Remembering Mom

The inevitable day comes, when mother and child must part forever.

Two months ago, Mom was tottering about independently at home. Her memory was spotty and the family was wary, but she was determined to live her life on her terms (and frightened of the alternatives).

None of us had a clue that really, she was terribly ill.

One month ago, she was in sub-acute care and we were exploring those alternatives. Assisted living ... with memory care now, or in the future?

Two weeks ago, she was in the hospital and we were preparing to move her to a nursing home (her worst nightmare). She was upset that her fingernails were a mess—she loved her manicures. I did my best to trim and file them.

Four days ago, we placed her in hospice care. I did my best to hold her when she cried, and not to break down at the same time. Once, she managed to lift an arm, reaching to comfort me back. How not to break down, then?

This afternoon, I was standing over her when she suddenly opened her blue eyes wide. Could she know, then, that she wasn't alone?

Tonight, I was stroking her hair when she took her last breath.

I regret not having more photos of the two of us, sharing good times.

Of carefree days at the beach: Dad would meet us there, after work. He'd wear his bathing trunks under his suit and pick up a barbecued chicken for a picnic supper.


Of Scrabble games: Mom couldn't keep score last December and tired after two games, but she still played some darned good words. The words—not the numbers—were the challenge, for us. How many hundreds of boards did we fill, over all these years of my life? She never minded that I outscored her virtually every time.

Of trips we took together: Florida. California. Thanksgiving weekend in Manhattan. England. There was such joy in her smile.

If you don't have an advance directive or a living will—or whatever it's called where you live—you should. (Mom did.) She didn't want to live with dementia, or to linger in a nursing home for years. Her last days were not without suffering, but that time was mercifully short.

Now, there are only memories.

In the Moment

A day of reflection was needed, and at such times I'm drawn to the sea.

The overcast sky suited my frame of mind. I would spend much of the day outdoors, but first headed to the Monterey Bay Aquarium. I normally visit for member events, when the crowds will be sparse. On this Sunday morning, the place was bustling with families and I enjoyed that more than I expected. The kids put every interactive exhibit through its paces, and then some. I pointed out some of the well-camouflaged creatures tucked away in tanks that jaded adults concluded were empty. I learned that the residents of the aviary are all rescued and rehabilitated shore birds that can no longer survive in the wild.

I noticed a panel featuring a quote attributed to Francis Bacon:

We have only this moment, sparkling like a star in our hand—and melting like a snowflake.

I ambled slowly southward through Pacific Grove, along the promenade. Harbor seals lounged on a beach, some nursing their pups. One hapless little one would advance a few feet from the water's edge, only to be rolled and pulled back by the next wave's advance.

I read about the signature “magic carpet,” Drosoanthemum floribundum, in glorious trailside bloom. It's an ice plant native to South Africa, tended here by volunteers, and a legacy of the first volunteer, a curious adventurer named Hayes Perkins, who planted it. The promenade passes through the eponymous Perkins Park, dotted with benches dedicated to others who found solace in this place.

Later, I would find the preamble to Bacon's quote.

Begin doing what you want to do now. We are not living in eternity.

Movin'

Last year was The Year of the Dog; this, The Year of the Turkey Vulture. The bird was occupied with some delectable piece of carrion and none too concerned with us. It was pure chance that my ride buddies and I had stopped nearby.

This was the coldest Tierra Bella pre-ride I can remember. I regretted not having insulated my head and toes. “If the Tierra Bella is next week, why are you all riding today?“ asked a cyclist on the opposite side of the road. When we explained that we ride the course to check the markings and look for any problems, he thanked us. With any luck, we'll get that spray of broken glass and pulverized bits of car on the shoulder of Highway 152 cleaned up.

Given our extended drought, I have been surprised at the abundant wildflowers this spring. It was a banner year for the oaks to produce acorns, too.

Canada Road offers a swift descent to the valley, with some care. One sweeping arc, in particular, tends to catch some cyclists unprepared. I tapped the brakes to keep the new bike from getting carried away. My rear-view mirror allowed me to keep an eye on a wide SUV that was trailing me at a distance. The gap would shrink whenever the road tilted up or straightened out, but once we hit the curves I had the advantage. Reaching a long straight stretch, I sat up and slowed to let it pass.

