Missoula Bound

Ah, the eternal inner dialogue: “WHAT! AGAIN?” Yes, indeed. But as I meandered through my morning commute, an epiphany struck amidst the hum of the engine—cue the dramatic soundtrack. And now, as my other half incredulously inquires, “WTF… Drive?”, I plead for silence. Let’s lay out the canvas of my reasoning, shall we?

Firstly, the dreaded car journey was a necessary evil due to my tardy awakening. The agenda post-work demands a session of indoor perspiration—yes, a workout. So, to the voice in my head bemoaning this choice, I say, “Go smooch a kite”—eloquence in defense of my schedule.

Now, to the crux of my reasoning that emerged as dawn broke: Friday beckons with the promise of adventure. Awaiting the arrival of my bumper, courtesy of Fed Ex, marks the beginning. Ah, the bumper—a victim of a Bozeman snow bank’s wrath—is finally on its way to redemption.

Once the mechanical steed is whole again, why not whisk my Turner to Pipestone for a swift dance with the dirt? And given the proximity, Missoula whispers my name, suggesting a visit. A fool, you query? Nay, an adventurer at heart, caught in the web of logistics and longing for the open road and trails. So, to my other self, doubting and debating—let’s embrace the journey. Am I a fool, or simply a soul yearning for the call of the wild, wrapped in the practicalities of modern life? Only the road ahead holds the answers.

On this day in history, Back in the mystical land of ’04, I found myself perched on the edge of destiny, with the “2004 EFTA Race Schedule” in hand. Picture me, wide-eyed and bushy-tailed, ready to etch my name onto the unforgiving terrain of cycling lore..