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the week of the seven centuries, that all fell apart
and there i am, sitting in some cafe in nebraska, listening to rough mixes from my new record for the first time. these moments, the ones where i am thrust back into the world of old, are the strangest of all. a wind, that carries us. i'm not sure what i think of these songs anymore, as they feel like memories from some other time...sometimes, i just wish to play the piano and sing at a whisper in the confines of my bedroom...perhaps only for myself and my beloved keri. you may of course" listen if you wish...there are even some "bedroom recordings" as well.
and as the land, the states even, fall behind us, this missing of keri grows in waves. i know not what else to write of, as all else pales. the days on the road have spun recklessly into themselves, a handful of sand, all mixed in with a handful of sand. it is the feeling of 18 rain soaked days in a row. the ground full of water, realeasing nothing but itself. a fist curled in. at some point, each day becomes every other day, and days no longer have their meaning. the missing becomes the mountains that i've left behind. the missing becomes the oxygen i yearn for, which my lungs pull into themselves. they rise and fall, they rise and fall, the moving of curtains in the wind. i find myself fighting off the urge to run sprinting to the airport, any airport, and i practice perhaps the most difficult thing there is to practice. patience. patience, patience, patience. as i finally give over to my dreams of life with her more, i feel myself literally short of breath as my heart reaches out. this being away from her, is unquestionably the most difficult aspect of this trip. so as the time moves by, drifting back behind my wheels, i allow myself to drift off into thoughts of the future, though i still try so diligently, sternly even, to live in the belly of my moments. oh my, such a terribly difficult task.
i sit now writing all of this from omaha, nebraska, mere miles from the iowa border. night before last last we slept in a field of mud, beneath hard rain all night. yesterday, my pants covered in dried mud, some in my hair, a strange woman handed me her change. one dollar, twenty cents. she apologized saying it was all that she had. my god, could i really look that bad?
and so we go back...back to the leaving of denver.
day 32. 79 miles. denver to somewhere west of fort morgan, colorado in a man named dave's field.
denver gives us love. an internet cafe, the most spectacular of " organic markets and a trip to a " bike shop for new tires and brakes. we need these things. oh yes. they of the shop, are so generous and amazingly kind. we love this celebration of our trip, and it reminds us of the inherent beauty living in this journey. the new tires are 'skinnier' and we glide more gracefully. we leave denver and ride through the bad neighborhoods in the east side of town. the sad lives of whores on the street corner, in the hot afternoon sun {97 degrees?} drinking soda through straws and throwing their world to the sickness of the earth. i feel myself swimming in gratitude for my existence. we see taxi drivers at gas stations with long curly hair, buying twelve-packs of beer and ice. he has two companions that ride in his taxi, who speak loudly and swear too much. we drink apple juice, which has become one of the gifts we give ourselves at these gas stations. it is of course "from concentrate" but cool and refreshing nonetheless. before this post is done, you will most certainly hear me complain of the hot water in our water bottles, which is anything but refreshing. we ride all afternoon and evening {into the wind of course} hoping to make it further, but give in to the skies growing dark. there are nothing but fields owned by families who farm them. we knock on a door, asking if we may sleep in one of these fields, rather than being woken by shotgun at sunrise. dave is young, and somewhat confused by the facts of what we are doing, but says yes. "knock yerselves out guys." sleep comes quickly after the dehydrated pasta. peanut butter cookies and ginger tea. it really all feels spectacular somehow. "east" feels somehow so much closer from here, on the other side of the mountains. that which can be accomplished.
day 33. 101 miles. somewhere west of fort morgan to somewhere east of sterling, colorado.
we wake and ride without wind for some time!!!!! we giggle at the miracle of this. no tailwind, but an hour or two with no wind is really rather shocking at this point. ghost towns are abundandant. far too abundant. every town on the map where we plan to buy water is boarded up. a strange sight to see such an endless trail of lives left behind, the memories locked in behind plywood. the streets all look so dusty somehow. after riding 89 miles, we finally stop for dinner in this miserable little town where nothing is open. all of downtown shut, though not boarded. closed. dammit. we go to the gas station intending to eat there once again {feeling really quite miserable about this fact} when we notice a mexican restaurant across the street. we lean our bikes against the wall and are blessed with an outlet outside where we charge our things.
