2024 was hot enough to fry a helmet strap. Anything below 6000 feet felt like riding through a hairdryer, so I stuck to the high trails… where the air’s thin, the pine needles crunch louder, and your legs curse you in slow motion. Meanwhile, Mo was off chasing light across the country—film gear, set calls, hotel ice buckets. I stayed behind, pedaling through the heat shimmer, holding onto a rhythm that kept the noise down. Just the usual: water, wheels, and whatever was left in the tank.
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