And this year, his 100 Miles of Nowhere effort…well, my jaw figuratively dropped when I understood what he set out to do — both because of his perfect and beautiful interpretation of “nowhere” and because I immediately grasped how difficult it would be (something he did not realize, apparently).
Folks, Martin is a 100MoN mad genius. I hope you enjoy and appreciate his story.
The Bean King by Martin Bunge
I hadn’t given much thought about what I might do for this year’s 100 Miles of Nowhere.
Two years ago I rode 25 laps around a one-square mile section of dirt and gravel roads—at night.
I hallucinated seeing a hyena on the road. Quite memorable.
Last year I rode 112 laps along the Iowa River in Iowa City—while wearing a Mr. Incredible costume.
As far as cries for attention go, the costume was very successful. And it didn’t chafe.
So what to do this year? Obviously I don’t want to go backwards by doing something lame, but there are limits to how far I can escalate the zany factor of my 100 MoN rides.
What to do?
I was pondering this as I drove through rural Iowa on a sunny October afternoon. In August I’d bought a new Salsa Bucksaw, a full suspension fat bike, and had just finished riding our local mountain bike trails and was heading home.
I was thinking about how those big tires rolled over just about anything they came across and how scary-good the traction was on the leaf-covered trails when I drove by a freshly-harvested soybean field.
Soybean fields look pretty smooth from the road.
A plan was hatched: Why not ride my fantastic, full-suspension Bucksaw on one of those bean fields? I could find a relatively flat field and have a ton of fun just riding randomly all over the field until I hit 100 miles. What says 100MoN better than riding nowhere in particular?
Nothing!
My plan was complete.
Maybe I should have researched this plan a little more thoroughly before I started shooting off my mouth about riding 100 miles in a bean field. This is a lesson I should have learned years ago but haven’t. Just goes to show you can’t teach an old dog new tricks. (Right, Leroy?)
I found a really flat field, 90 acres, owned by some good friends who agreed to let me “borrow” it for a day. I had to schedule my ride for Sunday, November 6th because they’d be doing field work the following weekend—the official 100MoN weekend.
I had an overnight commitment on the 5th so I was going to have to rush to get to the site early if I was going to take advantage of what little sunlight there is at this time of year.
November 5th was also the end of Daylight Savings Time which was a problem because the sun would be rising an hour sooner and I wouldn’t be able to start at sunrise as I’d planned.
My Bucksaw and I are ready to roll.
Play the hand you’re dealt, right? So I made it to the field by 8 am, unloaded the bike (33 lbs. of awesome sauce), and proceeded to pedal across the field.
What the heck?
Bean fields are not smooth. In fact, they’re downright rough. Those big combines leave HUGE tire marks—it was like riding washboards on steroids.
Hey! Who drove on my dirt!
And soybean stubble could easily be used stop speeding vehicles at security checkpoints.
After about 20 minutes—1.5 miles—I gave up on the random riding thing and started riding between the rows, hoping the ground between the stubble would be smoother. Between the trash (that’s farmer talk for the plant material combines spit out after they collect the soybeans) and grooves left by the combine, my progress was even slower.
Disillusioned. Bean fields aren’t smooth.
This was no longer fun.
Trying to find something that resembled “smooth” was completely futile. As I searched for a useable line, I noticed tire tracks running perpendicular to the direction the crops had been planted. It turns out they were made by a large sprayer earlier in the summer.
These tracks were narrow, maybe six inches wide, but they were much smoother than anything I had been riding up to this point, so I decided to ride from one sprayer track to the next, zig-zagging my way through the field.
Sprayer tracks. Much better, relatively speaking.
I figured that by the time I rode all the tracks, down to the end of the field and back to my support vehicle, where an ice-cold Pepsi was waiting for me. It’s good to have something to work toward.
I’d head down one track, listening to the bean stubble crunch under my tires, and struggling to stay in the groove left by the sprayer. Suffice it to say I didn’t hold my line very well. But what I lack in technical skills I made up for in perseverance.
Three miles under my belt. Still smiling.
The plan worked fairly well for the first 20 or so sets of tracks but eventually the sprayer’s grooves were obliterated by combine’s tracks. I was back to getting beat up by the washboards and crunchy crops—and riding really, really slow.
A hardy bean stalk survived the combine.