The driver pulled even with me and matched my speed. Mountain bikes on the rear rack, windows down. “You were movin'!” the passenger exclaimed. “Yes,” I smiled. “It's fast.” Curious about where we were headed, I told them about the upcoming Tierra Bella.

Starting and finishing at the site of our post-ride barbecue, we cut the 100k route a bit short: 55 miles, with 2,260 feet of climbing.

Flat, essentially.

Coe Coasting

Not too hot. Not too cold. Not too windy. Green hills and wildflowers in abundance. Thomas Grade seemed steeper, and the steep grade on East Dunne seemed shorter.

My ride buddy turned back at some point on the hill below me, so I talked to the deer and cattle along the way. Hawks soared overhead and a lone turkey ambled across the road, in no particular hurry.

Other riders from the group were enjoying Henry Coe's picnic tables by the time I got there. Our club members are phenomenal. One guy pulled a full sack of fresh oranges from his pack. He'd stopped at a roadside stand and hauled them up the hill to share with all of us! He was out for an epic 100-mile day (or more), whereas I  had shortened the ride a bit (29 miles with 3,500 feet of climbing).

I was looking forward to the descent. With its wide, smooth pavement and no cross streets, I would be able to let the new bike roll in the final stretch. My peak speed there has been constant over the years.

Until today, when I was 10% faster.

Drive the Track

Strolling back to the car, past the trailers and canopies and motorheads in the paddock, I overheard a couple of guys remarking about the “gray-haired old lady at track day.”

There were quite a few groups at the racetrack; in our group, I was the only woman. [Whatever.] I work in high-tech, I'm used to it. The assumptions that greet gray hair are less familiar. The local grocery store started giving me the senior discount almost six years ago—which I found highly amusing, that being the year I completed all five passes in the Death Ride. (And I still don't qualify for that discount.)

The ‘A’ group (beginners) started the day with an orientation about flags and protocols, then moved to the parking lot and executed some drills. Accelerate and brake hard. Really hard. Accelerate, brake hard, and turn. Trace a tight figure-eight through a course marked by cones. Pretty impressive what the car can do, when pushed. Hard.

Our coaches drove the first two laps around the track, pointing out the flag stations and other highlights. Then we traded seats. I had made the right call two weeks ago, to bike Laguna Seca first.

At the end of the day, I told my coach I couldn't do what he did—be a passenger in a car being driven (fast) by a complete stranger who has no prior track experience.

Photo credit: Dito Milian, gotbluemilk.com

Whenever you drive, there's a lot going on, and you cope without conscious thought much of the time. On the track, little is familiar: flags to understand (and watch for), passing zones and protocols, tricky curves—all that, plus the concentration needed to snake your way around the course. At whatever speed you find comfortable.

In the morning, for me, that speed was not particularly fast. When I'd get to a straight section, I was so relieved to have negotiated the previous turns without incident that I would just ... relax. I got plenty of practice doing “point-bys”—signaling to drivers behind me that they could pass.

After lunch, I was treated to a demo ride in a coach's car. It could not have been more fitting that it was a red 1990 Mazda Miata. (Until a few years ago, I owned one.) Those three laps were a rip-roaring good time. And then, I got it:

Just because I'm in a designated passing zone doesn't mean I have to surrender.

Photo credit: Dito Milian, gotbluemilk.com

On my first lap after lunch, I rounded Turn 11, downshifted, and let the car to do what it was engineered to do. [Go fast. Really fast.] “Where did my ‘A’ driver go?” laughed my coach. It was my turn to do some passing. Keeping my lead on the straights compensated for my imperfect line on the curves; by the time the others were on my tail, we were approaching Turn 11 again ... and they didn't stand a chance.

Jan and Dean, they got it.

Renegades

The slopes of Mount Diablo are lovely this time of year.

While it seems unthinkable not to finish the climb at the summit, my ride buddy and I had other plans. Realizing that we would pay for the full climb by struggling up Morgan Territory later, we stayed low and headed for a picnic in the charming town of Clayton.

The bike trail was a new wrinkle on this route, and a most welcome one for eliminating the first stretch of  busy Ygnacio Valley Road (where traffic streams along well above the posted limit). The shoulder is wide ... but still.

Renegades that we were, I led us off Ygnacio Valley at the earliest possible opportunity: a mellow detour through the Concord campus of Cal State East Bay, where we discovered dozens of trees blooming gloriously. Pine Hollow Road was busier than I had hoped, but still far better than the alternative.

