"This is my Western States" is the mantra that came out of many, many chats, pep talks, and text threads leading up to the 2014 edition of the Western States Endurance Run. From everywhere -- Bennie in yoga, K and the Dills, race reports and iRunFar -- the consensus seemed to be that the key would be rolling with the punches. As if one hundred miles were not enough, there would be numerous unforeseeable bonus obstacles along the way. And I would need to embrace them, or my long day would seem longer or end prematurely. If, instead of rolling with the punches, I started punching back, I was likely to get knocked out. So whatever came at me, this was my Western States. My story was going to include this or that, and I better get next to it. "This is my Western States." could also read as, "You're mine, bitch!" But it was nothing like that.
It started weeks before the run, when I began to realize that otherwise more or less ordinary events were working their way into my Western States experience. Whether it be picking a meal or fretting over a logistical detail of the big upcoming weekend, I would hear it reminding me that it was already happening. I was making choices and dealing with details that would influence the big day, so I better be wise and calm. Since this was my Western States. And by the time I got to Squaw, it was all around me. All of it was my Western States.
Elisa and I took a couple of days off, so that we could arrive in Squaw Wednesday night for all of the Thursday talks and events. The one bedroom suite with balcony was rad. Squaw Valley was rad. Being surrounded by stone mountains and trees was rad. Being surrounded by restaurants and a market so we did not have to leave was rad. Soaking it all in was rad. We did just about all of it.
I woke up, went out to the balcony to check out the view (since we had arrived at night), and was shocked to find...rain. It was cold and misting rain. Even though it was only Thursday and the moisture would add some steam to the canyons, this was undeniably fantastic news. It would pull down the temperatures and add to the water on the course. More places to soak hats, cool feet, and maybe even dunk whole bodies. No better way to lower your core temperature. This gloomy weather was a warm welcome to the runners. Sweet. History will call this an easy Western States. Great. Thanks.
We went to the welcome ceremony, which had been driven indoors by the cold and rain. Race officials (like John Trent and RD Craig Thornley, aka to me "Uncle Craig") gave welcome speeches and began to lay out the week. The official hike up to the Escarpment would be cancelled by the weather, but anybody was still welcome to hike up. And Squaw would be comping Western States runners and support a gondola ride to High Camp, the resort area at the top of most of the lifts at a bit above 8,000'. The Olympic Rings from the 1960 Squaw Valley Olympics are still there, and you can see Lake Tahoe in the distance. Elisa and I saw marmots. We had never seen marmots before and thought it was a clothing company. The flag ceremony would be a little lower in elevation than usual to stay out of the wind and mist, closer to High Camp than the Escarpment. The flag ceremony is held to remember members of the Western States family who have passed. The views from up there are amazing. All the stone and the trees fighting through them to provide a forest for us to look at. My Quicksilver buddy Marco took care to warn me how magical Western States is, as if he was afraid someone might get so caught up in everything as to actually miss it and not soak it all in. I thought about this the whole time, took really slow, deep breaths, looked around a lot in such a way as to burn in memories. Thanks, Marco. But it was cold on the mountain, and I did not have any warm weather gear for pedestrian speeds. I had warm running gear, but only shorts and flip-flops for lounging. So the ceremony on the mountain and hike back to High Camp was cold. But this was my Western States, and it was good.
We had met up with Quicksilver teammate Sandra and her boyfriend Kurt up there and met them for lunch back down in Squaw Valley before the talks. (Another Quicksilver teammate, Pierre, and Kurt had hiked up to High Camp, while the rest of us took advantage of the comped gondola.) While at lunch, I saw Clare and Scott and Kendall and Natalie getting into town. Elisa noted that it was like a conference, with the various talks, registrations, and events. They had talks on crewing, the course, and running States for your first time. I went to all of those. They had a veterans panel, but by then I was pooped. The talks had great content for first-timers and were a cool place to meet and chat with other runners. Elisa and Kurt took a Starbucks break at some point. Sandra and I tried to soak it all in. After that, we all had dinner at some Irish place. It was good enough, but it was Western States.
Friday morning. Packet pickup! Waivers, weigh-ins, swag line (Yes, swag line!), and passport photo. It is like Western States from a firehose now. All the runners go through packet pickup. The starting line is up nearby with the countdown clock going. The elite runners are mixed in. Everybody is saying hi, catching up, shaking hands, and taking photos. This is what everybody is talking about when they say it is almost impossible to stay chill and keep the nerves down. I actually did remarkably well at staying calm, yet focused (so far in the story, anyway). But by Friday lunchtime, Squaw Valley is shaking first-timers by the shoulders and screaming in their faces, "Hey sucker! You are running Western freaking States!!" complete with some overspray. Then the mandatory runner meeting. We are all in one room with our crews. They introduce some of the top elites and talk about ribbons. I just happened to be sitting in a pack of elite runners on the floor. Everybody is crammed into this room with limited seating. Elisa, Sandra, Kurt, and I got good spots. Great spots. But we were still on the floor, and so were some of the top runners. I heard one guy ask another his goal time. He said he wanted to run sub-17 and sneak into the top ten. Wow. Me too, I guess (sub-27 and top 200 was more like it in my case).
Photo by Elisa.
We had pizza with Sandra and Kurt between packet pickup and the runner meeting. Pizza seemed to have magical restorative powers last time I was in the canyons for WSER training camp. But I did not want it to be the last thing I ate before going to bed, so it was lunch. Dinner was sushi, a frequent prerace meal of Lewis & Park, with Guy and Maria. They had arrived in Squaw, and I had to get a drop bag to Guy for Duncan Canyon and Dusty Corners. I went over everything in the bag and when and where I might need it, along with a fairly precise plan about what I wanted to happen when I first saw them at Duncan Canyon, the Quicksilver aid station. I think what Guy heard (or at least what Guy retained) was, "Here is this red bag. It is mine. I might want it." Elisa and I learned that anything more detailed than that needs to be written down. (Like precisely when to change batteries.) Lesson learned.
