Monday, July 7, 2014

Practice.

I just realized that I seem to have ended up at Acadia  four out of the past five weekends. It is not that more is better. In fact, it was sort of an accident.

First, Tim and I hiked Black and Schoodic mountains in Donnell Preserve, a treat we'd been wanting to check out almost since our earliest Cragsnagging days. I got up at 2am to make it happen and we were on the trail a little after 6am.

It would be Tim's final hike before the Laurel Highlands Ultra.  We required unprecedented amounts of three flavors of bug dope, but the summits were worth it and the steep trails brought much joy.
Lines, lovely lines.

I could tell he was totally ready for the race. Even though I wasn't running it, it seemed like everyone else was. It was an exciting time.
 
I already forget if these first three pics are Schoodic or Black Mountain or both...

Second, Christopher Robinson, Sarah & Laurah came climbing with me at Otter Cliffs. We went with Atlantic Climbing School. ACS rocks! I love those guys.
Me, happily flummoxed as usual by Otter Cliffs.

And then Chris and I hiked the short but vertical Beehive later that day. He'd heard about it but had never hiked much of anything before. I told him I knew a way to fix that. That hike doubled as a Peace Corpse hike for Kezar, the late Chesapeake Bay Retriever. This was on June 15th and it was just about peak lupine season.
View from partway up Beehive Trail. RIP Kezar.

On the third weekend, I was in the Whites with Rosalea and Colin, as some of you may already have read.

My favorite librarian enjoys some boulders near Jordan.
On the fourth week, my mother and I had a great stormy day of hiking around Jordan Pond.  The drizzle and mist were quite pleasant and we were sheltered from the wind.  The pond was all waves and whitecaps! She is a great sport for seeing this weather as an adventure instead of a deterrent.

Jordan Pond. Love.
That night was a word-class, fantastic supper at Cleonice, a must-eat restaurant in Ellsworth. We unapologetically go to Cleonice as many times as we can manage on our annual Acadia trips, and will tell you with a straight face that you really ought to do the same.

En route to Beech Mountain. Thank you, Glaciers!
On the following, much more sunny, day, we headed to Beech Mountain.  Beech has quickly become one of my favorites as a Place To Bring Certain People, and also just a favorite overall. She hasn't spent much time on mountains lately and wasn't 100% sold on the whole idea but I had an inkling that if she'd just give in a chance she might be really into it...!  And of course we could always turn around.
Pretty wonderful.

It ended up as a really good hike. Again I was so proud of her, this time for choosing to go ahead with the hike even though she was unsure at first of what to expect. Not that charging forth is out of character for her, but still. And I am so lucky to have a pretty wonderful Mother. It was a joy to have her as company in my house, as it were.
Moments before hand abuse.
Near the point when the trail goes back into the forest, drama struck. I stepped downward innocently enough, but something went awry because I landed on a hand instead of a foot. Said landing occurred, of course, upon Acadia's beautiful, pinkish, granite substrate. A couple of fingers tried (and succeeded) to sacrifice themselves in order to (semi-successfully) break the impact of the fall. They hyper-extended roughly and went off the brain-map -- a truly odd sensation. Where were they? I reached for them and immediately tried to bring them back, fearing I would go to bend them and they were just be lost, gone, no more. They frightfully came back into brain space, bending unsteadily and already swelling. They have yet to unbend, or curl properly, 9 days later! But they are healing fine as far as I can tell. It just simply takes a little while to happen.

Oh gross, like you needed to see that... ;)
Knee looked bad but wasn't, shin didn't but was was!
The left wrist and right shin tied for second place and the right knee came in third. Major structural damage appears unlikely for most of these parts, but there was enough superficial damage to make a swollen, bloody mess. Lovely. Anyway, I'm fine, and now I've

learned a bit about this type of injury and about how to perform one-handed first aid. Life skill!

Matt is in town, and by town, I mean MDI, so I went back up to Bar Harbor yet again on this past weekend to go hear him play at Lompoc. He'd invited me to play with him and to go climbing. Goddamnit! What a sad week of staring at the sad paw. Two of my favorite activities, so close and yet so far...!  Fortunately my disappointment was obliterated by it also being a very busy, very distracted, very good week of jobshadowing with DEA, an orthopedic surgeon down on the Cape.