Having lingered over lunch, it wasn't long before the fast riders from the group caught (and, of course, passed) us.

Our abbreviated route took us over 55 miles with 4,840 feet of climbing.

And the bike? On the steep (and twisty) descent of Morgan Territory, it dared me to go faster. And faster. It just kept picking up speed.

I blinked. And braked.

Big Game Hunting

Save the poodle! Save the poodle!

Even when you're biking in familiar territory, you just might learn something new. A few independent riders were climbing up the hill at the same pace as our group, and we started comparing our ride plans. “We ride up to see the dinosaurs,” they explained. Their route was similar to ours. What have we been missing?

Not only did we find the fearsome predators, we met their keepers as well. The pterodactyl was temporarily grounded, awaiting a connection to a freshly-installed post to anchor its aerial wire. The owners started their collection with the life-sized Tyrannosaurus rex about three years ago, and talked about how they decorate the creatures for holidays. Let's just say that a Christmas-season visit may be in order (though not until shopper/choppers are done fetching trees up there).

Returning from our extended excursion along Highland Way, a sweeping arc of high clouds caught my eye. From one vantage point, conditions were clear enough for a view of Monterey Bay glistening in the distance.

The first long ride on the new bike felt great: 40 miles with 3,460 feet of climbing. I was moving pretty fast on a familiar downhill straightaway and thought, gee, I'm not even trying. I adjusted my body to a more aerodynamic position and ... the bike jolted forward. Instantaneously. Who put a turbocharger on this thing?

Those engineers at Cervélo? They know what they're doing.

Bike the Track

No, not the velodrome; a different breed of track. For racing fast things with motors, ordinarily.

One of the more unusual places to ride a bicycle in the Bay Area is a track of some renown: Mazda Raceway Laguna Seca. They host a monthly Twilight Ride for bicycles, which I had decided to check out this month. The timing couldn't have been better: What could be a more fitting inaugural outing for my new ride than this?

It was a perfect fit: the track's signature colors matched my bike (black, white, blue). I might have been the only first-timer tonight—but not the slowest. It was a pretty casual affair: pay the $10 fee, turn left, and go. The steepest climb leads to the track's famous corkscrew, a precipitous drop through a set of quick turns.

Despite pausing to snapshot the views, I was surprised at how quickly I completed the first circuit. The loop is 2.238 miles. (To be precise). Fast bike?

Smooth pavement, lovely curves, a steep climb, a thrilling descent ... what's not to like? I wondered if circling the same loop would become boring, but found it became more fun as I challenged myself to push harder, to take a faster line through each turn. With only about two dozen cyclists spread out over the course, it often felt like I had the place to myself.

Best lap: 10:43.
Max speed: 40.82 mph, at this spot.
Overall, 1,110 feet of climbing over 14 miles.

Zoom zoom.

pep's New Ride

I've had my eye on Cervélo for a while; years, in fact. But I didn't need a new bike.

My friends with Cervélos rave about them. But there was nothing wrong with my bike.

Technology has advanced since I bought one of the very first Trek Pilot 5.2 WSD bikes. (Ten years ago.)

A new compact double offers a higher high gear, and a lower low gear, than my triple. But that drivetrain isn't offered as a standard model.

Now and then, I'd browse the Cervélo website and ... move on. Really, there was no reason to buy a new bicycle.

My first bike was a hand-me-down aqua Rollfast that my mother bought from one of her cousins. I don't know how old I was when I learned to ride it; it's full-sized and heavy, so I'm guessing I was 8 or 9. I remember my dad steadying the bike behind me till I took off. He didn't believe in training wheels.

As a teenager, 10-speed bikes were the thing. My parents bought me a new blue bike (Schwinn, probably)—with 5 speeds. My dad didn't believe in gears, either.

In grad school, I saved and invested in my first diamond frame bike, a 10-speed Raleigh in brown. The bike didn't fit—I barely cleared the top tube—but I rode it, in a busy city, without a helmet (in those days). Years later, I sold it to a friend.

In the '90s, hybrid bikes were the thing. 27 gears! Grip-shift. Full-sized wheels with knobby tires. A relaxed diamond “ladie's frame” that fit. My black Trek 720 Multitrack has seen more action than I ever imagined; it's the workhorse of my commute. To say that I have gotten my money's worth is an understatement for the ages.

