-MTB on it. And today, quite possibly, I get to ride with my favorite partner, Snuggles. I wonder where we’ll go next.

There’s something honest about not having a plan yet and being fine with that. The trail will show up. It usually does. And whatever direction we point the tires, the good part isn’t really the destination, it’s having someone, or something with four paws and questionable judgment about squirrels, along for it.

August 5th, A Long Ride Through Time

Twenty-three years of August 5th entries reveal one constant thread: getting outside no matter the smoke, snow, skunks, or heartbreak. From a 2002 morning run to Mo’s snowy pedal struggles in 2025, this reflection traces two decades of rides, hikes, and the occasional skunked dog. Some things change, but the trail always calls.

Read more: https://8i11.vercel.app/story/bzl3mrxe

It’s been a long, smoky, weird, hot, almost comically misfortune-laden summer so far. Even before it truly began, back before all the mishaps piled up, my partner and I took trips down to Kalispell together. Those drives became the foundation of something good, a quiet counterpoint to everything that would come later. Two people, one highway, and a whole lot of time to just be quiet together, which turns out to be its own kind of good medicine.

But the saving grace through all the chaos, the wrecks, the bee stings, the strange physical problems, has been the magical moments of nature we managed to share. On those trips to Kalispell, we found Flathead Lake waiting for us: its wildlife, its beauty, its vastness, its sunsets, and the simple pleasure of walking around in nature by its shores. There was a woodpecker working over a fence post like it owed him money. There was a sailboat cutting through water so sun-hammered it looked like scattered glass. There were mountains stacked up in blue layers behind it all, doing what mountains do best, which is mostly just standing there looking permanent while everything else falls apart. Amid so much misfortune, it was hard to know where to find steadiness, or whether it would show up again.

I keep looking back at those memories now, returning to them again and again. For some reason I can’t look forward and see beauty coming; it just seems to find me when I least expect it, and so I hold onto what came before as proof that it will. I don’t know why the lake keeps doing that for me, showing up steady when nothing else will, but I’ve stopped questioning it and started just going back.

August 4th, Every Time

Two decades of August 4th posts show one man’s consistent habit of riding bikes, getting lost, and occasionally nearly dying in the desert, all in the name of a good story. From Arizona work trips to Montana endurance races to a dog named Snuggles surviving a Missoula winter, the theme never wavers: go outside, see what happens. Turns out this date has quietly become an annual check-in with the outdoor life.

Read more: https://8i11.vercel.app/story/mfga3vca

I didn’t get in the rides I needed. Yesterday started reasonably enough, all things considered. Blood draw first thing, the kind where you stare at the ceiling tile and think about anything else. Then a PT session, the kind that leaves you feeling like a marionette with half its strings cut. Then wasp control, because something out back has decided my yard is theirs now, and I bought that Medic Earth stuff hoping to renegotiate the property line. Somewhere in there I swung by the bike shop for brake fluid, since I’d wrecked Mo’s back brakes over the weekend and needed to make it right.

I spent the evening working on the bike, and recovering, in that order, mostly. Recovering from the needle, recovering from the PT table, recovering from being a person whose body had opinions about the day. By the time I looked up, it was clear the new brake parts weren’t arriving in time. I’ve got a rule, simple and nonnegotiable: I don’t ride until I’ve fixed what I broke on someone else’s bike. Especially when that someone else is my partner. So I sat with that. Hemmed, hawed, reorganized my piles twice for no reason, considered and rejected the idea of just riding anyway about four separate times.

In the end, I stayed put. No ride. No climb up into those high shoulders of land above Missoula, the ones you can see for miles once you’re up there, the ones I told myself I’d get to this summer. Just a quiet evening lost to responsibility and a stubborn little rule I made for myself once and apparently intend to keep.

July 29th: Wheels Keep Turning

Two decades of July 29th posts trace one consistent cure for whatever’s wrong: get on the bike. From Bear Mountain hikes and Missoula singletrack to a broken ChatGPT agent in 2025, the bike always wins. A little history, a little self-roasting, and a lot of dirt.

Read more: https://8i11.vercel.app/story/la8qmdgl

It’s Monday, survival day, and I’m finally sitting down to sort through the backlog of photos and thoughts piling up like unread mail. Last week’s headline event was an ambush by whatever winged menace has claimed squatting rights under the porch or bike shed, bee, wasp, yellow jacket, jury’s still out. My lower legs and ankles took the brunt of it, two or three solid hits that turned into full-blown swelling and itching by evening. I spent the better part of a day toggling between cold compresses and quiet cursing.