After sushi, Elisa and I went back to the room to try to settle down for some sleep. I knew it was going to be tough to impossible, so I was prepared to just lay there and do my best to rest. So long as I could get a few hours, I would be fine. With a 0330 wakeup, I still had several hours from which to countdown. Stan arrived, while I was still up. Eventually, I got some sleep. Alarm goes off. Gear up, eat some oatmeal, and off to pickup my bib. Get pinned up, then to meet with Quicksilver teammate Bree, who was working race coverage for the folks at UltraSportsLive.TV. She had asked me to do a "regular guy" interview, because it is so widely known that I love attention. I agreed, for the same reason. I could hear terror in my voice, but I otherwise think it went well. I snacked a little at the continental breakfast and chatted with other runners. Stan and Elisa took some pictures. I was so stoked that they were there at the Start. National Anthem. Some words by Gordie. And the traditional shotgun blast. I was ready to go. I went. It was my Western States!
http://www.ultrasportslive.tv/loren-lewis-western-states-100/
Western States starts off with its longest climb. Four miles from just over 6,000' at Squaw Valley to basically the Moon. In this case, the Moon is the Escarpment at over 8,500', but rocky and barren like the Moon and seemingly just as high. Pretty much everybody hikes this section, with the exceptions being only the top elite runners. I did not really feel any rush of adrenaline. I was not quite mopey, but more ready to get down to business. Ready to tackle a serious task, but not all that fired up about it. In hindsight, I think I was way under-rested. All that time in Squaw was great, and I would and hope to do it again as part of the whole experience (but much less of it for subsequent trips, fewer events and nights and such), but it was not all that restful. Also, a few days at altitude may have helped make it a non-factor as far as breathing on raceday, but it also may have contributed to me feeling a little bit sluggish. Who knows? But in any case, I was far from fighting back the rush and having to force myself to conserve on the climb up the Escarpment. More like I was totally content to solemnly march my way to more runnable terrain.
I guess I am pretty good at analyzing my runs along the way. I mean, my race planning on the fly really does seem to workout great. It is pretty easy, since I hardly ever have issues with what I can eat and my body does not fight me out there. So as long as I am careful to have enough water and take care of logistics like batteries and pacers and socks and turkey sandwiches, I can pretty much wing it for the rest of stuff (like pacing). I was just telling Jill. I cannot remember the last time I wondered how hard (or whether) to run a particular section of a course. My body (how bouncy I am feeling) and the course (and how far I intend to go) tell me exactly how to get over every section. The brain has a way of metering out effort based on available resources and the task at hand. I am convinced that this is so, that some folks are better at it than others, and that I am extremely well tuned-in to mine. And when I am ultra distance trail racing, my brain simply and quietly sends my body over the course the most peaceful and efficient way it knows. And for my Western States, it was going to have to be a bit more slowly than usual. Maybe because I was tired. Or a bit overwhelmed. But off we go!
So up and up and up I went, past a waterfall, until I could see Lake Tahoe in the distance, until we all saw our most favorite sunrise, through the unbelievable (because of the extreme drought) wildflowers, over a zillion rocks, to the top of the World (as far as you could see). The top of the Escarpment is extremely steep. So much so that you have to put a hand down a time or two to actually climb, as in CLIMB, up. 2L Ellisa was up there somewhere. There were several volunteers and spectators up there. Even an aid station. I was so grateful to see them all, especially 2L Ellisa. She had been at Squaw Valley all week working the Fleet Feet official store for WS gear. We had a little chance to visit and snap a photo earlier in the week. But she was up there! That was an extremely difficult piece of the Planet to access, and that there were spectators there was the first of many, many times gratitude darn near moved me to tears. As I said countless times that day, thank you so much for being out here.
But then it is back to work. You crest the top, it gets dark again in the shadow of the mountain you just climbed, and it is downhill singletrack through granite and wildflowers. Sounds lovely, right? It is. Except it is also as rocky and technical as the top of the Escarpment is steep. Big rocks the size of cantaloupes not just in the trail. They ARE the trail in some sections. Lovely stuff, but really technical. You could hardly sightsee your way through the wildflowers, because you were constantly and endlessly finding the best spot for your next step -- with harsh and immediate consequence for tiny errors. (That part was a lot like San Diego, so I was even more glad to have those miles with me.) Except for working at Duncan Canyon and what I could see from Squaw, the course was all new to me until mile 30 and Robinson Flat. The rest I had done before at least once in the daylight. But this stuff was all new, and it was spectacular. Uber remote and wild. Special stuff. Lots of mountain sounds and streams from the rain earlier in the week. But yeah, the rocks. Pretty stuff, but technical.
There comes a point in most races where fatigue sets in to the point that your feet just do not come off the ground as you command them. You want them at a certain height, but only have the effort to get them to maybe 85% that height. The difference in that 15% often means kicking a rock. In the first ten miles of my Western States, as soon as the course got technical, I was kicking rocks. I saw them and would instruct my feet over and around them, but I was just failing to execute. My legs were heavy and just not precise. I kicked so many rocks that I began calling it my tribute to the World Cup. After exceptionally solid contact, I might even raise a fist and yell goooooooooolllll!!! This was the first true test and the real meaning of "This is my Western States." Because I was chanting it right then and really leaning on it. Because right then my Western States was kicking a bunch of rocks. My feet, my weakest links, the things I was convinced I had to take the best care of, were taking a serious beating. Rocks were a big part of my Western States, and I had already failed to keep my feet out of the story.
Right about this time, about ten miles into the course and in the most rugged and remote terrain I had ever seen, there was a pack of several (but fewer than a dozen probably) spectators. Just standing there clapping and ringing cowbells on a rugged patch of land just off the trail miles from the aid station. The aid station itself was in the middle of nowhere and probably included several miles of off-road driving followed by more miles of hiking. It probably took them hours to get there. Maybe they camped overnight to be there first thing in the morning, since it was probably barely 0800. They were yelling nice things and calling me amazing. One even called me cute. That was it. I lost it. I started crying. I just felt so lucky. So unworthy of these people's admiration. I could not believe they would spend so much effort to cheer me on in such a place. Can you imagine? How can I deserve these people and their cowbells? I should be cheering them for being so kind. This pack, by being so remote and unexpected, epitomized what I would feel and how I would be treated all day. And night. And the next morning. The praise for being part of such a great event seems so absurd, and the gratitude brings me to tears still. Thank you so much for being out here.
Now back to work. It was about this time that I passed Kristin from the Seattle area rocking the 7 Hills visor who had became my buddy at training camp. We were usually near eachother on the course at training camp, so I expected to see her. She was taking care on a steep, technical section of downhill. Her and I were both very cautious on these parts. We exchanged greetings, and she explained that she was not going to blow her race rolling an ankle so early on this tough stuff. I agreed with her, and I was also letting a lot of people pass me around here. I was happy to have seen her. I think we were in the Granite Chief Wilderness at about this time. As the name implies, lots of rocks. But this is also a particularly beautiful section of the course.