By 2005, carbon fiber was the thing. I struggled up hills on my steel hybrid. The relaxed geometry of the Trek Pilot was a new thing. Even the smallest frame in the women's specific design accommodated full-sized wheels. The 5.2 WSD edition in glistening “pewter carbon” has been my main ride ever since.

Till now.

A colleague made me an offer I couldn't refuse. After upgrading to an S-series, his meticulously maintained R5 frame was sidelined. He'd sell it to me. He'd build it up with the gearing and short cranks and narrow handlebars I needed. He mounted my saddle, attached the pedals, and off I rode—full circle—on the hand-me-down of my dreams.

A Country View

Despite being a relative newcomer to the Bay Area cycling community, a few years ago I discovered a new hill to climb. And, given that I persuaded my fellow club members that it was a worthy challenge, it seems only fair that I should tackle it from time to time.

I confess that it's been a while. The past few years, I felt that I didn't have the legs for it. It's a beast of a climb, with two short descents that exact their toll on the return from the top. The teensy cyclist in this picture is yours truly, courtesy of my ride buddy, as I hit the bottom of that first pitch.

How steep are those descents? Steep enough to top 37 mph in less than a tenth of a mile. Sounds great for some uphill momentum on the other side, right? Alas, no ... the grade is that intense.

But oh, the views from the top!

On the way up, I paused on the second (and longest) segment; I knew I'd have a better time if I got my heart rate down. A little bit of recovery (from 178 to 143 bpm) made all the difference. I pedaled past the spot where I normally take a break and continued straight to the top.

After exalting at the pinnacle of this success, we headed south for a picnic at Uvas Canyon County Park. The park was uncharacteristically packed, with cars queued to pay the entrance fee. [Pro tip: no fee for bicycles. But it's a bit of a climb to get there.]

At the end of the day, I was spent. 3,140 feet of climbing over 58 miles—well spent.

Keepin' Score

Metrics are everywhere. Take, for example, a simple wooden sign nailed to a utility pole at a curve along today's route:

CAR 5

POLE 17

The paint looked fresh. Odds are that the pole's count merited the latest update.

One rider in our group was proud to show me his bare handlebar: no bike computer, no stats. Others compete to climb more hills or cover more distance than their peers. The rider at the top of our club's leaderboard for 2014 biked more than 10,000 miles and climbed over 836,000 feet—just on club rides. He often commutes by bike, as well.

We had a preview of summer at the coast today—cold and fog. Not that I'm complaining: I'm out here riding my bike through the redwood forest, while friends and family on the other coast suffer temperatures in the single digits and more snow than they'd like.

Creeks were flowing and the traffic was light.

58 miles, 4,860 feet of climbing. The fun factor is harder to measure.

One Cool Cat

You can be sure you're in Woodside when you get the traditional Woodside Welcome:

Go home and ride your bike in your own neighborhood!

A lady of the manor rolled down her window to shout at one of the women in our group, as if we were teenaged delinquents rampaging through town.

You should have replied “This is my neighborhood,” I suggested wryly.

We were climbing the steep section of a wide residential street, impeding no one on this sunny holiday. [Technically, we were in Portola Valley, but the animus is the same.]

We had already biked up (and down) Alpine. The group had traveled at a fast clip, intent as they were to reach the end of the road. Whereas I tend to meander, looking about. And, well, I have this knack for noticing things.

What I will remember most about this ride were the pawprints I spotted on the upper stretch of Alpine Road, which climbs gently alongside a creek. Still damp, in a line, claws retracted. The cat must have climbed up from the banks and then ... where? I considered stopping to snap a photo, but the prints had to be fairly fresh. Was the puma watching me? Wiser to keep moving and catch up with the group, ahead.

Enjoy the simple things: An invigorating ride with friends on a glorious day off (24 miles, 1,960 feet of climbing). Savor a sweet indulgence: A post-ride Linzer cookie from the Woodside Bakery. Embrace beauty.

Money doesn't buy happiness.

On Being Excessive

My thoughts wandered as I passed the towering redwoods on today's ride. The age of the trees, the age of the planet, the age of the universe, the age of the cyclist having these thoughts.