By now I’d ridden 20 miles and it was time for my reward: a peanut butter sandwich and Pepsi. It took me over three hours to ride those 20 miles. It was time to come up with Plan C.
As I massaged the pain from my palms and burning quads, it occurred to me that I was burning a lot of matches blazing trails through the crop stubble and rough terrain. If I was to have any chance to finish this, I needed to abandon my plan to ride willy-nilly over the field and stick to a trail I could ride for 80 more miles.
Over the next ten miles I did just that, riding over the same track, wearing down the bumps and vegetation. This was when the ride went from “kind of fun” to a test of my determination.
I completed mile 40 sometime after 2:30 pm. It was pretty obvious I wasn’t going to be able to finish 100 miles before the sun set. BUT I might be able to complete a metric century, but even that wasn’t a sure thing.
Back and forth I rode. Each lap was approximately a mile. I spent a lot of time trying to figure out how many miles equal 100 kilometers. In my younger days I ran 10K races almost every weekend. My recollection was they were 6.6 miles in length. My new goal was to ride 67 miles.
My route. Began the day riding an aimless route, then switched to riding the sprayer tracks (the horizontal lines) before giving up and riding up and down the left side of the field for 40+ miles.
The miles started to add up and around 5 pm I had completed 60 miles. Only seven to go. I don’t know what possessed me, but I decided to check my phone to see just how many miles equal 100 kilometers. Turns out it’s 62 miles and change. Wow! I only had two more laps to go!
Sadly, this was the high point of the day.
My final two laps went by quickly. I struggled to dismount the Bucksaw and chug another Pepsi. I’ve never felt so glad to finish a ride.
I’m smiling as the sun sets on my 2016 100MoN adventure.
Even though my day had just 728 feet of climbing elevation, I was spent. I felt stronger after completing a 150-mile gravel ride in August.
Lots of climbing and speed.
Some things I learned:
No matter what it looks like from the road, farm fields are NOT smooth.
Even with a fat bike, dirt makes a terrible riding surface.
A 33-pound fat bike doesn’t roll nearly as easily as a road bike.
Nine hours on a fat bike will wear you down
You might consider training a little bit before you tackle something like this.
90 acres. No crops. No trails. No roads. No traffic. No plan. 100 miles? No way. No time.
In so many ways, that bean field beat me, but I also managed to come out on top, as the winner of the 100 Kilometers of Nowhere – Nowhere Division.
A metric century!
What will I do next year? If there IS a next year…
A Note from Fatty: Congratulations to everyone who’s ridden (or is going to be riding) the 2016 100 Miles of Nowhere! I’m really excited to start posting your race reports and stories.
As a reminder, please email me (fatty@fatcyclist.com) your stories with “100 Miles of Nowhere” or “100MoN” somewhere in the subject line, so I don’t lose it among all the other email that piles up on a daily basis.If you are going to have a video as part of (or entirely) your race report, you just need to upload it to Youtube or Vimeo and let me know what the URL is; I’ll take care of embedding it.
Let’s get started!
100 Miles of Nowhere: Polar Bear Edition by Corrine L.
I’m excited to present Corrine L’s really terrific 100 Miles of Nowhere report, which is both an extraordinary riding effort and a terrific (and inspiring!) story, told in video.
I know, I’ve been gone and haven’t said why. It’s just been work: we ship a new version of a product Thursday, and I’m busy. You know, to the extent that I’m working late, working early, and working weekends.
But I wanted to write a little something today anyway, so you’d know I’m alive and stuff.
Plus, I have a story to tell.
Last Sunday
The Monster moved out into an apartment of her own a few weeks ago; the hour-long-each-way commute to school every day was wearing her down.
The practical result has been that we now see her when she needs groceries or laundry done or a bike repair. Or when she misses Duke (everyone instantly falls in love with Duke, buckets of slobber notwithstanding).
And, importantly, we see her once in a while when she decides to ride with us instead of with some of the boys in her fan club.
That’s what happened last Sunday.
The Beginning of the Ride
But here’s the thing. when I talk about The Monster’s “fan club,” what I really mean is that she’s been riding with guys from the U of U Cycling Team. Which is to say, The Monster has gotten a lot faster very quickly, as she’s been riding with skinny, fit, young men.
So it should be no surprise that, just like when we did our 100 Miles of Nowhere, The Monster shot off the front right from the beginning, with The Hammer and me deep into the red zone.