Also right around here is the Lyon Ridge aid station, and what follows is the most bitchen stretch of sky running I have ever done. Sky running is actually a technical term, referring to high and steep mountain running. This qualified. I use it to refer to running up so high (and higher than your surroundings) that you look out to nothing but the sky. All the birds, trees, and other mountains are beneath, not around, you. It is a verb, but it is also a feeling. Sky running is the best bite of ultra distance trail running. As in, like eating an entire tray of brownies (all delicious) for that one slightly burnt corner (best bite). Sky running. Miles and miles of spectacular beauty as far as the eye can see, but twenty minutes along that ridge looking down at the entirety of existence as you are able to perceive it. That bit. Overwhelmed by the feeling of divine fortune. Why me? Of all people to see this rare sight of perhaps the most beautiful bit of Earth on Earth. Do I even deserve to be here? It makes me want to cry. Again. (I am embarrassed by how easily this sport makes me cry. Almost never in pain or distress, and usually with gratitude or bewilderment. I cry at weird things, and it makes me look like a dork. Or a wuss. Or just a strange dude. But the emotions are intense, and they are not at all bad. They embarrass me, but I am not ashamed of them. And those intense blasts of emotions are what these stories are all about, so I cannot see leaving them out.)
But then, laughing like a baby. That I laugh like a baby was realized during TRT training camp. I was running along with Jill, and the trail twisted as such that all of a sudden we had this ridiculous view of Lake Tahoe and the magnificence of the Sierra that surround it. I pointed at it and just started laughing. Jill got a big kick out of it. And it made me think, why do I do that? Start laughing when I see something rad like Omar running up ADO, Kristin finishing SD100, or Lake Tahoe? I tripped out on this for a few minutes, while running along the trail. And I figured it was like how babies laugh. Babies have a range of expressions. But at the extremes, they crack up at things that please them (funny or not) and cry at things that bum them out (even if they are not technically sad). I laugh like a baby.
Official (purchased) race photo.
And when I was looking out at the endless expanse of mountains and the nature covering them and all the pure awesomeness, I just started laughing. And my Western States was sweet! This part of the course was marked by some hand painted boulders, reminding me of the old school ruggedness of the event's history. I thought of what a treat this was to me and tried to imagine having to pass this out of necessity like the pioneers. I saw a lake in the distance. Quicksilver teammate John (not Burton) was nearby and said that the lake was French Meadows Reservoir. I had already been hoping that that was what that was. French Meadows Reservoir, still miles away but not far, is a half mile from Duncan Canyon -- the aid station hosted by Quicksilver Running Club since forever.
Incidentally, about this time, I was passed by Gordie. Uh oh. That was depressing. Gordie barely made the cutoff at Duncan Canyon last year and was only hoping to make it to Robinson Flat this year. He ended up making it to Michigan Bluff or Foresthill, but still. It was a serious wakeup call about how closely I was threading the early cutoffs. I was still convinced that everything was progressing just fine, only a little slower than planned. I was going to make the early cutoffs, which all agree are the tough ones, easily (effort) but without much cushion (time). Once I got out of the canyons, both the course and the cutoffs would get a lot easier. That was when I would build up my cushion. I would come as close as just about anybody out there, in my estimation, to even or negative splitting Western States, and everything would be just fine. Then, about this time, Gordie fell, and I passed him. That was much more depressing than being passed by him.
I was probably only an hour or so away from Duncan Canyon. I had been dreaming about Duncan Canyon since the lottery in Auburn back in December and probably sooner. My club's aid station and me running at Western States. I was going to drop in, and the place would go nuts. Hugs. Cheers. Photos. Tender, loving care. My dropbag. Guy and Jill. Ice. Greg. It was going to be amazing. Anyway. I had been running with this guy from Texas who had trained for Western States on a stair stepper and by running up and overs of overpasses. He wished he had more practice running on trails. After all that World Cup caliber rock socking, I was feeling pretty lucky again. I love stories like that one. I told him that I pretty much knew what to expect from that point on. I mentioned that Duncan Canyon would be a bit more lively, since crew access was allowed. He did not have any crew (yet, maybe a pacer later, I cannot recall). I told him that Duncan Canyon was actually my club's aid station, so if he needed anything let me know. He said, oh I bet this is kind of a party atmosphere for you then. I said I expect the place to go crazy. I told him that I have been dreaming about this moment. Then, as if to make sure he knew I was serious, I told him that I had had actual Duncan Canyon dreams. He said, oh no I can imagine.
I saw a spotter. I got goosebumps. I fought back tears. Again. I heard Greg announce "the last Quicksilver runner, boy he must be having too much fun out there". Then...it was everything I thought it would be. And it had the same dream-like quality that the actual dream had. Even recalling it now, it was not like a real experience. Everything I saw was like looking through a keyhole. Sounds were the same way. Flashes of faces. High fives. Another face. Some words. My name. I remember nothing about my handler -- the person assigned to me through the aid station. Exchanged a high five with Tonya the photographer. Yeah! Lisa. Guy handed me my ice bandana on loan from Franz -- the third item on my three things I need at Duncan Canyon list. Greg announces Gordie coming in. I asked for my sunglasses and full coverage hat, and he had to run off for them. Nom nom nom. Stephen and Maggie. Oh, HI! So great to see you. Thanks for being out here. I took the sponge bath just in case, even though it had not been anywhere near hot yet. I dropped my orange warm thing and gloves with Guy and Jill or somebody. Before I knew what was going on and well before I had any chance to digest and enjoy it, I was running down the hill for the canyon separating Duncan from Robinson Flat. Jill had to run after me with my forgotten handheld. And just like that, it was over.
Photo by Tonya.
This was the last bit of new-to-me trail on the course. Next aid station was Robinson Flat, and I had done the rest at training camp. I could pretty literally see the rest of my day unfold. Not only that, Elisa and Stan were at Robinson Flat. At mile 30, for the first time since before 0500 and the Start, I would see Elisa. With other friendly aid stations, crew access, and pacers in Foresthill, I would have people with me the rest of the day. I leap-frogged Gordie again, passing him while he was dunking in the creek. I only dunked my hat. It was remarkably not hot. I saw Kent at the bottom of the canyon snapping photos. Thanks for being out here! The climb out to Robinson Flat was not on my radar. I knew there was one, but I had not mentally circled it as I had the Escarpment, Devils Thumb, Michigan Bluff, and Robie. It kind of caught me off guard with how tough it was, but it was another pretty part of my Western States.