More excited about the wonder thumb's innards than about the bone chips...
I admit I was bummed and worried about the state of the hand, so I tried to just focus on what I could do. I had a great 10.5mile run after my first day in the OR.  First it felt funny to say OR, now it seems long winded to type out "operating room".  I ran to the harbor, ran through the alpaca farm and into the salt marsh and over the dizzying array of suspension bridges. It was the perfect way to unwind after being in a foreign vault where everything is ritualized and specific and somebody appears sort of dead, but isn't.

Office wall: mountaineering, Grandpa Ed, WD-40.
The next day was another round of clinic, which is good for the mind... but physically, it is just standing still.  In fact after three days of said standing still, this farm worker was jumping out of her skin.  Fortunately, circumstances allowed that I could conceivably run to dinner. It could even be a tempo type run. I scampered off to toward the harbor once more, already dripping with sweat on a second hot, humid evening.

A wonderful, amazing gift from DEA's shelf. It used to belong to MGA as well.  Note the $23.50 price tag.
Actually I will probably just use this book to bludgeon the next person who asks me if I am going to be a nurse.
Fast forward to Friday night, with hand mobility still improving and pain still diminishing each day. I wanted so much to play with Matt. I picked up the bass, just to see...

Bar Island sunset.
...and the next night, there we were, on stage, Cinder Conk reunited at last. I was able to sort of play using either open strings or just one finger on the left hand. I managed several tunes out of each set.  It was neither sustainable nor particularly musical...but it just barely worked, did not seem to cause extra damage, and it was a blast to play with my favorite accordion player once again. My mind needed it. It was good.

Bar Harbor sunset.
In the morning, Matt's Kate helped me pick a good spot to run. I ran a version of the loop that she did for her first ever 10 mile run back when she was training for the MDI marathon. It was an uplifting thought to run along with. Eagle Lake glistened below me from Connor's Nubble, a neat outcropping up which I'd never ventured.

Super view from Connor's Nubble.
Autumn had happened upon us at Lompoc last night (a very nice surprise to see her) and mentioned this place. We agreed that Nubbles are indeed special features. The only Nubble I'd previously met was Knight's Nubble, and that was with Tim last November. How chilly that day was! I believe it was on our final hike of the year, on our final peak of the whole island. I wondered if Tim had run around this other Nubble as he trained and trained for Laurel. Methinks everybody needs a Nubble for running on...


The loop I ran was sans GPS but I believe it was around 14.5miles. It took 3.5 hours with plenty of stops and such. It was entirely new terrain for me. I like that there remains so much left to explore, even after I have now spent an exorbitant amount of time there.

Eagle Lake.
I ended on Paradise Hill which, in hindsight, was a perfect ending. I'll go back and do a longer version of this loop sometime soon, I think. I could include Pemetic, Penobscot, and both Bubbles and it would be ridiculously good. And tough. I could throw my whole heart on into that for sure.








Monday, June 23, 2014

Mount Washington.

The fatigue settled in that night like the belly of a whale, as if some cavernous, disorienting venue among me was set to drop below the ocean's depth. The demand to stop, to rest, encapsulated my final musings over the day's journey:  In the wee hours I'd moved laterally, to New Hampshire. Then I ran skyward, into the clouds all morning. I hiked steadily downward in the afternoon. And now, after dusk on the longest day of the year, I seemed to be blissfully sinking even further down below some dark, imaginary sea-level.

The longest day of the year is still twenty-four hours in length, start to finish, much like all the other days. It's not the length, of course, but the light that toys with our perception. A signature trick. But it gets our attention every time.

The Mount Washington race is no extraordinary length either, but running up the 7.6 mile auto road isn't like any other 7.6 mile run. It most certainly will get your attention, and keep it, and hold it hostage until you hurl your corpse across the finish line. It is perhaps the longest day of road races.

There are two types of people who attend this event: Those who have done the race a certain specified number of times already, and those who don't fully understand what they are getting into. Or, the smug and the fearful. Kind of sounds like a really bad teenage Jesus-band's first album. 

I managed to assemble an elite, 5-star, world-class crew to help me in my pursuit of $80 worth of false glory. How peculiar that the fat wench would be competing in the overstuffed Cadillac of a footrace, and the Serious runners would be tasked with muling her gear up a rockpile. However, it's best not to worry about any such labels. 

Rockpile really is disrespectful though.  There is so much more to it than that. 