Zone 9, to be precise.
I looked over at The Hammer with a big smile and said, “So is this how it’s gonna be today?”
The Hammer didn’t respond. She was focused on not losing The Monster’s wheel.
I laughed again, getting a good sense of how this day was going to unfold. Three family members, three competitors, a beautiful Sunday morning on perfect singletrack close to home.
Awesome.
Bomber to the Bottom
By the time we got about halfway up the Mercer Hollow climb — a mile of fun new singletrack just about two miles from home — things had settled down and the three of us rode together to the Peak View parking lot.
At which point, without further discussion, The Hammer and I yielded to The Monster. Because we were about to go down Rush, and there is no question whatsoever who is fastest on descents.
She was waiting at the bottom of Rush, both feet on the ground, looking well-rested when I arrived.
“It’s nice to take it slow sometimes,” she said, off-handedly.
“Yeah, I know,” I replied, “though I’m a little bit disappointed that I had to stop halfway down and swap out my rear derailleur.”
The Hammer Strikes Back
The Hammer arrived ten seconds later and — without stopping — made the turn toward Potato Hill and began riding at what I’d like to call “95% of race pace.” You know: that speed you go when you want to hurt people, but also want plausible deniability when they accuse you of trying to hurt them.
I couldn’t help myself: I started laughing. We had gone at this pace on this climb exactly one day earlier, after we had caught some strong kid on a bike…who had pulled off the trail to yield until he saw it was a woman about to pass, after which he had pretty much killed himself to never let us by.
I would have laughed at how much alike The Hammer and Monster are, but I had to reserve all my breath for holding The Hammer’s wheel.
The Monster, doggedly, held onto mine.
Stranger Danger
And then, an unusual thing happened: a guy caught up to us. Now, I’m not saying that’s just nuts or anything — once in a while, someone will catch up to us and want by.
But usually the guys who catch us are skinny college-age kids on high-zoot hardtails.
This guy, from what I could see, was about my age (in his fifties I’m guessing), and about my build (not huge, but not gutless).
And he was, from what I could tell with my quick backward glances, riding a big ol’ full-suspension bike.
“This aggression will not stand, man,” The Hammer did not say, because she’s not a fan of The Big Lebowski. That’s OK, though, because I thought it for her.
The Hammer went into full-on attack mode, in the way that made me fall in love with her in the first place (not kidding here: her riding and running intensity are incredibly attractive). I stayed with her, but it was a near thing.
The Monster — and this stranger on a bike — couldn’t quite hold us and fell back as we rode Ann’s trail to the Maple Hollow climb.
“Where’s Melisa?” The Hammer asked — all innocence — when we got to the Maple Hollow trailhead.
“Well, you dropped her when you attacked that badass grandpa on the full-suspension rig,” I said.
The Monster arrived — evidently, she had finally dropped the fast guy — and said some sharp words to her mom about how you don’t have to treat every ride like a race, and we began our mile-long climb to the Maple Hollow summit.
This time, I got out in front and picked a nice, reasonable pace that would keep us all riding together. By which I mean, of course, I went just below my barf threshold.
We rolled up to the top of the steep mile-long climb completely smoked: our Sunday/funday ride had turned into a slugfest, somehow. I was loving it.
The Punchline
And then, one second later, this guy rolls up on his full-suspension bike. “You guys are strong,” he said, taking off his helmet.
He didn’t look particularly worn out.
He continued, “It’s really rare that I don’t just catch and pass every rider on the trail. I’m impressed that you held me off.”
“In fact,” he concluded, “you guys were going so fast that I very nearly had to switch out of econo-mode.”
PS: Yes, this is a true story. And after he said this, we talked some more. His name’s Eric, he loves mountain biking, and he had heart surgery a year ago. His Specialized Turbo Levo makes it so it’s possible for him to be back on the trail. I think it’s awesome that e-bikes exist and make it possible for people to do stuff they love. And also, Eric let me borrow his bike and try riding it up a trail. It was…surreal.
A Note from Fatty: I know, I said I was going to start writing up my Crusher in the Tushar race report. But today I have my 100 Miles of Nowhere race report fresh in my mind, so I’m going to write it instead. Are you cool with that? Awesome.
