You know, you can get good at anything if you practice a lot. This is
true even of scheduling doctor appointments and tests. And that’s why
even though Susan was scheduled to see a vascular specialist on August
15, I got her in to see him yesterday. And that’s why Susan’s getting
a bunch of MRIs right now instead of a week from now.
I’ve learned to navigate the medical beauracracy.
With any luck we’ll soon have a plan fir how to help Susan overcome
the increasing numbness and immobility in her legs.
A note from Fatty: The 2009 Fat Cyclist Jersey pre-order week continues. Click here for details on reserving this seriously sexy jersey for yourself so you don’t have to elbow someone else out of the way to get one when the jerseys arrive.
A couple of weeks ago, a group of us did my favorite road century: the Nebo Loop. It’s got everything: a nice warmup, followed by an incredibly challenging climb — about 18 miles and 5000 feet of climbing, if I remember right. Then a fast, open descent and a 40 mile return on the flats — a good opportunity to talk and work on your paceline skills.
It was really an excellent day. The group was well-matched, the weather cooperated (it didn’t get hot until toward the very end of the ride, and we had a mild tailwind most of the way home), and traffic was minor.
What really stood out for me, though, was my excellent choice in nutrition during the ride.
You see, the day before the ride, I realized I was low on gels and Clif Bars, so I dropped by the local REI on my way home from work (my local bike shop is waaaaay out of the way, so you can all just forget about busting my chops about not going to my LBS to buy Clif Bars).
What’s great about REI is the huge selection of sports nutrition. There must be three aisles full of every conceivable permutation of bar, gel, and powder. I grabbed a cart and started randomly tossing stuff in, thinking maybe I’d stumble onto a great new find.
And then, about halfway through, I ran into that find.
Well, two of those finds, actually:
- PowerBar Gel Blasts. I figured these were PowerBar’s answer to Clif Shot Bloks. Curious, I threw a couple packets of each flavor — Lemon and Cola — into the cart.
- Jelly Belly Sports Beans. I bought a couple packets of pretty much every flavor available.
What I Ate
So, back to the ride. Just before the ride, for some reason I gravitated toward the Sports Beans and Gel Blasts. I think it was because the packets sat flat in my jersey: I’ve got enough extra bulk, thank you, I don’t need stuff in my pockets further tightening my jersey.
And so, partway up the ride, I made two very important discoveries:
- PowerBar Gel Blasts are delicious. Specifically, the Cola Gel Blasts are delicious. They’re the same size as Shot Bloks, sure, but they really taste like cola. And they have exactly the same texture as gummy bears. And they have a cola-flavored liquid center. Kind of like a Tootsie Pop, except Tootsie Pops have a Tootsie Roll in the center, not cola. So I guess actually they’re not very similar at all.
- Jelly Belly Sports Beans are also delicious. You know what Sports Beans taste like? Jelly beans, that’s what.
I wonder if either of these companies really think they’re fooling anybody. Both these things look and taste like candy. And I’m pretty sure they have the same nutritional value, too. Oh, sure, Jelly Belly talks about adding vitamins and electrolytes, but I’m pretty confident that the boost I’m feeling from these is the sensation of pure simple sugar hitting my bloodstream, not the special blend of vitamins and electrolytes.
Anyway, when we descended down Nebo to the Wendy’s / gas station in Nephi, I got myself a children’s burger (had a hard time finding the burger in there to tell the truth) and a Coke Float.
And then I refilled my water bottles with Diet Coke with Lime.
And you know what? I felt great the whole ride.
Here’s an epiphany: Junk food works great as on-bike fuel.
Wave of the Future
So, to recap, I ate candy, ice cream, and drank soda for most of this very intense ride. But I never would have even considered doing this if PowerBar hadn’t packaged up gummy bears in an expensive foil pouch. Or if Jelly Belly hadn’t put a handful of jelly beans in a cellophane wrapper, called them sports beans, and charged me a dollar for them.
And I’ll bet I’m not alone here. I’m betting, in fact, that you too need to have your favorite junk food rebranded and repackaged so that you can eat it on your next bike ride, and still feel good about yourself.
- Sports Coke. Really, this just needs to be regular Coke, but with less — or no — carbonation. In a year or so, they can come out with Sports Coke Lite, which will really be Diet Coke. It should come in Accelerade-ish bottles, with the wide mouth openings, so we can chug it (and more easily pour it down the fronts of our shirts). This is a billion dollar idea.