Even so, I dragged myself out for an easy ride to the Rattlesnake corridor to see friends and send Aaron off properly before he hit the road. Followed it up with some yoga, which was a nice reminder that my flexibility and strength have actually come a long way since the bike accident. The rib’s still a stubborn holdout though, popping in and out like it’s got its own agenda, tightening the muscles around it every time. Working on bikes in 100-degree heat definitely didn’t help negotiations.

By nightfall it was ice on the legs, hand on the ribs, focusing on breathing evenly and not spiraling. Still, there’s something steadying about noticing real progress in your body even on a day that handed you insult on top of injury.

Rewinding to Sunday, June 28th, we were camped at Placid Lake State Park. Mo wandered off into the woods and came back with stories of hidden art and dragonflies. I pointed my bike up the Jocko Valley, chasing gravel and curiosity toward Arlee, until tribal land boundaries turned me back around. Some roads, and some limits, are worth respecting.

Recovery isn’t a straight line, but it’s still a line.

July 27th, On Repeat

A look back at thirteen years of July 27th posts, from racing the Butte 100 in 2012 to questioning eMTB obsession in 2023 to finding balance through therapy and poetry in 2025. The throughline is a restless love of the outdoors paired with an honest wrestling over whether biking has become too much of a good thing. Turns out the real adventure was learning when to rest.

Read more: https://8i11.vercel.app/story/53ok30qc

Blue isn’t allowed in the house. He knows this. He does it anyway, and today I caught him mid-heist, curled up asleep on the couch while Mr. Bear sat there looking innocent, clearly on lookout duty. The nerve of these two. I decided the only reasonable response was to abandon the scene entirely and go ride my bike instead, which, in hindsight, was the right call.

Out on the trail I noticed my bike is basically the same shade of pink as the wildflowers crowding the meadow, which felt like a nice bit of accidental coordination. There was still snow tucked into the shady spots, the kind old-timers call devil dust because it shows up uninvited and overstays its welcome, so I turned around before it decided to cause any trouble. A little ground squirrel popped up along the trail like it was trying to tell me the same thing, get out while you can. I called out for it to come back so I could get a better look, but it just scurried off. Yeah, yeah, that’s all well and good, buddy.

This weekend we’re debating Crystal Lake or Clear Lake, and honestly I can never keep the two straight, but the plan is to repeat what worked last time. Mountain bikes, that ridge trail with the view that makes you stop pedaling just to stare, a snack in the meadow, maybe another attempt at circling the lake we got hailed out of last time. Life out here is like an old growth tree, one steady trunk of a favorite place, but every visit branches off somewhere new.

That’s the update. I’ll drop a few flower close-ups and some shots from the area, then sign off until tomorrow’s planning session.

July 23rd, Rain or Shine

Across more than two decades, July 23rd keeps circling back to one idea: push through the discomfort and something good waits on the other side. From Tyler Hamilton’s Tour de France stage win on a broken collarbone to a reluctant rainy walk through a sculpture park, these posts trace bike rides, camping mornings, storms, and small acts of community. It’s a reminder that the best days often start as the ones we almost talk ourselves out of.

Read more: https://8i11.vercel.app/story/frxek0ta

Since I bundle appointments like errands, I went straight from there to a filling. This is where things got genuinely rough. I mentioned my fractured wrist and possibly fractured rib beforehand, and they strapped the blood pressure cuff on anyway, twice, both readings high, off some ancient machine that’s probably less accurate than guessing. Then the actual procedure: they nearly drowned me, cranked my jaw open so hard my lips hurt, and left it dislocated enough that I couldn’t bite normally for a full day. With the ribs already barking at me, I had to go recover somewhere afterward, like I’d run a marathon instead of gotten a filling. Second worst dental visit of my life. They already booked me for next month. I’ll find a reason not to show.

Some days remind you that discomfort is just the toll for maintenance, and you pay it, complain a little, and go looking for quieter ground to shake it off.

July 22nd, Twenty Years Deep

A look back at nearly twenty years of July 22nd posts, tracing race camps, bike rides, quiet family days, and one particularly humbling moto trail detour. Some things change, but the pull toward mountains and bikes never does. A reminder that showing up, even lost, still counts as living well.

Read more: https://8i11.vercel.app/story/3890y9x6

Yesterday had a couple of small wins tucked into it, the kind you only notice when your body’s been in negotiations with gravity lately. I walked to Walgreens for a wrist brace, and somewhere around the halfway point I got my answer about the rib situation: still sore, right where my elbow likes to land, like carrying a side stitch that never asked to come along. Home, nap, some stretching in the early morning quiet, then the real test: a bike ride to the grocery store, just to see what my body had to say about it.

The wrist brace had opinions of its own, mostly about getting in the way, though it did its job when it mattered. No sharp pain, just the low hum of discomfort and a hand that tired out faster than expected. My thumb, meanwhile, had its own subplot going. Skin scraped clean by a tire or rotor, and by last night it looked like it was flirting with infection, a little white pus showing up uninvited. We cleaned it, left it bare with some ointment, and I went to bed wondering if I’d wake up to good news or a bigger problem.