There’s some irony to my 100 Miles of Nowhere routes. You would think that — as the inventor of this thing, as well as the guy who encourages people to be creative and even outlandish with their routes — I would have really out-there rides planned.
But I don’t.
I’ve done it going around a neighborhood block. I’ve done it going up and down a neighborhood climb. I’ve done it going around a fun mountain bike trail near a friend’s house. I’ve done it indoor, on a trainer or rollers, more often than any other way.
And for the past few years, I’ve been thinking to myself that I’d like to do the Cascade Springs climb as a 100 Miles of Nowhere route.
Not because it’s wacky. It’s not. It’s just a beautiful, challenging mountainous road that climbs from Cascade Springs Park — a dead-end road, not on the way to anywhere — to the summit of the Alpine loop.
Seven miles of little-used pavement. It starts with a hard-climbing three miles on rough chipseal:
During which you’ll pass a pullout with this incredible overlook:
And if you’re lucky, maybe you’ll find someone else there too, who can take pictures of both of you.
This is followed by a mile of descending…during which you’ll see a moose watering hole:
Once that’s over, you’ve got the hardest 1.5 mile climb of the trip ahead of you: between a ten and twelve percent grade for fifteen agonizing minutes.
The final mile to the summit, in comparison, is downright easy.
Then you turn around and come back down (with an intermission of down) the way you went up (and down).
One out-and-back iteration earns you 14.3 miles (and just a little more than 2500 feet of climbing). Which, coincidentally (truly, it is a coincidence), means that seven repetitions of this route gets you almost exactly 100 miles.
Without, naturally, having gone anywhere.
Nerves
The Hammer and The Monster joined me for this edition of the 100 Miles of Nowhere, and all three of us were pretty nervous about it, for a few reasons.
First, because we’re into the very end of October, and none of us are in the best riding shape of the season. The Hammer and I have been strictly riding for fun, and The Monster has been running more than riding.
Next, we all knew enough about the Cascade Springs climb to have a healthy respect for doing it even once in a ride. Doing it seven times? I think all of us were kind of scared whether we’d be able to do this.
And finally, this was a race against the sun. With a sunrise at 7:50 and sunset at 6:30 (ten and a half hours, basically), we were in serious danger of running out of light before we ran out of miles.
The Bad Beginning
One of the things I really love about The Hammer’s and my relationship is how well we work together. I mean that entirely honestly and without any kind of joke payoff coming down the pike. We really do make a great team in doing normal tasks, cooking dinner, getting ready for the day, stuff like that.
And on race / big ride days, that teamwork goes into overdrive.
We’ve done so many big rides and races with early morning starts that we don’t even have to talk about who’s going to do what. We just seamlessly get the bikes and breakfast and food and bottles ready together.
It’s something to behold, and — thanks to our efficient routine — it’s been an awful long time since we’ve forgotten something on one of our rides.
Until this ride.
As we unloaded our bikes at 7:30am and I put on my bike shoes and helmet, I thought to myself, “It’s cold enough that we’re going to want to wear windbreakers on the way down.”
But I didn’t go to my clothes bag — the one I had packed the night before with clothing for practically any contingency. I didn’t need to.
There was no point.
There was no point because I clearly remembered that after pulling out what I wanted and dressing that morning (Bibs, kneewarmers, long-sleeve jersey), I had left my clothing bag sitting on the bedroom floor.
I had no jacket for wind or rain. No tights in case it got colder. No short-sleeve jersey for when the day warmed up.
“I have no clothes but what I’m wearing,” I announced, embarrassed. “I guess I’ll be cold on the way down for a few laps, and be hot on the way up for the rest of the day.”
And then — like the wonderful overpacker and amazingly prepared human being she is — The Hammer handed me a windbreaker. In my size.
“I don’t have a jacket either,” The Monster said.
And of course, The Hammer had a jacket for her too. In her size.
“Maybe you can wear one of my short-sleeve jerseys when it gets warmer,” The Monster said.
“Uh huh,” I replied.
Full Disclosure
Now, before I get started with the riding part of this race report, I should confess: none of the pictures I’ve posted here so far are from last weekend’s 100 Miles of Nowhere. They’re from the right road, but taken during different times of the year, on different rides.
That should explain why everything looks so green in those pictures. And also why the IT Guy is in a couple of the pictures.