- Reese’s Sports Peanut Butter Cups. You know what has lots of protein? Peanuts do, that’s what. They should maybe also throw in some rice puffs into the mix so they can claim they’ve got an ideal protein / carbohydrate blend. They should probably also tweak the packaging so it has a straw built in, allowing you to slurp the melted chocolate / peanut butter mess straight into your mouth. By the way, I’ve got a great idea for a commercial for this: A mountain biker is eating a chocolate bar while riding. A roadie is eating from a big tub of peanut butter while riding. At the juncture of the road and trail, they collide, hilariously. Helmets askew and collarbones popping out of their jerseys, they engage in the standard Reese’s advertising pitch, but with a twist: “You’ve got chocolate in my rear derailleur!” Sure-fire winner. I guarantee it.
- Snicker’s Sports Bars. Oh, wait. That’s already been done.
- Ben & Jerry’s New York Super Fudge Sport Chunk: Ben & Jerry’s needs to start collaborating with Camelbak to come up with a little freezer I can wear on my back. Because I promise you that during the months of July and August, if I could eat ice cream while riding my bike, there is no price I would not pay. Ben & Jerry’s wouldn’t even have to lie about the ice cream being good for you, really. I think I’d be suspicious of ice cream that’s supposed to be healthy; I’ve tried fat free ice cream before: yech. I want the good stuff; I just need a way to carry it with me.
- Johnsonville Sports Bratwurst: OK, I have no idea how Johnsonville is going to try to convince me that there could possibly be a sports bratwurst. But I’d love to see them try.
Really, this is just the start. I’m guessing there are more than a few of you who wouldn’t be adverse to Budweiser Sports Beer. Or Sports Cheese.
Or — hear me out here — Sports Mayonnaise.
Hey, a man can dream, can’t he?
Last Sunday was Brad’s 40th birthday party. In the invitations, Tasha, Brad’s wife, had asked us to be sure to bring tales about Brad to tell. Sadly, I had to leave before we got around to the story-telling part of the night — I felt bad leaving Susan to get the kids ready for bed on her own — so I promised Tasha as I left that I’d post my Brad story on my blog.
I call it:
“The Day I Hated Brad”
Ten-or-so years ago, Brad, Rocky, Alan (a friend of Rocky’s) and I planned to ride the Kokopelli Trail as a two day ride. We planned to ride from Moab to Dewey Bridge the first day, camp there, and then continue to Colorado the second day.
Unfortunately, it rained the night before.
Waking up and looking at the standing water in the parking lot, I recommended we forget the epic, go back to sleep, and in a few hours go for a ride on Slickrock, which would be dried out by then.
Rocky and Alan were right with me. In fact, I think they admired my courage. I had been the brave one, saying what everyone else was thinking — that riding a big mountain bike epic after a big rainstorm was not a good idea.
Brad was astounded. We had planned this ride for weeks! We were prepared! The trail was probably fine!
And then, finally, he said, “Let’s just try. If it’s no good, we can always turn around.”
Rocky, Alan and I caved. In the face of such enthusiasm, how could we not?
Had I known what the day held in store for us, of course, I would have simply murdered Brad on the spot, hidden his body, and gone back to bed, and then gone for the aforementioned ride on the Slickrock trail later this afternoon.
And I would have been justified in doing so.
The Beginning of the Climb
The Kokopelli trail begins at the Slickrock trailhead. With three of us (i.e., everyone but Brad) casting a wistful look back at the ride we’d prefer to be doing, we began the ride up Sand Flats Road.
Here’s the thing about Sand Flats Road: There’s a lot of it that isn’t sand at all. Oh sure, there’s plenty of sand, but it’s not all sand.
There’s also a considerable amount of clay.
Usually, you don’t even notice the clay, because it’s all hard and baked and easy to ride on. In fact, it’s much, much easier to ride on than the sand. So, on the 362 days of the year that it doesn’t rain in the hot Moab desert, clay is an awesome riding surface.
On the other three days of the year, it’s a bad riding surface.
I need to be clear, here. By “bad” riding surface, I don’t mean that it’s suboptimal. By “bad” riding surface, I mean that it was actually wicked and spiteful. And quite possibly evil.