Robinson Flat is a lively place. More accessible than Duncan Canyon, the official program calls it "the first major aid station". I think I got weighed there. I saw Elisa pretty much right away, and she told me to proceed through the aid station and then meet them by the Subaru. My handler was a friend of Elisa from Trans Rockies. Cool. We were tickled by the coincidence, especially her. I ate and refilled, and then went looking for my main crew of Elisa and Stan and Maria. Elisa told me that she had heard from Coach Franz and that it was OK to speed it up a little and spend less time at the aid stations. I told Elisa that I knew it looked slow. That I seemed behind and slow. I tried to assure her everything was going according to plan, but there was a new, slightly slower plan. I did not have the pop I was hoping for, and I was going to have to run the race a little differently. But there would be no huge slowdown in the second half, so everything was just fine. Try to forget how close I am to the cutoffs. The course and cutoffs get easier. And try to convey all this to Franz. She gave me a confident smile and said she knew. She was OK (for) now. She trusted me, since she had seen me darn near even split at Miwok. But then...she told me that I needed to take my lights in case I did not make it to Michigan Bluff (the next time I would see her/Stan/Maria) by dark. I was crushed. Totally demoralized. I told them that there was no way that would happen. That every plan I had, even the slow ones, had me in Michgan Bluff well before dark. That I was even still hoping to catch the sunset with Guy (as in past Foresthill). Of course, they were totally right. Based on how long it had taken me to get to Robinson Flat, it made sense for me to take my lights now. Not even just to be on the safe side. It just made sense. But ouch. At mile 30, to be told to take your lights. It was like being forced back into my little guy pants. Stan told me it had been decided in a way that made me realize it was dumb to argue. I took the lights. This was my Western States, and all this new stuff was creeping in.
And off I went. I knew the rest of the course now. I had done all the climbs, just maybe not all on the same day. Just a matter of getting it done now. I would see Guy and Jill again at Dusty Corners, Dwight and the Striders at Last Chance, the canyons, Elisa and Stan and Maria at Michigan Bluff, then pacers from Foresthill. It was going slow, almost painfully slow, but it seemed very manageable. The problem was still the lack of cushion. If I kept plodding along without any major incidents, I would be fine. But if anything bad happened, I was screwed. I could not afford to stop for an hour to tape an ankle or puke my guts out. I could survive and finish at my pace, but there was still no margin for the big error. It was starting to feel like work, but I was still pretty OK with it.
The next aid station was Miller's Defeat, a no-crew stop. Aid station volunteers are the coolest. They provide bright spots on tough courses. Their mere presence is appreciated. Western States aid station volunteers are on another level. Not that regular aid station volunteers are any less terrific, but at Western States it is just out of this World. Each runner gets a handler -- somebody to follow them through the aid station and provide assistance. These people are angels. I was a handler last year at Duncan Canyon. I thought it was neat, but did not really have the proper appreciation for it. Now I do. Holy cow, this is the greatest thing ever. This is how it went down at Miller's Defeat, which was the first time I was really able to process it. But it was more or less like this all day. I come into the aid station, and somebody immediately greets me. (If it is a medical check, they go for your pack, so they can weigh you. This was not.) Handler asks me if I need anything. I empty my handheld and ask for it to be refilled with electrolytes. I take off my pack and ask if they can refill it with water, again since I was supposedly coming right up on the hottest part of the course. While my fluids are being refilled, I go for the calories. The one hundred mile buffet. Boiled potatoes with salt, PB&J quarters, watermelon. Whatever is going down, and as much of it as possible in the time I have (plus some extra potatoes and PB&J to go). Dude shows up with my bottle and pack. I start jamming food in me to free up my hands, so that I can take my stuff back from him. He says, whoa take it easy. He says, I am here with you until you are ready to leave. He says, I do not mind holding your stuff. He says, take your time and eat as much as you want, but don't get too comfortable here you should go soon. I stopped trying to jam things into my mouth and pockets. I relaxed for a second. I did not feel guilty about this man holding my stuff for me. I was able to think about what and how much to eat, rather than just as much of anything until the bottles are full. I had never experienced anything like it. But hey, it was Western States. And this was mine. And handler dude, you were a highlight of it.
I saw Guy and Jill at Dusty Corners, but that was a particularly fast stop. Seemed like it anyway. After that was Last Chance, hosted by the Stevens Creek Striders. Dwight would be there. Allen. Michele. And then, finally, I would be in the canyons. I was anxious to get them over with. And from there, Michigan Bluff and my turkey sandwich and then Foresthill and my pacers. But first, Last Chance. I saw Allen and Michele. They took pictures. Thanks so much for being out here. I asked for Dwight. He was looking for my dropbag. I did not have one at Last Chance. He made his way over to me. Dwight told me I that was executing perfectly. He thought my steady right-before-the-cutoffs pace was exemplary. That was good to hear. I confirmed that the big, steep down followed by the big, steep climb up to Devil's Thumb was coming up next. Yep. OK. Let's do this. As I was leaving Last Chance, I saw personalized signs for runners friendly to the Last Chance staff. Mostly folks affiliated with the Striders. There was one for me! It said, Loren Get Buckled. I read it as Loren Cat Buckled and thought, cute they know I have cats. Then I saw what it really said, which made much more sense, and chuckled. Nice little boost for what was ahead. The canyons.
Photo by Allen.
It was definitely supposed to be hot by now and was just plain not. Hottest part of the day. Hottest part of the course. And it simply wasn't. This would go down as an easy Western States. My Western States was an easy one. Fine. Better than fine. I was going more than slowly enough and blessed by a cool and easy Western States. After Last Chance, you head down to Swinging Bridge to cross the American River. Except Swinging Bridge was burnt out by the fire last year, so we runners were treated to a bonus river crossing. Before climbing out to Devil's Thumb, there would be a cable-assisted river crossing, fully manned, with full dunking possibilities. It was the same route we had taken during training camp. I had been thinking about the dunk all day. It was going to cool me off for the dig up Devil's Thumb, perhaps the gnarliest climb on the course -- certainly the steepest section of any length. The way down is very steep too. And rocky. Pretty technical. I am sure that the long downhill is fun for some. I am not much of a downhiller anyway, and this is way too steep for me to get comfortable. I took an odd step on a rock and my knee took a little detour sideways. There was a definite ouch. It would catch unpredictably on the steep stuff, unless I took it really easy. I had to back off a bit. At this point, I was unsure if it would run warm and go away, get worse, or what. Not time to panic yet, but, if I got much slower on the downhills, I was in trouble. I was hoping the dunk in the American River would help it.