The scenery is decidedly much browner now. Like this:
OK, I’ll be honest and admit that I took this picture about a month ago (but it is on the correct road). On this particular day, I didn’t take a single picture.
I was just too worried about time. It was no sure thing we were going to complete this at all, so there was no time for jibber-jabber or whatnot.
The Monster Attacks
As we had driven to the parking lot where we’d be staging our 100 Miles of Nowhere attempt, The Monster had said, over and over, “You’re going to wait for me at the top, right? So I see you guys more than once during the day?”
I rolled my eyes. The Hammer rolled her eyes. We both knew that The Monster has been running and riding roughly ten times as much as we have been.
And — as both predicted and expected — The Monster began half-wheeling almost immediately, then attacked before we had finished climbing our first mile.
“Think she’ll still be charging ahead the fifth time up this mountain?” The Hammer asked.
“Baby, I won’t be able to hang with you the fifth time up up this mountain.
The Monster Breaks Her Collarbone
Amazingly, we all finished the first climb to the Alpine Loop Summit within a minute or two of each other, and we began our first descent.
And that’s when I found out how wonderful it is to descend with big wide (38mm!) tires and disc brakes.
The rough chipseal we’d be on all day turned to perfectly smooth pavement. I was confident and stable. And I was just really really enjoying myself.
Sure, I knew that I had only done the first of seven big climbs, but I felt good.
I got to the bottom first, stripped off my jacket, rolled it back up and put it back in my jersey pocket.
I wasn’t wishing for a short-sleeve jersey yet.
The Hammer and The Monster rolled up within moments and I looked at the timer on my GPS.
We had completed the first lap in about 1:20. We were ten minutes ahead of schedule. Awesome! We had reasoned that if we could bank ten or so minutes for each of the first three laps, hit our 1:30 target exactly on the fourth lap, and then use our banked time in the fifth through seventh lap, we could finish our hundred miles before it got dark.
But there was a problem: The Monster’s rear tire was slowly going flat. “When did that happen?” The Hammer asked.
“A couple rides ago,” The Monster replied.
Kids. I tell you.
I swapped in a new tube. I’m slow at tire changes, so we had lost our banked time by the time we got going again. Even so, we still had a good chance of finishing before it got dark.
Again, The Monster half-wheeled, then attacked, beating The Hammer and me to the top.
Again, I bombed down, opening a gap quickly and finishing alone.
I looked at my computer: we had banked at least fifteen minutes this time.
While I waited for the ladies to arrive, rolled up my jacket (still didn’t wish for a short-sleeve jersey, to my relief). I filled my bottles. Then ate a donut.
Neither The Hammer nor The Monster had arrived, and that could mean only one thing: The Monster had crashed on the descent and now The Hammer was tending to her.
I was certain of it.
So I jumped on my bike and rode back up, hoping I was wrong.
And I was. The Monster had just flatted. Again.
Luckily, The Hammer was behind her when this happened because — as it turns out — while The Monster did have a tube and CO2 cannister, the CO2 cannister was…used.
Kids. I tell you.
Shut Up and Ride
There were more flats. All in all, I think The Monster had a dozen flats. Or maybe just (!) four.
And so we just could never seem to bank any time. Although we also managed to not get into time debt.
I found myself constantly doing math, trying to figure out how and whether we’d finish this ride before it got dark. We hadn’t brought lights, so if we didn’t finish before dark, well…we wouldn’t finish.
The numbers were close, and if we somehow managed to not slow down, we’d do it.
But of course we were going to slow down. We were climbing thousands of feet every single lap.
Hoping for reassurance, I voiced my concern to The Hammer during our fifth climb up: “I don’t think we’re going to make it.”
This was not the thing she needed to hear right at that moment, because she had a few choice words for me.
“Well excuse me for saying anything at all,” I said. I turned on a podcast and stopped talking. At all.
We all go into a dark place once in a while.
The Second-Halfer Asserts Herself
That argument — or what passes for an argument in these parts — didn’t last long, because The Hammer started going faster.
Or maybe I was going slower. The effect was the same, either way, because neither The Monster nor I could even pretend to hang with her. We’d yo-yo back and forth, surging to connect, and then falling off the back.
The Hammer just kept ticking over the pedals, steady as could be. Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen thousand feet of climbing.
The Hammer rides a strong second half.
