Winter Forgot to Show
Snow, Please Clock In
It is getting harder and harder to find snow, which feels like a personal insult when winter is supposed to be doing one job. Last night I drove up to Deer Creek anyway, chasing whatever scraps were left. The snow that remained was wet and heavy, the kind that clings to tires like it is thinking about commitment. It was fifty degrees up high, which feels illegal. There was still plenty of snow up there, surprisingly untouched, no tracks, no people, just that quiet you only get when everyone else has already decided the season is over and gone home.
That quiet followed me into today, where my instinct kept yelling Lolo Pass, go now, this is the window. But instinct does not check calendars. Work does not care about weather, daylight, or whether your brain is already running hot. Everything had to be squeezed in before logging off, and after that there was the familiar JavaScript problem. Drive somewhere fast enough, ride before the sun drops, get home by six to eat, or accept going to bed hungry because stopping breaks the whole fragile system. It feels confusing, not because the choices are complicated, but because there are too many of them stacked too close together, all demanding the same slice of energy.
The ride itself turned out okay. I dropped into the Crystal Meth downhill route, at least the middle and lower parts, which is a sentence that sounds irresponsible even to me. It was fun, sharp fun, the kind that makes you laugh and swear at the same time. A little scary in spots, enough to remind me I am still awake in my body. Are these good times or bad times. I honestly do not know. I am busy in that way that feels productive from the outside and exhausting from the inside. Burnout does not always look dramatic, sometimes it just looks like trying to fit joy between meetings and meals, pedaling through melting snow while the season quietly clocks out early.