I got down to the river and started to cross. Thanks, volunteers in the cold river all day, for being out there. Down in that first canyon, it was already getting dark. The Sun was starting to set, and down in the canyon it was already set well past the horizon. I started to second guess my dunk in the river. Getting too hot had not been a problem. I mentioned my dilemma over dunking to the cable attendant, and he noted that I sounded like I had already committed. That was enough for me. Down I went, fully submerged. I lost my favorite sunglasses momentarily, but the volunteer spotted them and I was able to grab them. It was a good soak, and I never got too cold. But I was troubled by how dark it already was, and I still had another steep descent to El Dorado and the climb up to Michigan Bluff. Elisa and Stan were certainly right about me taking my light at Robinson Flat (hours and hours ago), whether I ended up using it or not. I passed John, who I had spent a lot of time with in the morning but not seen for hours. I passed Paul, who I was seeing for the first time all day. Both really seemed to be struggling coming up the Thumb. Last I saw them, neither of them were moving. They had stopped to take a break. I wondered if either of them would make it to Michigan Bluff. Up Devil's Thumb, I was able to forget about my knee. It seems to go on forever, but I had been up it before. I knew it ended. And when I started to catch glimpses of the stone monolith for which the climb is named through the bushes, I knew that I was getting really close. A kid (pre-teen) was spotting. Thanks for being out here. Welcome to Devil's Thumb. I think the weighed me again here. The stretch from Last Chance to Michigan Bluff is the toughest on the course. I was basically half way there.
I was hoping to run Western States at 160-165. Leading up to the race, it seemed like I was going to run it at 170, which was fine with me. I was about 172, when I left for Squaw. With all the tapering, carbo loading (which I do not believe in outside of a few hundred extra calories in the last couple of days before a race, but use as an excuse to eat much more yummy stuff over a longer period of time anyway), recovering from long weekend runs in the mountains, being out of town and eating out for weekends in the mountains, eating out the whole time in Squaw, etc., my weight was definitely heading upward. I weighed in at registration Friday at 176.4. That was what was written on my wristband. I told them that was heavy. I had been pigging out my whole time in Squaw. They said, don't worry we will weigh you again tomorrow (raceday, when you pickup your bib). I weighed in at a little over 176 again. At the prerace briefing they said that you would not be pulled because of your weight, but it would be a factor. They said it was common to lose about 4% of your body weight during the race. I said, yeah, but the trick is keeping it off. And got a good chuckle. At the first weigh-in during the race, at Robinson Flat, I weighed in at 172 and joked that I only hoped I could keep it off. I was worried that they would think down 4 pounds was a lot. I was not worried, since I thought 176 was inflated. But I was worried that _they_ would think it was a lot. They asked me how I felt. I said great. They said fine. I weighed 172 throughout the rest of the race, including the Finish, except for 173 at ALT.
From Devil's Thumb it is back down another steep canyon to El Dorado Creek. All of a sudden, I was aware my knee again. It would unpredictably seize up with a sharp but not terrible pain at higher (remember, I am not that fast nor graceful downhill anyway) speeds on steeper descents. I think the fear of it seizing up and sending me down hard to the trail, or off of the trail which could have been really serious and not too unlikely on this section, slowed me down as much as the actual pain. But the sharp pain and instant of no mobility slowed me down. Half running had me sort of thumping down the trail, and I was slamming my steps down. I knew that was not sustainable. I knew I had to land as lightly as I could. but still quickly. Somewhat. All things considered. This was my new Western States, and it was going to be even closer than I thought.
I do not remember crossing El Dorado Creek. The only thing I remember about the climb to Michigan Bluff, in spite of it being one of the big ones I had mentally circled, was that it was getting dark. It was going to be dark way before I got to Foresthill. So much for getting to run some of the Cal Streets with Guy in the last bits of daylight, which had been a secondary goal of mine throughout the day. But yeah, I do not remember much about Devil's Thumb to Michigan Bluff, except going downhill hurt and it was getting dark. That is a tough section. I guess that I was zoned out the whole time is OK to pretty good.
I definitely remember Michigan Bluff though. Things seem to have started to burn in again there. For one, that was a big stop on the raceday plan. My turkey sandwich was there, along with Elisa and Stan and Maria. I was officially allowed to have caffeine (according to me), and my espresso coconut water was there. I had heard that Ann (14-time winner) used to live in Michigan Bluff. She seems to hang out at that aid station. She was there at training camp. She was coaching and crewing John. I asked her if she had any communication with him. She said no but seemed concerned that he had not arrived yet. I told her that the last time I saw him, he was not moving. About then, somebody came up and asked me about my feet. I was thinking, do you know me? because my feet always hurt (when running fifty or so miles). She said well if you have any issues at all with your feet *THE* Western States foot guy is here. It is worth having them checked out if you think you even might have any issues, she said. This is the closest I have been to health care in the United States in several years. I did not want to wait or to further delay my sandwich stop, but I was sold. Plus, it was an excuse to sit in a chair. I had to wait, maybe even several minutes. I expressed my concern about waiting and how close I was to the cutoffs, and the lady assured me that it would be quick and worth it. I am trusting the experts now. I "finally" got seated in one of those reclining deck lounge chairs. Elisa ran and got me my sandwich and espresso coconut water, so I could get started on those and make more efficient use of the time.
It is hard to tell if the pedicures at Michigan Bluff are a best kept secret or what. One person reacted like, oh you did that good they are amazing. Franz had never heard of it. As far as I am concerned, it is definitely a thing and worth the wait. I have never seen anything like it. It was wonderful. Check this out, after running through mountains, rivers, and canyons for 55 miles. I sit down in the reclining chair. They, yes they, lean me back so my feet stick up to what will be working level when they sit in their more typical camping/lawn chairs facing me. I have a nice young woman on each foot. They take of my shoes. Take off my socks. Wipe down and inspect my feet. Cut off any extra skin. Ask the doctor if he sees anything serious. He does not. They rub my feet with ointment. Elisa fetches fresher shoes and brand new socks, and they put them on. YES! That, the rest of the sandwich and espresso coconut water. That was sweet. It was the craziest thing. The rockstar treatment that the runners get at this race with handlers and pedicures is top notch for sure. It almost seems over the top. Almost embarrassing. Get over it. Love it. It rules.
