It was somewhere around hour 5 of Day 3 of Camp Lynda last weekend when I made the executive decision that I wasn't going to make it back to Crested Butte that night so I might as well finish the ride. Cat and I made it to Junction around midnight on Sunday and after watching Cat frantically finish homework over breakfast on Monday, I headed back to the snow, proud of my tan lines and grinning from the memories.
It was a white-knuckle drive home and compounded with being tired, I was not stoked on life. Then the temperature didn't get above 10 degrees all week, it hadn't snowed in two weeks, and I had managed to time it so I was stuck working at the base area on the two coldest days. I fully expected to spend the rest of the winter dreaming of spring.
Yet, after the fatigue of more hours on the bike in three days than I had done in 3 months wore off, I was back to being excited about snow, and cold, and skiing. Well, maybe not about the cold, but I'm willing to make the sacrifice. I think that's a good sign.
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