And in short, we each had to frequently stop, scraping mud from our bagel-esque tires, scraping mud from our deraileurs, scraping mud from our pedals, scraping mud from our brakes.
You get the picture.
After an hour or so of this — during which we had traveled perhaps a dozen yards — I announced that this seemed like enough. We could turn around now and still get in a good ride on the Slickrock trail, then go get dinner at the Moab Brewery. The day was not too late to salvage.
Brad — who, I’d like to point out, had never done this ride before and had no idea of what was ahead of us — insisted things would shortly get better, and we should go on.
Brad must be a Jedi or something, because his mind trick worked. We went on.
Wherein I Become Mentally Scarred for Life
About 90 minutes later than we had originally planned on it — which is to say, we were going about half as fast as we had expected to — we got to the point where you turn off Sand Flats road and onto singletrack.
Ordinarily, this is one of my favorite parts of the ride. While almost all of the rest of the Kokopelli Trail is on wide dirt roads, this feels a little more like mountain biking.
But not this day. After the night’s rain, this trail — no, let’s call it what it really is: “ravine” was in some places a soupy mess. In other places it was a running stream. In still other places, it was the exactly perfect material for making adobe bricks, complete with straw already mixed in, so as to make the binding compound stronger, as if that were somehow necessary.
Within yards, our bikes were completely immobilized. The only way to continue was to shoulder our bikes and trudge on, hiking for four miles uphill in alternately slippery and sticky mud…in our bike shoes.
“This,” I told Brad, “sucks.”
“Are you kidding?” asked Brad, brightly. “This is a total adventure! I’m loving this!”
We eventually reached the pavement part of the ride, which I have never been so glad to reach. On previous Kokopelli rides, we’re usually just getting warmed up — been out a couple hours, just getting into our endurance groove.
This time, we had been out six hours.
“The math is impossible,” I told the group. “We won’t make it to camp before dark. We need to turn around.”
Rocky and Alan nodded their heads, a chorus of consent. Brad, however, said, “We don’t even know if it’s been raining on other parts of the trail. It could be totally dry. Besides, this is fun!”
Seriously. He said it was fun.
Brad Strikes Out On His Own
So, in a testament to how weak-willed the rest of us were, we pressed on. Things weren’t so bad as we rode on the pavement for several miles, climbing up to Beaver Mesa. The only difference, being, of course, that we were much more exhausted and demoralized than we had ever been before.
Except Brad. He chattered on happily about what an awesome time we were having.
I believe Brad may have been on drugs.
When we reached the top of Beaver Mesa, the paved road ended, yielding to a good gravel road.
This good gravel road lasted for nine inches, approximately. It, in turn, yielded to brownie batter.
We were instantly jammed up. Wheels wouldn’t turn. Drivetrains were completely obscured. And since we were about to begin another climb, followed by a descent that would leave us committed to a night huddled in mud — because, as I mentioned, there was no way we were going to make it to camp — I decided to try convincing Brad, one more time.
“Brad,” I said. “We’ve got another climb here, in horrible mud. This will be followed by a treacherous descent, with cliffside exposure, through mud. Then we’ve got to ride through Fischer Valley — which will be muddy — and climb and descend Seven Mile Pass. In the mud.”
“Brad,” I pleaded, “This is the last place we can turn around and make it home and still have a chance of not sleeping in the mud tonight.”
“I’ll tell you what,” said Brad, cheerily. “I’ll ride on ahead for a couple miles and see if the trail improves.”
“Whatever,” I replied, exhausted.
So Rocky, Alan, and I waited, dejectedly trying to get our bikes into rideable condition. Then we waited some more.
And then, just to mix things up a bit, we continued waiting.
Finally, I — as the person responsible for bringing Brad out on this maladventure — rode on, hoping that I could catch up with him.
As I rode, I bellowed, every few seconds, “Brad! Get back here!”
The Sensible Thing
And what do you know? It worked. Brad came back. “Is it still muddy?” I asked.
“Yep!” he replied, brightly. “But I didn’t finish the climb, so I don’t know if it’s muddy on the downhill.”
What Brad didn’t understand, of course, is that the climb continued for another six miles.
“We’re going back to Moab,” I said.
“But,” he replied.