But now it is definitely getting dark, and I still have seven miles and the smallest canyon between me and Foresthill. I leave the foot zone and go over to the area that Elisa and Stan and Maria had set up for me to finish my sandwich. I change my shirt and grab a light jacket. I get my lights and ask Elisa and Stan if they had changed the batteries. Lights were a big part of the prerace briefings. They made it seem like lights were right up there with blisters and GI issues when it came to things that could sabotage a race. And not just battery issues. People focus on being sure they have enough batteries, then fall and break their light(s), and all the batteries in the World are no good. So I had extra batteries AND an extra light AND so did my pacers. Also, I have learned from experience that it is wise to change the batteries at the last minute. Otherwise, your light(s) may get turned on in a pack or in transit, and your "fresh" batteries may be well on their way to dead by go time. So, I asked if Elisa and Stan had changed the batteries in the lights they had given me at Robinson Flat. No. I gave them back my lights, and they changed the batteries, with the help of Ace. Ace was going to pace Noe, who had been pulled. Ace ended up escorting a runner probably stuck without light or pacer between Michigan Bluff and Foresthill. Michigan Bluff was by far my longest stop, but it was great there. I headed out and needed light almost immediately, and this truly was the darkest part of the course in my Western States.
I was caught off guard by being caught off guard by how much it sucked to be on the trails alone in the dark. There was no moon, as in none. It was super dark. It was not scary at all, as far as critters or the boogieman. The scary part, for me, was finding confidence that I was still on course. After dark, to me, the best part about having a pacer is having a second set of eyes watching for course markings. For most of the section between Michigan Bluff and Foresthill, Ace and his new runner were at least nearby. So I knew that I was not lost. But when we got to the downhill part, they left me. I could not keep up with much of anybody on the downhills now. So eventually it was just me, and it kind of sucked. I was actually looking forward to Bath Road and the short, paved section leading into Foresthill that I was pretty sure that I could not get lost on. When I got there, I heard my name. It was Quicksilver teammate Melanie. Just hanging out at Bath Road. With a delicious North Coast beer of some sort. She called my name and let me know who she was, since it was so dark. I was like, Melanie that sucked. Being out there alone in the dark sucked. Am I going to make it? (I was really starting to doubt my finish.) She was like, heck yeah you are going to make it. You look great. You want some of my beer? I was like, I totally do but I am disgusting and going to ruin your beer. She was like, go ahead I will wipe it off. She fired me up. Just that she was out there. She had sent me an email a few weeks before Western States. Get this. She was about to go out of town and wanted to be sure she sent me a note before the run. It was a super sweet and thoughtful note. To see her next out there at Bath Road was a beautiful thing. It made it all so undeniably genuine. I was glad to see her after the race, even if it was just for an instant that I barely recall, to tell her that she was the perfect boost at the perfect time when I needed it most. Thank you so much, Melanie, for being out here.
The Bath Road stretch did not seem nearly as long as it did during training camp. Cool. I was rolling into Foresthill now and would see the entire crew and more soon. Elisa/Stan/Maria will have merged with Guy/Jill and Dwight by now. I saw Helen and undoubtedly some other folks. It was a much quicker stop than I had originally planned, since the darkness and the long stop had come in Michigan Bluff. I know I got weighed again, but I do not remember much. By now, I am being much less diligent about eating and S-Caps. This is a dangerous thing to say, but I think I had done so well fueling earlier in the race that I really was coasting along just fine on reserves by then. Foresthill, which was supposed to be this grand reunion with my assembled crew with extra time to celebrate and the daylight and legs to run down the Cal Streets with Guy for a while, was over in a dark, moonless flash.
But I had a pacer now! And even on a bum knee, and in the dark, the Cal Streets are still pretty runnable. Definitely joggable. Guy missed the first turn. Is this still a trail? he asked me. Haha. So much for the extra pair of eyes. But for real, he was still warming up. He had us on course the rest of the night. The Cal Streets are mostly downhill, mostly gradual, exquisitely runnable (on their own), and a great place to make up time on the course. Guy and I were doing our best. Having a pacer really does help, since by now in a race you can literally forget to push. You can settle into a slow cruise on a difficult section and find yourself stuck in it when the course opens up again. A pacer reminds you to push through, and Guy was doing a great job. For the rest of the way, I was mostly passing folks, but there was still quite a bit of leap frogging going on. It was extra dark, warm and breezy, and you can pretty much always hear water. Even in the dark, it is a really nice section. Something about hearing the river, but not being able to see it. We chatted. Six-minute hill went by quickly. I could imagine Guy just burning these trails up. I bet he is dying to get back out there without a boat anchor (me after 100+K) and with some daylight. Come with us to training camp next year, Guy. Day 2 starts in Foresthill and is darn near an all out sprint to the river for some.
I knew from training camp that the 18ish mile run from Foresthill to the river is more like a 12 or so mile run to the river, followed by a 5 or so mile run along the river. So whereas at training camp I got to the river and thought the day's run must be almost done, with Guy I knew we still had a ways to go. Everything, like six-minute hill, seemed to be passing much more quickly than it did at training camp, even though I was tired and it was dark this time. I chalk it up to the benefit of having some company and familiarity with the course. One nice surprise here was that the night shift at Cal 3 was staffed entirely by the Trail Mix branch of my AARP (Auburn area running peeps). I knew that Nick might be there, and maybe Joel. The whole gang was there! Dan, John, some combination or all of Susan, Marley, and/or Linda (cannot recall all who was at Cal 3, but it was a solid TM showing). Thanks for being out here!
