I’ve been rolling this question around for a few days now, turning it over like a rock I’m not sure I want to look under. Has enough time actually passed, or does it just feel that way because I’m jonesing for a downhill run?
Those are two very different things, and I’ve learned the hard way that my body doesn’t care which one I’m hoping for. I still feel it in my ribs, a dull reminder every time I turn over in bed. My wrist is the bigger tell, honestly. I tried a push-up the other day out of pure curiosity, more of a scientific experiment than a workout, and it folded like a lawn chair. That’s not a maybe.
That’s a no. I’ve got PT scheduled this week. Part of me, the part that still remembers the bike park with something close to longing, wants to just show up and pretend none of this happened. But I know better than to charge back in like the mountain owes me a rematch. So here’s the plan, and it’s not a thrilling one, but it’s honest. I’ll go back to Kellogg, and I’ll take insurance again, no dh bike, Hendrix instead, because my body is still finishing a job it started months ago and I’d rather not interrupt it.
August 23rd, Every Single Time
Two decades of August 23rds show one consistent habit: whenever life gets loud, the answer is always to get outside, whether that’s Butte drive-ins, Beartooth storms, or an accidental roadside hike. From 2004 to 2025, the trails change but the impulse never does. Turns out the best tradition is just showing up for the adventure, planned or not.
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