“Not another word.” It was high time I took a stand. “We’ve got three hours of light left and the most technical part of the whole ride is in front of us. And it’s muddy. We’re going back.”
Dejected for the first time that day, Brad agreed.
We took the pavement back to Moab. Rocky, Alan and I, relieved at the certainty we would not be huddling together for warmth in a cave built of mud and sticks that night, were much happier.
Brad was glum. He had been having a great day, until this sad reversal of events.
It took Rocky and me years to forgive Brad for cheerfully dragging us through 80 miles of mud. I don’t know if Alan ever forgave him. Alan’s not the forgiving type.
Of course now, Brad and I are about as good of friends as friends can be. In fact, ten years later, Brad and I still both tell this story.
Brad, of course, tells it a little bit differently than I.
PS: 2009 Fat Cyclist Jersey Pre-Order Week Continues: This is Day 2 in the 2009 Fat Cyclist Jersey Pre-Order week. Get details on the jersey here, then order the men’s jersey here, or the women’s jersey here. Thanks.
I love all the designs Twin Six has done for the Fat Cyclist jersey. I really do. I love them all just the same.
I don’t love this new jersey any more than any of the other designs. Even though the primarily black jersey is almost unbearably cool. Or that the Clydesdale silhouette on the back makes me start singing Johnny Cash every time I see it. Or that every single one of them has the "WIN" mark, in pink, big and bold on the right sleeve, and the "Team Fatty Fighting for Susan" in the collar.
And then there’s the accent color stitching.
Oh mercy. I can hardly wait for this new jersey to arrive.
Pre-Ordering: One Week ONLY, Starts Today
If you — like I — want to make sure you get the new Fat Cyclist jersey, you definitely will want to pre-order yours, and the pre-ordering starts today. As in now. As in, you can click here to order a men’s jersey, or click here to order a women’s jersey.
Why pre-order? I’m glad you asked.
Last year, we didn’t do a Fat Cyclist jersey pre-order. We just ordered a bunch, and then when they came in, we put them on sale.
They sold out almost instantly. A lot of people had a hard time getting the jersey size / gender combo they wanted.
This time, I don’t want that to happen.
So, for this week only — July 14 through July 20 — you can pre-order your jersey, ensuring you get exactly the right size / gender combo you want.
On July 21st, the Twin Six guys will place the order. Sure, they’ll order some extras, but I wouldn’t count on getting one of those.
And then, you and I can sit back and wait for our jerseys to arrive in early November. This will be your most awesome Fall-weather jersey ever. And I daresay it will be your most awesome Spring and Summer jersey, too.
Oh, and the jerseys will come in plenty of time for you to give them as Christmas gifts, for those of you who actually think that far ahead (Susan usually has Christmas gifts planned out for the whole family by April; I tend to start thinking about Christmas gifts just in time to fly into a panic).
Here are the answers to some of the questions I’ve been getting about these jerseys.
- Cost: The jerseys will cost $US70.00 during this pre-order event. The price will go up for people who buy jerseys after they arrive. Note: even though your jersey will be shipped when it arrives this autumn, you will be charged for the jersey when you place the order.
- Sizing: For men, the jerseys fit about like a similarly-sized t-shirt, but a little snugger. If a Large t-shirt fits you tight, for example, you may want to go with an XL jersey. For women, plan to buy the same size jersey as you would a women’s t-shirt.
- International Availability: You can buy jerseys outside the US, but of course you’re going to have to pay a little extra in shipping. That shouldn’t hurt your feelings too badly, though, since the weak dollar currently makes buying anything from the US the deal of the century.
- Accessories: Yes, we’re looking into bike clothing that goes with this jersey. We haven’t locked any of that down yet, but of course as soon as we get even remotely close, I’ll note it on the blog.
- 201: The "201" on the left sleeve goes with the Fat Cyclist Clydesdale logo. Since 200 pounds is the traditional threshold for being in the Clydesdale category, this jersey goes to 201.
- Inside the Collar: The text inside the collar reads "Team Fatty Fighting for Susan." This is in support of my wife, who’s fighting metastatic breast cancer (and who is starting three weeks of radiation on her right hip today, by the way). When you buy a jersey, you’re contributing to Susan’s "WIN" fund, which I use to pay medical bills and do fun stuff with Susan and the kids. So you’re not just looking awesome; you’re actually doing something philanthropic. That’s just your way.