First, Guy heard Rucky Chucky. Then, we saw it -- all lit up. In "life" time, my miles with Guy seemed to go by really quickly. In "race" time, it seemed like an eternity. I kept wanting to hear that I had finally banked a comfy cushion for a nice, relaxed finish. Guy was trying to reassure me that I had plenty of time and that I was banking more. The problem was that I knew it could easily be an hour or so from No Hands, and if there was anything like a sudden critical system failure I was screwed. We got to Rucky Chucky Far. Heather was there. Heather is a Trail Mixer and new pal. I met her at training camp, but it might have been TRT training camp. She was super sweet and made sure to let me know she would be out there and offered to have any special treats on-hand for me. Another friendly face was enough for me. Thanks for being out here. Dwight was here too and still seemed to be pleased by my pacing. I guess I would have been pleased too, if I had been doing it on purpose. Instead, it had just become survival pace. As in, keep going and you might barely make it. From Rucky Chucky Far the aid station, there is a short but steep drop down to the water level. Just stopping to say hi to Heather and Dwight and eat a little was enough for my knee to have locked up. Getting down to the water was really tough, and I panicked a bit. My right leg was mostly straight, and I had to swing it down each step. I told Guy I was screwed. He said just keep going. It loosened up. OK, good. For now.
The actual river crossing was certainly a milestone. Even a landmark. It is a pretty famous aspect of the race, not to mention the gateway to the home stretch. Elisa was on the other side of the river. So was Jill, ready to pace me to the Finish. Hopefully, Guy thinks it is cool to be able to say he paced a Western States finisher across the river. I would brag about that. He should. There was a cable to help us cross. Something to hold onto. Plus, there were volunteers on the cable pointing out good places to place your feet in relation to submerged glow sticks that lit up the boulders and other hazards in the river. Thanks for being out here, all night in the river even. Guy and I crossed to Rucky Chucky Near and started hiking up to Green Gate. We ran into Elisa coming down right away. She just missed us crossing. It was nice to be ahead of my crew for once. We hiked up to the aid station and the rest of the team. Green Gate's other big thing on my race plan, second to swapping pacers, was a cup of oatmeal. Maria was waiting on the water from the aid station crew. A Trail Mixer I had not yet met in person recognized me and snapped a photo. Hi! Thanks for being out here. I sat in Elisa's chair for a minute, like I had at Robinson Flat and Michigan Bluff (but not at Foresthill?). I was diligent about hourly (or every four miles, fourly?) S-Caps all day, and cramping had not been the slightest issue. Sitting for a tiny bit seemed safe. Cup of oatmeal and another espresso coconut water and, now with Jill, off we went.
20 miles with Jill. The most normal thing in running, as far as I am concerned. It is a very familiar and comfortable place, in some pretty extraordinary circumstances. I knew that Greg and I had gotten from Green Gate to the Finish in under 7 hours without hardly running a step. Jill and I had about that much time. Comforting, right? Since I had done it before. Wrong. What if I got stopped somewhere? The knee, rolled an ankle, stomach, etc.. Allowing for 2-3MPH from No Hands. It was still just too close. Jill and I would hike the steep downhills, most of the uphills, and try to run everything else. I was working on the turkey trot pace I learned from K in San Diego. Jill's section did not have the huge net downhill like Guy's, but it was just as runnable in terms of being flat and rolling (until the climb to Robie). We were moving well over 3MPH pretty comfortably. I usually like my pacers behind me, but I knew this time, for Western States, I would need them leading me. Pulling me without touching me, but still literally pulling me. Guy and Jill were both excellent with this. I think it is instinct to most trail running buddies. You do not ask, do you want to run faster this section? You just slowly pull away from your runner, and they will follow if humanly possible. Jill just calmly pulled me through the woods.
She did not get much night running, unfortunately. She needed the practice for TRT. But I was so slow, that she only had about an hour until dawn started to break. I was about a full day in now. 24 hours of leaning forward and swinging feet to land beneath me. I guess maybe an hour after Jill's shift started we were able to stash out lights. The weather was perfect, as it had been since the Start. Running with Jill was definitely in my comfort zone. It was as close to peace as I was going to get, only interrupted by fretting about having enough time to enjoy the glorious walk through Auburn with my crew. I spent way, way too much time worrying about time during my Western States. But I was approaching the next mega treat along the course, ALT.
ALT is the Coastside Running Club's aid station. CRC is my other club. My coastal club. K and Coach Franz and Coach Jen and Margaret and Norm and Chris and Gary and all those folks. I remember ALT a little better than Duncan Canyon, but it was still a little blurry. K ran a little up the course to greet me with a huge hug. I asked her, desperately, Am I going to make it? She was like, YEAH you are going to make it, without the slightest hint of concern that I might not make it. That was comforting. I got weighed. For the first time all day/night, I weighed 173 (not 172). I made the joke that I had been making since Friday. I said, Oh no! I was really hoping to keep the weight off. Already gained a pound back! Haha. Oops. Not funny in that context. Everybody's mouth kinda dropped open as they got all concerned about my body retaining fluids and being all out of whack. But it was a joke, and the pound was likely a trivial blip of data. But now it had everybody in medical's attention. They pulled Jill aside and told her to watch my fluid intake. Bad joke and bad timing. Oh well. We made it through that. Medical asked me if there was anything else they could do for me. I thought about my feet and Michigan Bluff. I wanted another pedicure. I asked Franz if I had time to stop for them to check my feet. He sensed that this was not a critical stop and made a stinky face like, dude no you do not have time. There were lots of hugs and photos and encouragement. They have a Christmas theme and had a stocking for me. The kids held up letters spelling my name, which I missed in the excitement. But it was time to go.
Next up was Hal and his Rogue Valley Runners aid station at Brown's Bar. It used to have a reputation as a rowdy spot where you could get served alcohol. This may still be true. It is definitely still true that you can hear the music as if it is all around you well before you get to the actual aid station. I warned Jill that we were not as close as it sounded. When we got to the aid station, it was probably 6ish in the morning. I saw them breaking things down. Hal was there. I knew it was his aid station, but I did not expect to see him cleaning up so bright and early in the morning. Hal! He flashed his big smile, and we bumped knuckles. Other than that, Jill and I were really, really fast through the aid stations now.
Around then, we passed Jim and his pacer Marty. Jim already had his 1000-mile buckle for 10 finishes. He was not moving. Marty said he was injured, and they needed 22-minute miles to the finish to get there on time. Jill and I wished them well but kept moving. It was super sad. I felt like a jerk for not stopping to try and help, but we had to go. We did not have time to spare. Sorry, Jim. I look up to you, and that broke my heart. It was great to see you at the Finish chatting it up, smiling, and doing well. We will be back out there again someday soon enough.
