In the quiet embrace of night, with the city of Missoula a distant glow on the horizon, there are moments that transcend the mere act of cycling, transforming into a profound journey of connection, challenge, and remembrance. Last night, as I glanced across the street, a familiar smile found its way to my face, ignited by the sight of a dear friend. This friend, unlike any other, has been a steadfast companion through the highs and lows, a silent witness to moments of heartbreak, decision-making, and triumph over fear. Simple yet profound, connected to nature, and embodying the originality and beauty that ties me to the very essence of what I love. This friend, in spirit, shares a bond with the Alaskan flag, symbolizing freedom, adventure, and the wild that calls to me.
Our latest rendezvous unfolded during the third leg of the RMVQ, an epic journey that promised more than just physical exertion—it was a pilgrimage to the heart of what it means to ride, to explore, and to honor. The Rattlesnake Trailhead was our meeting point, a congregation of familiar faces and kindred spirits like Alden, Sally, Julie, Laurie, Lydia, Tom, and others whose names escape me but whose presence was felt all the same.
Lydia, with her instinctive grace, tended to my bike and nourishment, becoming an anchor of support in a sea of exhaustion. Tom, camera in hand, captured the essence of our journey, discussing the merits of nocturnal ascents with a passion that mirrored my own. Julie, undeterred by a broken camera, borrowed mine to freeze a moment in time, a precursor to the challenge that lay ahead—a nocturnal date with Sheep Mountain, a test of will and endurance that had beckoned me all summer.
The ascent was immediate, a confrontation with the mountain that knocked me from my bike and set the tone for what was to become a battle not just against the terrain but against my own limits. The setting sun’s last rays on Sheep’s face were a missed appointment, a reminder of the shifting priorities that this ride demanded. My plan, to pace myself for the duration, fell away as Sheep called my hand, pulling me into a reckless expenditure of energy, riding with a vigor that belied the hours already spent in the saddle.
Pain became a constant companion as I misjudged a step and collided with my bike, a jarring reminder of the mountain’s unforgiving nature. The “real” climb, under the cloak of darkness, was a world apart, its menacing beauty a stark contrast to the daylight’s warmth. Every switchback, every attempt to ride, brought me closer not just to the summit but to an understanding of what this journey represented.
And then, there it was—my friend, the Big Dipper, hanging overhead, a beacon in the dark, a reminder of the constants in our lives amidst the chaos of our challenges. At the summit, I paid tribute to Marcy, leaving a part of her amidst the wilderness that had tested and taught me so much. The descent, a rapid flight through singletrack back towards the lights of Missoula, was a cathartic release, a final stretch that brought me closer to understanding the battle on Sheep Mountain.
It wasn’t about winning or losing; it was about the journey, the moments of connection with the land, the night sky, and the memory of those we carry in our hearts. Far from the aid stations, yet closer to my friend than ever before, I realized that the true victory lay in the experience, in the enduring bonds forged on the slopes of Sheep Mountain, and in the silent conversation with the stars that guide us through the night.
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