As Long As You’re Ordering…
I want to point out that Twin Six really goes out of its way for me when it does the Fat Cyclist jerseys. For one thing, they are really cool about honoring my input into the design process. For another thing, they have basically put their other projects on hold while they prioritized my jersey design. And for the final thing, doing this pre-order thing is kind of a pain for them, but they’re doing it anyway because I asked them to.
So, if I may, I’d like to recommend you support their business. It’s easy. When you buy your Fat Cyclist jersey, look around their site at the other Twin Six jerseys and T-shirts. If you see something you like, add it to your order.
By the way, the other stuff you order will be shipped right away — Twin Six isn’t going to make you wait for the rest of your order ’til my jerseys arrive.
For example, since it’s Summer, you may want to consider some of the new Twin Six Women’s Sleeveless jerseys: The Argyle, The Mistress, and The School Girl.
But only if you’re a woman, for crying out loud.
PS: Since my wipeout on Wednesday, I haven’t been on a bike at all. I’ve decided that, this evening, if I’m strong enough to put the new tire my road bike needs on, I’m strong enough to ride tomorrow. On the road, on the flats where I don’t ever have to stand up and pull on the handlebars.
PPS: I’ve started using Twitter, just to see if I like it. Basically it’s a place where I can leave random one-sentence thoughts. Click here to read it. If I decide I like it, I’ll incorporate it into my blog sidebar. Let me know what you think.
I didn’t plan to go on a long ride yesterday afternoon after work. I just wanted to get out for 80 minutes or so, because I’d be headed out for a climb-centric road ride early this morning.
I knew just the ride for a quick ride, too. From my house, I’d climb Hogg’s Hollow, then up Jacob’s Ladder. Then — instead of caving in to the temptation of dropping down Ghost Falls and riding the fun singletrack in Corner Canyon — I’d just cruise back along the high dirt road and drop back down Hogg’s Hollow.
I have done this ride or a variation of it so many times I sometimes no longer even think about the trail as I’m riding. I let my mind wander. That’s one of the perks of riding alone; you have time to think.
I Should Just Tattoo The Word “Jinx” On My Forehead
Yesterday, as I climbed, the subject I chose to think about was what I planned to write about for this blog today. Specifically, I was planning to write about how, somehow, I have finally become a fast, confident downhiller, able to keep up with my friends. Heck, even occasionally be the fast guy.
Fifteen years into riding, and I suddenly seem to have acquired a new skill. It’s surprising and interesting (to me), and well worth several hundred words of self-aggrandizing navel-gazing.
Of course, by doing this, I jinxed myself as effectively and thoroughly as if I had gotten off my bike, built an altar, sacrificed a convenient animal (like maybe a small lizard — there are lots of small lizards on Hogg’s Hollow right now), and begged the god of bike crashes (St. Beloki, I believe) to please please please favor me with his attention.
It All Happened So Fast
I didn’t ride Tuesday — lots of doctor appointment stuff with Susan — so my legs felt fresh on the climb and I got to the top of Jacob’s Ladder quickly and still feeling fresh.
I was in the mood to show off — to myself, since nobody was around — this newfound downhilling confidence. So I blasted down the first twisty section, hardly touching my brakes, letting the scrub oak brush against me, feeling good as it scratched my skin.
This opens up in just a few short feet to a loose section, with jagged granite jutting out through the trail. On a rigid bike, I always feel out of control, but have learned that if I keep my arms loose and stay back, the big 29″ bike wheels will roll over practically anything.
Next, there’s a quick drop — no more than 12-14.” Normally, drops make me nervous, but I have done this one so many times I didn’t even really think about it.
I should have thought about it.
Instead of dropping and rolling, my front wheel planted itself, becoming the fulcrum in a catapult. The rest of my bike quickly figured out what my front wheel was up to and happily took on the role of the lever.
And what was my role? Well, I was the payload, naturally.
I flew out and over my handlebars, landing on my head and right shoulder. And yes, my right shoulder is the one that separates easily and really needs to be repaired with surgery.
My primary memory of the moment of impact was of the sound. It was a distinctly ugly sound. A crunch. Like something was giving way.
Of course, I screamed.
Then I stopped screaming, because I realized — quite rationally, I think — that when you’re mountain biking alone, nobody can hear you scream.