Not much course left from here. You climb up to Highway 49. They serve hot breakfast there. But after weighing me, the sweet aid station attendant smiled and said, You better go. Up to the meadow and then down to No Hands. We passed Kendall and Natalie. Natalie was not feeling well, but they were moving well enough. She was going to make it. For some reason I thought that if I could see No Hands we were going to make it. But until then, it was crunch time. I asked Jill to tell me when she could see it. Shortly thereafter, she saw it. We dropped down to the aid station. A big pack of Pamakids was there cheering runners. They went nuts when they saw me. Lots of screaming and hugs. It was fantastic. I almost missed the aid station, which is here on the near side of the bridge. I went back to check in at the aid station, and they reference all my fans. It was cool. And I was finally starting to enjoy it. I knew I was going to make it now. But only just now.
I feel like I should have made more of a deal about my right knee. It was a huge part of my experience on raceday. It made me panic. But the most substantial thing it did from a practical standpoint was it slowed me down dramatically during the parts of the course best suited for making up time. I was mostly at peace with my slower pace all morning, since I knew I could really make it up after Foresthill. Missing that step on that first big descent into that first big canyon took that away and kept me uncomfortably close to cutoffs when I was supposed to be cruising. I came to find out that if I were to pause for literally two seconds, literally as in one-thousand-one one-thousand-two count, my right knee would or could seize. And then it would take about a quarter mile of walking to loosen it up again. And every single time that happened, there was terror that it might be the time that it never did loosen up -- and it might end my race. From this side of Auburn, however, it hardly seems like a big deal at all. It DID loosen up everytime. It did NOT end my race. And it HAS gotten steadily better ever since (meaning it is not likely to be a lasting injury). No big deal. Now. But it was a big part of my Western States.
But now I knew I was going to make it. We ran across No Hands and up the initial, relatively flat part of the climb to Robie. Jill kept running when it turned steeper to keep me going, but would not let me get too far behind. We caught a decent pack of runners hiking the final half mile up to the Robie Point aid station. I was feeling some pop now and ran by them all. Now there were a lot of people around. Once you get past the Robie Point aid station, you are IN the town of Auburn. On paved city streets with houses and everything. So there are a lot of pedestrian spectators around, and it is finally OK to congratulate you as if you were done. Now it really is in the bag.
Jill and I breeze right through Robie. We see Elisa and Greg and Stan. Greg hands me a beer. I drank it. Thanks for being there, Greg. We see Guy and Maria. They join the parade. Somebody says something about sub-29 being possible, as if any time goals matter at this point. Still, I asked how much time we had for that. I actually said, Fuck it, out loud. It was not the sub-29 that motivated me in the slightest. But I realized that I could run. It was uphill, but runnable, so it was knee friendly (as opposed to downhill). And these people lining the streets of Auburn were going to see me running. I could run, so I should. I took off, that beer sloshed around, I got dizzy, I dropped Greg and Stan, and Elisa, Jill, Guy, and Maria ran with me onto the track. It just made my cry again writing this. It was the greatest thing ever. We did it. All that worrying and suffering was already forgotten. I was baby laughing. I was careful not to catch the guy in front of me on the track. I eased up to give Tropical John a chance for more proper introductions. My crew peeled off for me to run that final 100 yards down the track. I did not hear a word Tropical John said. Helen was there. They hung a medal on me. Lots of photos. People started coming down onto the track to congratulate me. Not just people, but my people, but I cannot remember who all they were. We did it. I ran Western States. Two years from finding out about the race. Hearing about it and thinking, That is impossible. I am going to do it. And I did it. 28:53:33.
Official (purchased) race photo.
Dwight got me a plate of hot breakfast and helped me get off my shoes. Thanks, Dwight. Your care and friendship is exceptional. I last saw Jim around Brown's Bar. He dropped but was in good spirits hanging out at the Finish. John dropped at El Dorado Creek. I had last seen Paul about the last time I had seen John. I heard he was coming in. Late, but he was going to make it. He did. We hung out for the awards ceremony. It was hot and uncomfortable, but we waited for them to call my name and hand me my buckle. I got a hug from "Uncle" Craig the RD. He recognized me at Squaw and knew me by name. That really fired me up. I was tickled like a little kid, asking Elisa and Sandra, Did you see that? He knows me. He knew my name! But I got a hug from Uncle Craig and am now welcomed into the Western States family.
All the worrying and suffering. Gone. Even what you are reading here. It was hard to write it as it happened, since the memories are so kind to the actual experience. Do not get me wrong. It is not like the actual experience sucked. AT ALL. There was worrying and suffering, and it did indeed make the experience harder to enjoy. Huge parts of the experience were hard to enjoy. But the beauty I saw, the people I was with, and this feeling I now have positively overwhelm all the bad. So much so that I can hardly remember it to try and describe it. I remember sky running, wildflowers, companionship, and achievement. That is all I remember.
Photo by Elisa.
There were some takeaways. I wonder if it may have been worth it to push harder early on to more aggressively go after a cushion, but I am aware that can be overdone and cause bigger problems -- the usual problems associated with pushing too hard. I know now to write everything down. It is not enough to have a meeting a tell everybody things like sandwich and batteries in Michigan Bluff and oatmeal at Green Gate. A checklist for every crew aid station is very helpful. Pace charts do not work for me. I did not make one for Western States. I never have. But the race was dictated to me completely by my body and the course. Had I drawn up a 26-27 hour pace chart and stressed myself with trying (or not) to keep up with it...who knows? But it is just not me and seems more like it could have been a disaster. I am so so so lucky to be able to eat whatever sounds good at the aid stations. I was able to eat a lot (relatively) of potatoes and PB&J early, then watermelon, then whatever seemed most appealing, without the slightest issue. I had fewer than 5 GU all day and night. I just ate real food and know how fortunate I am to be able to do that. Other than kicking rocks and the usual, my feet held up as well as can be expected. I had much less salt on me than usual. Sure, the river crossings rinsed me off, but I am convinced that the sauna training really helped me retain my electrolytes. I am so so glad I emphasized the comfortable finish over the quick one. I will be much more relaxed trying to push it next time. There will be a next time.
Now, almost two weeks past the Finish, my favorite thing that I took away from the experience is the course itself. I know the course and can imagine it. I can pass over it in my mind. I have the whole one hundred miles with me to enjoy at any time. It makes me feel proud that I have it and can speak familiarly of it. Oh yeah, that one section? I know it. I can understand better when Franz says it is his race. It is. Because once you run Western States it becomes a part of you. And that is my course now. It is always with me. Thanks to it and all of you for being out here.