On a recent visit to the local library, I spied a copy of Half the Road on a rack and checked it out. A documentary I had meant to watch, then forgotten.

Not being a runner, I didn't know the story of K. V. Switzer, the first woman to register successfully and run the Boston Marathon. There were shots of the race manager physically accosting her, trying to pull off her race numbers—women were not allowed to run more than 800 meters, much less a marathon. In 1967. I remember 1967.

Our group was heading for a 65-mile ride with some 6,800 feet of climbing, and that was more than I wanted: more distance, more climbing. I hatched an alternate plan that would shave off some distance and elevation. My ride partner, working to rebuild endurance after a hiatus off the bike, trusted me.

The film also told the story of an angry letter from the chauvinistic UCI to the organizer of the Women's Challenge bicycle race, refusing to sanction the event because it included excessive climbing. Excessive stage distances. Excessive number of stages. Excessive duration of event. Women weren't allowed to climb that many feet, cycle those distances, ride that many days. In 1990. In 1990, 1967 was 23 years ago.

To say that I had miscalculated our alternate route would be ... an understatement. It was how far from the park's headquarters to Boulder Creek? [Uh-oh.] And I'd thought we'd climb just a couple of miles back to the intersection that had led us to the park. [It was nearly eight miles.]

The film was inspiring with stories of strong, determined women. And here we were: not racing, but headstrong and determined to finish. “Where's my chauffeur?” joked my ride buddy. “Send the limo!”

My ill-conceived route entailed 64 miles with 6,180 feet of climbing. I got home in time to return the DVD to the library. By bike.

Nano Climates

On with the insulated knee warmers at home; the air was decidedly brisk.

Off with the knee warmers 20 minutes later, stepping out of the car at the start.

Cruising along in the sunshine after the first climb, I considered peeling off my arm warmers.

Moments later, I passed through a pocket of chilled air. So it goes, in the Bay Area.

I was curious about today's climb to the end of the pavement on Mt. Madonna Road, with the usual trepidation of the unfamiliar. [It was fine.]

Had the group not been waiting, I would have ventured up the first section of dirt to the bright sunshine ahead.

Instead I descended, with care. A technical descent, this one, steep and curvy. I had taken special note of one short slick section on the way up. Evidence of road repair suggests a chronic wetness, there.

Returning along Redwood Retreat, my pace slowed as I approached a knot of cyclists stopped off the road. No one I recognized; one guy timidly signaled for my attention. “Where are we?” They were looking for Uvas Road. Hard to imagine that in their group of six or eight, no one had a GPS device at the ready. “Where does this road go?” I set them straight, and encouraged them to check out the rest of Redwood Retreat and Mt. Madonna first.

The rest of the gang now having caught and passed me, I sought an additional challenge. They were headed into town for lunch; I had other plans. Being in the neighborhood, why not check out another unfamiliar climb?

The back side was mostly rural, with a sweeping view of pasture and green hills topped with an impressive oak tree. Dropping down the front side, I passed a cautionary sign for trucks: 15% grade. [Uh oh.] I made my u-turn in the residential section at the bottom; the houses got bigger the higher I climbed. This presented a healthy challenge, though I'd wager it didn't touch 15%. [I'm not complaining, mind you.]

My route deviated further from the group, as I opted for scenic rolling hills instead of a long slog into the wind along a busy thoroughfare—with the bonus option of my own little picnic at the Uvas Reservoir, and clear views of the familiar summits of both Mt. Hamilton and Mt. Umunhum along the way.

Having seen very little wildlife, I was charmed by a pair of western bluebirds darting along a fence line on Bailey Avenue. They were bluer than blue: Azure? Cerulean? The color of lapis lazuli, and too fast for any chance of a photo.

By the end of the day, I had unzipped my vest to flap in the wind, shed the arm warmers, and slathered on the sunscreen. 62 miles, 3200 feet of climbing—farewell, January!

As Luck Would Have It

The first bit of luck was an impromptu listing for a challenging ride with a local start, leading to our club's annual appreciation luncheon for last year's ride leaders. Of course, it would make more sense to take a flat route after yesterday's long, hilly ride—and that was my original plan. But I don't have enough sense for that.

I stopped at the base of Mt. Umunhum Road to congratulate myself for another successful climb up the west side of Hicks, and that was the second piece of luck. A long, loud stream of motorcycles roared past. They couldn't have been too far behind me. There were so many of them that I was glad not to be on the road at that moment.