Turns out, good news. Thumb looked fine by morning. Sleep itself was the rougher part, since it was the first night I skipped the Excedrin and painkillers, wanting to see where I actually stood. Uncomfortable, but manageable, and that’s the kind of data I was after.

What about these images? So this weekend, Mo and I are testing a new adventure tool, and I’m genuinely looking forward to it. Fewer trips down the World Cup downhill track that seems personally invested in my demise, more mornings like the one where I climbed a mountain on my bike just because it was there. Healing slowly teaches you to notice things you used to take for granted, like a thumb that isn’t infected, or a rib that only aches a little.

July 17, Two Decades of Dirt

A look back at every July 17th entry across more than two decades, from a Sikorsky business trip to Montana mountain bike races to a sparkling Salish Sea sunset. The throughline is clear: work fades, but the pull toward trails, water, and adventure never does. A reminder that some obsessions just keep circling back on the calendar.

Read more: https://8i11.vercel.app/story/tbqeznxl

So where were we. What was I even doing before all this. My usual move is to dig through photos I haven’t sorted yet, because apparently getting older comes with this compulsive need to organize everything into tidy little albums. I pulled up the 2026 folder and, sure enough, I’m behind. Can’t remember the exact dates, but Mo and I went camping down the Bitterroot, east side I think, somewhere in there where the creeks were running high and the bear grass was going off everywhere you looked.

This weekend, Mo and I are probably skipping the bike park, skipping the World Cup downhill circuit, and just heading back out for more of this instead. Good timing too, because scrolling through these shots reminded me exactly what I love. Adventure, obviously. But adventure with Mo specifically. That’s the real hook.

Looking back at that trip, the new trails, the creek crossings, all those white bear grass blooms lighting up the understory... it’s a good reminder that the best recovery isn’t just physical. Sometimes it’s remembering what you’re recovering to get back to.

July 16th, On Repeat

A look back at every July 16th on record, from a hopeful new Connecticut transplant to decades of mountain bike races, rained-out plans, and trail adventures with Mo. The dates change but the theme stays the same: get outside, deal with whatever happens, and call it a good day anyway. Links to all the original posts are included.

Read more: https://8i11.vercel.app/story/5wnsqfya

Just got back from a weekend at Kellogg Bike Park, and it didn’t go entirely smoothly. First crash, I found a tree the hard way and came off the bike, black eye and all. Helmet and goggles did their job though, so no real harm done, just a bruise that makes me look tougher than I am. Turned out later that day the headset had been frozen solid the whole time, which explains a lot and forgives nothing.

The second crash was worse. Hit a jump wrong, went over the bars, and my hand got caught in the front tire, scraped and burned from the rubber before I slammed chest first into a stump hard enough to knock the wind clean out of me. For a few long seconds I just lay there, lungs refusing to cooperate, before I got enough breath back to yell for help. Someone came running, got me out of there, and that part I’m grateful for.

It’s been a couple days of slow, steady progress since. I’m skipping the physician visit since the healing’s going well. Full mobility, no telltale signs of cracked ribs this time, just soreness when I move fast or cough too hard. My wrist is still tender from jamming into the ground, swelling’s down, and I can lift a pot of water without wincing, mostly. Cold, heat, contrast, compression, repeat.

I keep wondering if I’ll get back on the bike again, even just to roll around the driveway. Today’s goal is smaller than that. Just a walk.

July 13th, Every Time

A look back at every July 13th across 25 years, from a VW bug road trip and an Army desert deployment to mountain bike races, backpacking trips, and a winter ferry ride to Orcas Island. The details change but the itch to keep moving never does.

Read more: https://8i11.vercel.app/story/dybhbluw

There I was, out with Darkwing again after nearly six months apart. Darkwing’s my YT Decoy, the electric mountain bike I’d all but abandoned once my Enduro came along and stole my heart. The plan was simple: drain the batteries one last time so they’d recharge properly, then bring Darkwing home, clean her up, snap some photos, and sell her off to someone who’d actually give her the attention she deserves. A good send-off before a good home.

Heading up Mid Tower toward Woody Mountain, I swapped batteries, dropped my bag, and pushed on to the summit. That part was everything riding should be. Quiet, clear, the valley stretched out below like a reward for showing up. On the way down I grabbed my bag and the spare battery and pointed myself toward home.

That’s when a wasp decided my tongue looked like a worthy target. It came at my face out of nowhere, and despite my shouting and head-shaking, it got the tip of my tongue before retreating. I rode home monitoring my own breathing like an amateur paramedic, half convinced my throat might stage a protest. Twenty minutes later, no swelling, just a throbbing tongue and a steady drool problem.