Because this isn't a place where reasonable things can be counted upon to occur, one has the option to unschool one's self in lieu of normal training. At least, that was what I kept telling myself. But my disappointment at not being able to train in the way I'd imagined was overshadowed by gratitude that I could run at all. I wrested my meager mileage base back from the jaws of injury, dusted it off, and narrowly outran a cute yet married guy at the Pineland 25k. That felt like my first real step back into runnability. Not that I got a good look at his face but we really needed a little character development to spice up the plot at this point.  

Anyway, our hapless protagonist had done a few intentional hills and a sort of accidental speed workout. Hardly enough to mention. This was in addition to a flurry of over- and then and under-training, the result of my carpe-ing all the diems when my body allowed, and fretting repulsively when it didn't. Such is the nature of nature. Three long, full-day hikes and many shorter ones peppered the (7 weeks of post-injury, starting-from-almost-scratch) running schedule. These were quintessential.

I wasn't necessarily thrilled with the way it all panned out, but the good thing was that I was tuned in to where my body was at, and I was pretty confident about what to expect. 



I am still figuring out how to rock the Tailwind, so after I launched my laden elite wonder-crew up the mountain, I fiddled about with scooping and tasting and diluting. I had grabbed a gel too, reasoning that this was the just kind of event in which your legs could quit. I ended up trying a few mouthfuls of it around mile 5 but it was a thick, sticky mess that glued itself to my gullet and resisted attempts to wash it away. Fuck that shit. Tailwind is all that is required.

Running among a lot of walkers, as I often do, can sometimes result in a build-up of ambient excessive verbiage. Here at Mount Washington, however, conversations are mercifully short. There's a lot of gasping, groaning, and hacking that makes up for it. It's actually less distracting than the aforementioned alternative. I tried to imagine, when people spontaneously went quiet, what all of our heartbeats would sound like if piled up somehow into one giant, whooshing, throbbing chorus. A thundering arrhythmic circus. 

I did a bit of people-and gait-watching and a lot of view-peering as soon as the trees diminished. Coming out up above tree line is my favorite part of this race, just as it is my favorite part of life. Aid stations come and go, the hill just comes and comes some more. The one major shift you get to look forward to, and to put behind you, is at the upper margin of the forest. The surrounding peaks, the Wildcats and Presidentials, are astounding. I pointed at a little patch of snow in one of the ravines and some Bostoners* stopped to take selfies in front of it.  

*No clue where they were from. Probably Alaska. 


I managed to remember to look up my time last year; it was 2:24. This was an 18:58 pace, which seemed hysterically funny for some reason. How on Earth could that pace be a running pace in a 7.6 mile race?! But it was, and I decided that the only thing to do was to beat it, heart rate and legs permitting. The former would be allowed to dictate. Just like they do in the movies, I would follow my heart, whatever the cost.


Colin and Rosalea appeared somewhere around mile 6 and scampered about with cameras. I was focused on the road ahead and feeling well, but by this point I was struggling to keep below my Important Target Goal pace! The earlier miles, though supposedly a bit steeper, were much faster. I chuckled as I announced this to Rosalea. She probably sleeps faster than a 18:58 pace but she is the kindest and most humble creature. It meant such a great deal to me that they agreed to come along. 



I was up at "the wall" in no time. I believe I ran it last year, but was less prepared to perform such antics this year. The legs just couldn't. It's such a short bit -- running it only matters if you want to look like a back-of-the-pack-badass (is that a thing?) in front of the onslaught of spectators. Someone cheered and called my name, but who?  It's printed on my number, pinned to my leg, so maybe they just read it as I passed.  Then someone else called my nickname, which is not printed. Who are these people? Unknown. A crowd in a cloud, it was. Onward to the last tiny bit of flat ere the wire. 

Somehow I was running again for those final steps. After two hours and twenty minutes of ascending, there was suddenly a blanket rippling in the wind ahead of me. Like the bull greets the matador, I headed into it. I tried to dodge getting medaled -- I hate medals -- but the guy was determined. I was captured. 


It's an overstated, crazy finish with a huge clock and too many people for a mountaintop. It's a hoot. And it goes along with the other aspects of the spectacle of this unique event. Somehow I ran a little faster this year than last. 