I hopped up, adrenaline surging. My helmet felt weird. My glasses were askew. My shoulder hurt so bad that if I had had an audience, I would have resumed screaming.
My knee was a bloody mess. I didn’t have a camera — nor a phone, which would have had a camera but which also probably would have perished in the fall — but I did take a picture of my knee when I got home.
A Little Bit of “Me” Time
What really got on my nerves, though, was that my iPod shuffle continued, during what was clearly a painful and serious moment, to pipe a fast Pete Townshend song into my head.
The iPod should know better. I popped out the headphones.
With the adrenaline rush in full effect, I nearly got back on my bike. But my shoulder stopped me.
My right arm didn’t work. This would make it difficult to ride the 7/8 of the technical downhill still in front of me.
I took off my helmet and sat down, giving myself over to the inevitable adrenaline shakes.
Once those subsided, I stood up, using — without thinking — my right arm to help.
Nearly blacking out, I sat back down.
It was time to reconsider how I was going to get home.
After my vision unclouded, I started thinking. It didn’t take long to come up with a plan. I’d walk my bike for the difficult part of the trail, then ride — if I could — to the dirt road. Then, instead of dropping down Hogg’s, I’d climb up to the Suncrest road and ride the pavement home.
Then, since that plan took roughly thirty seconds to come up with, I had time to think about more things. For example:
- I probably wasn’t going to get that early morning road ride in.
- I may not be a good bet for the Tour de Donut, either. Which is a shame, because I was coming up with a really good plan for it, involving giving the twins turns riding laps with me on it. Give them their first race experience in a really fun way.
- The sound I heard on impact might have been my helmet, because it was crushed.
- I am a 42 year old man with four kids and a sick wife. I can’t afford to be injuring myself like this. I don’t need to be a fast descender. I need to be a safe descender.
I don’t know how long I sat there, giving myself this self-evaluation, but I’m going to guess ten minutes. Maybe thirty.
Eventually, I stood up, lifted my bike, and found that if I moved my shoulder slowly, I could move my right hand up to the handlebar.
I then executed my plan, which turned out to be a good one. Once I got past the part of the trail that had lots of granite poking out, I was able to get back on my bike and gingerly coast down the singletrack, braking the whole way.
Once I hit a branch with my shoulder. That nearly brought out the scream. And once I hit a good bump — a small tree stump — and the jolt brought such a strong wave of pain that I started laughing, causing another part of me to wonder if I was now officially in shock.
I got to the road and then pedaled home, studiously avoiding potholes and bumps in the road. Then I walked in and announced, “I am going to need a camera and a ride to the hospital.”
First, though, I needed to get out of those shorts and jersey. They stank.
I took a picture of my knee and then climbed into the shower, where I cleaned the grime out of my cuts as best as I could, and took a count of everywhere I was cut up: right knee, head, backs of both hands, right hip, all up and down my back, right butt cheek.
And then I stood in the shower for a while, trying to make a decision. Should I go to the emergency room?
It’s not an easy call to make. What if I were just bruised? How embarrassing. But what if I didn’t go and something was really badly wrong? That would be stupid.
Finally I decided I’d rather be embarrassed than stupid, so my sister Kellene gave me a ride to the emergency room. There, they asked me my pain number. Oddly, I had just recently re-read an old post of mine and the comments thereto, so decided to go with 7. A strategic maneuver.
Friends in the Right Places
As I got led back to a room to wait my turn, I saw Mike Young, a good guy, very fast cyclist, and — as luck would have it — an emergency room doctor. I called out to him, telling me he needed to fix me up so I’d be good in time for Leadville (just a month away).
Mike was off-duty, but he came and took a look at the X-Rays and grabbed my shoulder in ways that made me whimper.
I have — no surprise — a first-class separated shoulder. Not much can be done about it. Mike says that there’s a good chance I’ll be able to do Leadville.
Kellene took me home, I pilfered some of Susan’s pain medication, and went to bed.
This morning, I’m stiff all over. When I want to move my right hand from the keyboard to the mouse, I have to use my left hand to lift and move it.
Worst, though, is the likelihood that this wreck will get into my brain — all wrecks get into my brain — and my hard-won, newfound ability to downhill is almost certainly gone.
I shall forever be Captain Timid, king of the slow, middle-aged downhillers.
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