I texted Mo. She called immediately, calm as ever, promising I’d survive. Then I went outside to clean Darkwing for her farewell photoshoot, and wouldn’t you know it, more wasps showed up. I swatted one with a towel and paid for it with a sting on the calf.

That night, mouth buzzing, calf buzzing, I pressed mud on the stings while Mo researched yellowjacket alarm pheromones. Apparently, injured wasps can rally their own nestmates, though rarely wasps from unrelated colonies. Somehow I still managed to prove the exception.

Some days remind you that nothing owes gentleness, only views.

July 10th, Over and Over

A look back at every July 10th on record, from stressed-out 2002 to fire-lit 2008 to the healing dirt loops of 2025. Same date, same bike, same restless need to get outside no matter what life throws at it. Turns out July 10th has always been about riding through the mess.

Read more: https://8i11.vercel.app/story/zrdwpjjh

It started simply enough, two people going in two different directions, and it was no one’s fault but mine.

Today was one of those moments. I spent the entire day arguing, circling the same points, trying to bridge a gap that had no interest in closing. By the time the sun started dipping, I’d gotten zero work done. The hours just dissolved into static and frustration, the kind of day where you look up and wonder where it went and don’t love the answer.

So I did what felt good yesterday instead: I went for a ride. There’s something about handlebars and moving air that resets a scrambled head better than any argument ever gets resolved through sheer will. I lean on AI to help me navigate things, translate the world a little, smooth the edges. Problem is, it was built on neurotypical brains, not mine, and that gap between how I think and how it responds has a talent for showing up at exactly the wrong moment. The gap’s still there, waiting for tomorrow. But for an hour, moving through green light and white blooms, none of that mattered.

July 9th, On Repeat

A look back at every July 9th entry, from a chaotic Tour de France stage and a disastrous drive to a mountain bike race, to solo rides, apartment hunts, and quiet moments of wanting to fly away. Two decades of the same pull toward trails and adventure, told in nine small snapshots.

Read more: https://8i11.vercel.app/story/e8txozdv

I sat there as the sun came up, watching the light creep over the ridgeline while Mo stirred beside me, still half asleep. I was buzzing, honestly. Finally hauling the downhill bike out to Whitefish felt like a long time coming, the kind of morning where the coffee tastes better because you know what’s ahead.

But somewhere between packing the van and actually rolling up to the lift, I got stuck in my head. There’s this tension I can’t quite shake between two versions of a good day on the bike. One is trails with roots and rock gardens and enough tech to keep your brain fully engaged. Adventure.

The other is the bike park, lift-served laps, no thinking required, just gravity doing what gravity does best. Both are fun. Both scratch a different itch. And I never seem to land on which one I actually prefer, which is either a sign of a rich life or mild indecision, depending on the day.

Today, the scale tipped toward the park. Lift laps, flow trails, … I have had enough flowers.

July 4th, Every Which Way

A look back at nearly two decades of July 4th posts, from muddy 24-hour races and cross-country nostalgia to hammock naps, small-town fireworks, and a frustrating afternoon wrestling with AI. Some years were triumphant, some were just a wash, but every one of them tried to pay attention to something worth noticing.

Read more: https://8i11.vercel.app/story/yya2j0j5

Here's a thing I keep noticing lately: signs are disappearing. Not stolen exactly, just gone, or bagged up like evidence at a crime scene. Patty Canyon had trail markers wrapped in plastic bags for reasons nobody explained. Last weekend we genuinely couldn't tell what drainage we were in because every marker that would've told us was missing. I don't know if it's budget cuts, vandalism, or some bureaucratic fever dream, but it's becoming a pattern, and not a comforting one.

Anyway, the beauty of exploring blind is that sometimes you stumble into something worth the confusion. We ended up pushing bikes through a boulder field that looked like it had been dropped there by a glacier with a grudge, rocks stacked and scattered in every direction, forcing us to walk more than ride. It was slow, sweaty, occasionally ridiculous work, but the kind that makes you feel like you've actually earned the view. Gold Creek itself, rushing white and fast through the trees, cold enough to make your ankles ache just looking at it.

No signage told us any of this was here. No trailhead map pointed the way. We just followed a trail south east until curiosity ran out, then pushed up until it was obvious to head back.

July 3rd, Twenty-Four Years Deep

A look back at every July 3rd entry across twenty-four years, from sweltering humidity and brutal mountain climbs to bikepacking wisdom and marmot-chewed cars. The throughline is simple: expectations rarely survive contact with the trail, but showing up always does. It’s a reminder that motion, not perfection, has been the point all along.

Read more: https://8i11-ls3pkz4wt-boneshakerbikes-projects.vercel.app/story/fbsabu4p