It was probably 40 degrees and windy (of course). Within a couple minutes my crew and I had reunited and we were headed down Nelson Crag Trail, passing a line of rather windblown runners that snaked its way to the summit sign. We stopped at the first relatively sheltered spot lower down to put on more clothes. I was glad I'd followed Rosalea's lead and brought my puffy and favorite wool hat.


Colin placed 4th in a 70.5mile race just one week ago, and he patiently obliged my insisting to hear all about it on the hike down. I'd warned him that I had a lot of questions...!

Walking down what I just ran up...
We made the slowest progress on the always wonderful, always impossible granite shards that are so characteristic of the Northern Presis. Several of us were concerned about knee preservation and wondered if there was any chance that the road would be better. Well, the trail is insanely steep and ranges from treacherous to pain-in-the-ass. The road is relentless and longer, but not as overtly dangerous with possibly tired legs. We ended up hopping onto the road after a couple miles of trail. No one was upset when said descent ended. It's as beautiful going down as going up, but at least as brutal.


Brutal? A lot of people use the word on it. It feels inaccurate when I write it. I think we must somehow bring that to it. A mountain doesn't seek us out and hope to harm us. Maybe we are the brutal ones? Maybe it's simply the wrong word. I dare not fish for the correct one. If you've spent time in the Presidentials, you already know that words can hardy convey a fragment of their exorbitant and wild beauty. 

....and a tranquil run on Sunday in glorious the Camden Hills of Maine.

Tuesday, June 10, 2014

Seeking Speck Pond .

A rustling on the trail ahead slowed my march. Maybe animal, probably hiker, I thought. Maybe both.

I rounded the boulder and a pair of YAMs (young adult males) appeared, perching trailside among the moss and roots. The one whose idea it was was staunchly puffing on the stub of a cigarette, gazing affirmatively straight ahead. The one whose idea it wasn't looked fearful, guiltily sneaking a long look at me as I moved along.

I promptly passed through their cloud of pot smoke and chuckled at the cute cigarette charade. Boys, I thought...

I emerged from the forest about an hour later to the bright granite face of Old Speck's western flank. This view of the Mahoosucs is one of my favorites. The backdrop of blue-gray mountains on this day was seven layers deep. The foreground was mostly air -- Here, the ground falls away before you. Rock then sky. With articulate timing and the right gust of wind, perhaps you could step into flight, sailing over the sea of evergreens below.

One cannot see Speck Pond from here. It's roughly 0.8 miles hence and 600feet below. A green hump shields the secret from view. I descended very slowly, wondering if it would be at all like what I'd remembered. I was here in on September 12, 2007, and I remember parts of that adventure with vivid, uncharacteristic clarity. Trek For Peace's first entry details a bit of it. I dare not read it.

It was midafternoon when I reached the Pond and my thoughts drifted back to Lifesaver, Uncle Silly, and Silly's yellow dog, Katie Daly, who snuggled up with me 6 years ago as I shivered. So did Lifesaver.  Uncle Silly was mere inches away too, though I'm not sure I'd ever spoken with him except at dinner when he gave me a clove of garlic as I was cooked the last of my couscous. Birdlegs and Birdman (not related.) were taking up most of the the other side, she no doubt telling wild stories and making us all howl. And then we all went quiet when Silly took out his banjo and played us to windy sleep...

I'm alone this time and it's 2014. I have a lock of Wyatt's hair in my pocket to set free. I regret that I didn't bring a sleeping bag. This is no place to rush.

I sat by the sparkling blue for a long time as the afternoon thought about evening and I thought about everything. Then I started thinking about the gnarly climb back up, and bid farewell to this wild and precious place. It was a delicious climb. Not too much, but a lot. Steep ups can seem intimidating, but in the moment, to me, they inspire a lifeline of focus.

I was back at my favorite view within the hour and gave it another long stare. Finally, I greeted Mount Washington, where I look forward to being in a few weeks.

Friday, May 30, 2014

Pineland 25k

"Are you doing Pineland?" asked Emma on Tuesday.

"Oh no, I don't think so..." I paused.

"You'll do it," she said, eyes twinkling as she skittered off to be with her newly-born tomboy, Gnarlin/Iona.
Training real hard here with Dr. Corszhi.
I signed up that night. I hadn't trained. In fact, I'd only just started running a couple of weeks ago after 6 weeks off. But hey, I still had four days.