Principled Stand and a Strong Finish
Even so, The Hammer does get tired. And as we summited the sixth time, she wondered aloud, “What if we made this the 83 Miles of Nowhere?”
The idea was tempting. I wouldn’t have had a difficult time at all writing this story with an ending saying something like, “We climbed 15,000 feet of nowhere, and that’s plenty.”
But I wanted the hundred miles. I wanted to have a ride with more — lots more — climbing than I’ve ever done.
So I said so. “We’ve kept up a good pace, even with all the flats. Let’s check our miles when we get to the bottom, then climb enough one last time so we all cross 100 miles when we descend.”
And we did. Best of all, on this final lap, all three of us stayed together (even though I had to keep yelling at The Hammer to slow down).
Then one final seven-mile drop (OK, two three-mile drops, interrupted by a one-mile climb) and we were done.
We had started minutes before sunrise, and finished minutes after sunset. 10:34 of ride time, 9:00 of moving time.
Same place we started, but having climbed 16,938 feet (my distance was a little more than 100 miles because of my bonus distance checking on The Monster’s phantom collarbone break). Which, when I uploaded and corrected on Strava, upgraded to 18,150 feet of climbing.
Whichi is the elevation I’m going to tell people we did when racing the 2016 Hundred Miles of Nowhere: Cascade Springs Edition.
Obviously.
PS: I never wished I had a short-sleeve jersey on the entire day. So once in a while, you get away with something.
If you are a cyclist, you have a lot of fun. Like, way more fun than you can even hold in your head. This is cycling’s greatest truth.
This is also cycling’s curse.
The fact is, as a cyclist, all your memories of the fun you have is going to start piling up, getting jumbled in your head, and spilling over. Eventually, you wind up with a general recollection of having had a lot of fun, but a mild sense of confusion over specifically when or where you had fun, or why you remember some ride as being fun when you can recall suffering a lot, but can’t recall many moments that were…fun.
This is the main reason I write: to get the memories down while they’re fresh, so I can look back and read about the fun I had. Or remind my future self that sometimes I wasn’t having that much fun at all, and maybe find a lesson there.
But there’s a problem here: if you have too much fun, your fun outpaces your ability to keep up with it in writing. Sooner or later, you find yourself facing the reality that you’re going to have to write a race report about a race that you remember more as an amalgamation of several years’-worth of moments, rather than a distinct event.
That’s where I am now, with my report of the 2016 Crusher in the Tushar. Which happened back in July, for pity’s sake.
I want to write a race report about my race…but I just don’t know what I’d say about my individual effort. After all, I didn’t go my fastest, not even close. I didn’t get on the podium.
But I did have a lot of fun. (At least, my general impression is that I seem to remember having a lot of fun).
More than the fun I had, though, is my recollection that several women I know really impressed me, each in different ways.
Over the course of the next few posts, I’m going to write about my thoughts on their races.
But first, one not-about-women memory.
David and the Not-Disappearing Backpack
This David H, of Marin. He comments on my blog from time to time, is a really good guy, and is a big WBR supporter.
I remember talking with David before the race. I don’t remember what we were talking about (almost certainly unimportant pre-race course condition chatter), but I do remember that he was carrying one of those cheapo nylon bags they give you at race packet pickup.
You know how you can wear those as a backpack, if you don’t mind the cords cutting into your shoulders? That’s how he was carrying it.
“Is that your drop bag?” I asked.
“Yeah, I need to drop it off,” he said. And then we kept talking.
Before long, of course, it was time to line up — me in the 50+ age group, him in the 60+ age group, which started before my age group.
As I did my best to hang with the lead pack in my group and bridge from bunch to bunch, I saw Dave, riding ahead of me.
And as I got closer, I noticed: he still had that nylon bag on his back.
I couldn’t help but laugh: I knew exactly what had happened. He’d forgotten it was there. My best guess — correct, I’d find out later — was that he’d remembered it the moment the race had started and it was too late to do anything about it.
I raced seventy miles that day. Hard racing at my very limit, in a beautiful area. On pavement on dirt. I talked and raced with a lot of people.
But for whatever reason, the image that sticks with me for the 2016 Crusher in the Tushar is ten minutes into the race, seeing David, starting a big day of riding…with a cheapo nylon backpack full of stuff he didn’t want to have until the end of the race.
