April 3, 2026. It was my birthday weekend and Snuggles made her famous no sugar cake, as always. We set up camp at the Muchwater Recreation Area, tucked beside the Clark Fork, a place that always feels like a cheat code for spring when winter still haunts other parts of Montana. The air had thawed, the ground was mostly dry, and our bikes were finally back in their natural habitat. We pedaled, we pushed, we suffered up trails that reminded us that “birthday” is just another word for “you’re not 30 anymore.” And somehow… we loved it.
But here’s the part I wasn’t quite ready to admit… I’m 59. Almost 60. And it’s not that I’m confused about aging... it’s that I can feel it. Not just in my knees, but in how the rides feel longer, the recovery takes more time, and the joy sometimes fights with the voice that whispers, “Was this easier last year?” And the worst part? Even Snuggles is starting to feel it too. We don’t bounce back, we creak. And when your partner-in-adventure starts making those same “oof” noises getting off the bike… yeah. It hits different.
Still, the ride turned out fantastic, maybe because of that. The views were ridiculous, the sunlight bounced off the river like a screensaver from the gods, and we still got out there. We still did the thing. And if I’m being honest... that little sliver of vitality still showing up for cake, bikes, and sunsets. That’s enough.
Sometimes the win isn’t speed or power... it’s that you’re still showing up, creaky knees and all. How about that for a f’ed up silly statement?