A ridiculously awesome marsh run with Squirrel and Bullwinkle accidentally
 commemorated the Night I Signed Up For Pineland.


A double good omen!

How do you train for a 25k in four days?

Well, don't try this at home, but here's what I did:

 - (1) long hike (long as in time, not so much distance.  Anything longer than it would take to run 25k would do)
- (1) day of trying to do a short tempo the morning after said hike, and completely failing.
- (1) day of being too sore to bother trying anything.
- (1) day of just a little kayaking and then fishing with my friend's daughter's 3 foot long pink plastic Disney Princess fishing pole, nevermind the therapy I'm going to need about what I did to those poor earthworms.

Peace.

With a recipe for success like this, it was clear that there could be no failure. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

The hike took place the next morning, Wednesday. Sea Level Runner and I headed out to the Baldface Circle Trail over South and North Baldfaces near the Maine/New Hampshire border.
C makes it look easy... Not surprising based on how he trains.
I ran a bit in the more runnable spots, but mostly trudged the earth-covering trudge of a soul who's constantly ravenous for the world above tree line. 


The bare expanse near the first summit was a damn fine granite face. Bliss was carried in via wind from most directions, accumulating in last season's dry grasses and in timeless lichen blooms. The early spring colors seemed hushed. dormant. C had not waken them as he sailed on up ahead.
The Presidentials still have snow. We saw only a few tiny patches in the shadows.
My climb was slower, but steady. With each step I was so thankful that my physical form was finally cooperating with the parts of me that make decisions. This gratitude is always, always on my mind - more than ever.


Snow lingered in the gullies of Mt. Washington off to the west.  I wondered how much would be left in three and a half weeks, when I am running up there for a second time in as many years.

Spectacular trail along the ridge.

Baldface Circle Trail Info: 

  • Time and distance: We were in motion on the Baldface Circle trail for about 6 hours, and 10+miles, including a stop at the Emerald Pool and a bit of exploring on the sort-of-ridge.
  • Difficulty: This hike is extremely steep in parts, and would be quite treacherous and dangerous if wet or icy. I would definitely not want to bring little kids or my camp groups here. I would definitely bring confident, experienced hikers/trail runners with good footwear here.
  • Runnability: Some of the trail is very runnable and some isn't. Parts of it require climbing and using your hands.
  • Length: There are some very intriguing opportunities to do extended loops in various directions.

That face, on the left, is what we just climbed, and yes, it's that steep.
Emerald Pool - Now the name makes sense. Not shown - fantastic cascade preceding this!
I slept voraciously that night, got up early on Thursday, tried to run, and failed. I ran, alright - ran out of time after about 2.7miles -- I'd been out for close to an hour.  My quads were so shot, I could barely progress down the trail! Perhaps pathetic, definitely amusing. I had biked and biked throughout my 6 weeks of rest -- definitely my most active "rest" I've ever managed -- but rather than keeping me in shape, it just seemed to harsh on my knees. Frustrating.

I didn't try running on Friday or Saturday; I had two crazy and motion-filled days of work that perhaps were useful in averting stiffness. I was far less sore, at last, on Saturday. I fit in a short kayak in the evening, and then of course the aforementioned "fishing" during when I was supposed to be looking for things to eat and wear, doing sleep, and all that.  

Sunday happened: I pried my creaky self out of the car at Pineland to get my number. I felt rickety and understood that today was probably going to be my first DNF. My only long run in the past few months was at the Andy last Saturday - a merry occasion in the pouring rain with Disa, Axel, Val, Mindy, Danielle, and Tim. That was only 10 miles, and I was tired and dragging by the end. And the Andy is flat. Pineland is not flat. 

I caught sight of Nathan and Chandra and was soon fastening myself to a number. I realized I was obsessing over the distance when I wasn't actually even worried about that. Let go. I just needed to stay in the moment and stop if anything stopped feeling good. No big deal.

I'd bought some lightly-used Tailwind a few days ago and couldn't remember how much to use (I'd only used it once before), couldn't decide how much water to carry, and couldn't figure out how long I'd anticipated being out on the course. "What do you think, 3.5 hours?" I asked Ian. Suddenly I silently wanted to do it in 3 hours. Because 5 miles per hour, people. Aim low. Not necessarily classy, but - attainable.