I had mapped out a slightly longer route to the luncheon, avoiding the direct route along a busy expressway. Among the earliest arrivals, I claimed my raffle ticket and mingled before settling down with my plate near some faces familiar from last fall's rides in the Eastern Sierras. My raffle ticket was number 726. The guy to my left? Number 727. To his left? 728. We didn't ride together, but evidently we arrived sequentially, and then ended up sitting sequentially.

What are the odds?

I was happy with my prize, a water bottle from a local bike shop filled with goodies (patches, patch kit, and various sample packets). That being the most common prize, the ride leaders at our table raised our bottles in a mutual-admiration toast to our prowess. Our sequential trio had led a total of 43 rides in 2014.

Maybe, just maybe, I burned more calories than I consumed. 27 miles with 2,060 feet of climbing doesn't sound like much. But if you've climbed Hicks Road, you understand.

At the Edge

Seeking a sunny ride on a winter's day, a trip along Calaveras Road fit the bill.

Of course, I trailed the group; but I powered right up The Wall nonetheless.

The day was so warm I peeled off my knee warmers before we started; a vest and arm warmers were all I needed. [In January?]

Heading north, it was surprisingly windy—the gusts were strong enough to knock me about. Time for more aerodynamics and less sightseeing.

Near the southern edge of the reservoir I slowed to watch a hawk soar overhead, but there was no sign of the resident bald eagles. A little research revealed that, in recent years, they've moved their nest from atop one of the power transmission towers into nearby oak trees.

The viewing spectacle of the day was a veritable parade of recumbents—two-wheelers and trikes—heading south. One of our riders recognized the group and commented that he's probably been “excommunicated” (for the sin of riding a diamond frame?) since he hadn't seen an announcement for their outing. No small effort there, pedaling those heavy machines uphill.

After lunching in Sunol's local park, we headed back from whence we came. Now, with tailwind!

A solid day, covering some
43 miles with 2,940 feet of climbing.

At the base of the hill, I kept it under the limit—lighting up the electronic sign at 34 mph. Just right.

Ramp It Up

Number of miles biked last week: Zero.

Number of miles biked the week before that: Zero.

And the week before that? Zero.

During the first two weeks of December, I managed to bike a whopping 31 miles. [That's just not normal.]

Having been off the bike for three weeks, it would seem prudent to increase my activity level gradually.

Biking to work on Monday felt good.

So did Tuesday.

Why not Wednesday?

Short on sleep, Thursday seemed unlikely. But then, I woke up at the usual time and felt adequately rested.

Friday was fine. A new co-worker was impressed; even more so when he heard how long my trip is. “You look normal,” he said. “Not like one of those emaciated 0%-body-fat types.”

[Chocolate. Dessert. Chocolate desserts.]

Which brings us to Saturday, a sixth consecutive cycling day. The perfect day for a loosely-organized club ride with a late morning start.

The first hill hit me hard. [Payback.] The rest? Not so much.

The sun broke through the clouds, there was enough water in the Chesbro Reservoir for a lone pelican, acorn woodpeckers flitted from tree to utility pole to tree, and a couple of hawks made an appearance.

For the day, 38 miles with 1,720 feet of climbing.

For the week? 3,740 feet of climbing over 148 miles.

Sunday is a day for rest.

Back to Work

Why bike to work?

My first commute of the year was chilly: 34°F when I rolled out this morning. On dark winter evenings, I close my eyes and escape with a podcast on a commuter shuttle—preferably an episode that will make me laugh and forgive the ridiculous amount of time it takes to get home. Tonight, there were a stunning 11 traffic accidents (and attendant backups) in the local area. Eleven. No mitigating circumstances, like rain or fog. Just the usual: A plague of bad drivers.

Rhinoviruses and rainy weather conspired to keep me off the bike for most of December, but 2014 was nonetheless a record year for commuting by bicycle. It was the year I found fewer and fewer excuses not to bike.

In all, I pedaled about 5,720 miles—over 3,600 miles biking to (and usually, from) the office. More than 300 incidental miles, mostly on my folding bike, traveling to and from the shuttle and between buildings on the campus. The rest? Recreational miles.

Oh, and I climbed up a few hills along the way. (241,000 feet, give or take.)