Pineland Trail Running Festival is a pretty spectacular event. If you aren't familiar with it, it's a two-day trail running festival with distances from 5k to 50 miles. The shorter races are on Saturday and the longer ones on Sunday. The courses are varied and engaging, but graded and generally smooth. The hills are accurately described on the website: "relentless".  The aid stations are loaded with anything a runner could want. I only stopped once for some water because I was using Tailwind, but this a definitely an event where you can get away with carrying little of nothing.

As many of you surely are already aware, Pineland is an excellent choice for people who are just getting into the longer distances and/or experimenting with gear/nutrition. It's safe. There's tons of support. There are bands. There are cows. It's even spectator-friendly as runners in the longer races pass through the start/finish areas several times along the way. That said, the hilly terrain makes it a great challenge for runners at any level, and the idyllic vistas sometimes make you feel like you are  running through a postcard.

I ended up carrying about 5 scoops of Tailwind in about 60oz of h20 in my Nathan pack. That stuff is amazing! I probably drank about 50oz over 15 miles, sipping frequently. I never felt hungry or headachey during the event. 
My drug of choice.
I found myself running with Tami for about the first 6 miles. This was a most welcome serendipity, as each of us was focusing on "being in the moment" as the day's mantra. We admired moss and discussed runs past and future. I was so glad to have had good company to start things off well.

I was alone-ish for the middle miles, focused and content, feeling less and less creaky. Only the very old Achilles thing was on the radar. Minor. Just don't do anything stupid, I reminded myself. I faced the hills readily, carefully, and thinking thanks to the Baldpates for resetting my quads.

At around 10 miles, I seemed to be running with a fellow who we'll call the Nigerian Scammer, though he wasn't either of those things. I liked him immediately. I found myself slowing down a little bit to hear what he had to say. Eventually he divulged that he was a chemistry major(!) Our conversation made the miles fly by --  I ended up responding to one of his comments about language vs. thought by bringing up Andy Clark's "Gesture As Thought" essay & language-as-organism theory. He seemed very interested in it and curious about how it worked. Most people neither give a fuck about nor understand this shit! Never thought I'd get to discuss Andy Clark during a run!

This-all kept going right up until the Finish Line, at which point we exchanged hugs, and then went our separate ways. Funny how you can learn so much about a person and not even know their name, all in the course of a long run. I hope we can run together again someday, Nigerian Scammer! 

Whoa. Done, so soon? Is a 3 hour run "short" now? What a snob I sound like...

Trek For Peace in action.
After finishing, Luette appeared and presented me with a sort of bouquet of kale. I chuckled and snacked. I fucking love Luette. We ran our first 50k here at Pineland two years ago when I was preparing for my Grand Teton climb. I thought it was very sweet that she came all the way out here just to say hi and give me kale. Kale is kind of just one big goofy meaningless joke between us. The perfect gift.

I sprawled about with my fellow Trail Monsters, more and more of whom trickled in as they finished their 50k and 50mile runs. There was sun, there was rain, there was sun again. I began to feel very warm and sleepy and content. I wondered if I could just close my eyes for just a couple minutes...

Monsters huddling a bit during some rain.
"Someone should go run Ann in," thoughtful Scout mused. This seemed like a great idea and I wanted to be the someone. It would be a good opportunity to properly catch up with Ann as she conquered yet another 50k. Immediately upon moving, there was the headache! Ack! I cursed myself for putting my hydration pack away and slowed down a bit. My bad for not drinking a bunch after my finish. Need to make a note of that for next time. I am still, after all these years, figuring this stuff out...

Fortunately Ann was very near -- I found her partway down the last big hill, about 2k from the end. I think we were both glad to see each other. She looked strong as ever but implied she was pretty ready to be done. I asked her all about Massanutten and soon we were rounding the last turn of the last field before the last road crossing. A familiar figure loomed up ahead, perched on a rock in a little birch grove. It was a certain Tim. Now we were three, and in a couple minutes, our Annie was in and there was much rejoicing.

We reunited with our little pack of Trail Monsters. They looked good, and well-run. Scout saw a tiny owl face on a leaf. Jamie was talking about fishing. Elliot was wearing Carhartt coveralls, just like his race-director dad.

 "We're running the Scuffle course tomorrow morning at Brad, if you wanna join..." said Scout...
Scout and Amy pat the Hedgehog during our Brad run, the morning after.