during dinner {which was fucking awful} we will watch a man who works at the restaurant walk outside, inspect what we are doing with his outlet for a minute or so, shake his head, and come back inside, clearly angered. hmmmmmm. so we eat. the food is terrible, as is so often the case out here, and mike at some point spits his out, saying that he is feeling a bit funny. as am i. we pay and leave, contemplating how and why one would leave a tip when they brought our food and then never came back. we had to get up for water, more chips, and the bill. i find myself continually stunned by how much people seem to be afraid of/dislike that which is different from what they are. it is so very sad to me. we then proceed to ride our bikes as quickly as we can to the pancake restaurant, and literally run from where we have locked our bikes, to use their restrooms. we both proceed to have a mess of diaharrea explode from us. this is funny yes, but ever so sad at the same time. oh, this food. somehow, after lying out in front of the restaurant for an hour or so, we both find it in us to ride another 11 miles. during that time we are quiet, as our stomachs scream and yell. we are chased by a dog, in the dark, which we kick and yell at, and the bugs attack our eyes in the dark. we set up camp about ten feet from the road and about ten feet from the train tracks. this is not optimal. before sleep, i will hear the voice of my dear keri, and mike will shit his pants a bit. the sleep is too short, and too interrupted by trains and trucks and planes, but such it is.
day 34. 81 miles. 107 degrees. somewhere east of sterling, to ogalalla, nebraska.
we awake to being "crop-dusted." it is that simple. the plane flies low, breaking over the fields spraying as it goes. as you may imagine, this is not an enjoyable feeling. it is a relatively complete attack of the senses to be honest, but at this point it just sort of blends in with everything else. the degree to which we have let go of many things is amazing. it is rather curious to me how bland some of these experiences can seem in the wake of so many others. so we ride through more ghost towns. we stop for lunch and wiffle ball on the lawn in front of a courthouse, where the sign reads "105 degrees." oh this heat. the main problem really, is the water. with such a great lack of towns along the way, we are forced to drink warm water all day which is simply not refreshing. the water is definitely hotter than some cups of tea i've had. pouring it on yourself feels awful. thusly, these little places, these markets in these little towns with their majestic refridgeration become a gift of the gods. we bask in them, buy far too many cold beverages and litres of water, but this is blissful. we pour the water on our heads and drink it quickly. we eat watermelon and juice bars, and fruit. anything cold. we play wiffle ball on the lawn, where mike somehow hits five homeruns in a row, pulling ahead by four runs. this challenges the competitive man in me, but i grow and grow as i ride and ride. we eat finally in some restaurant that we do not like, but revel in the fact that we've not had dinner at a gas station for days. we walk out of the restaurant to black skies. i have never seen anything like this. the entire sky is jet black, and a mess of lightning. the entire sky is filled with white snakes, as far as the eye can see. this is both beautiful and terrifying. shocking. we are completely awestruck. feeling as though we should move as quickly as we can to a hotel, but wishing to stand there all night soaking in the absurdity of it all. the arresting strength of nature. the fact that one can indeed ride their bicycle all this way. sometimes i'm not sure how we've come this far, but we have. sometimes, it is that simple.
day 35. 95 miles. {18 in the back of a police car} ogalalla, nebraska to gothenburg, nebraska.
MY NOTES FOR THE DAY BELOW~
headwind. write about the miserable headwind. all fucking day. 30 mph? 40? we draft to save energy. sing silly rhyming songs. lunch at a grocery store. yoplait {custard style} and fruit. we stop for dinner in north platte and eat at an applebees. decide to ride interstate 80 to save miles. cops. they drive us forward 20. we ride another twenty, and the sky changes. mike and i are surrounded {possibly struck} by lightening. mike is awake all night, unable to sleep. i talk to keri for hours. we do laundry. both feel jumpy and strange. how does one describe this? how am i still out here? what the fuck are we doing? why does my journal focus on the difficult stuff not the joy? keri mentions that i am a really funny man. why is my journal not funny? write about this!!!!!
day 36. 135 miles. {35 by bicycle, 100 in the back of four different trucks} gothenburg, nebraska to york, nebraska. york, to lincoln, lincoln to omaha, and it is all al bloddy mess of confusion regarding when, why, how, etc...
we leave the hotel late, as mike was up most of the night, likely having been struck {or at the very least surrounded} by lightning, and i slept in. somehow, it seems like i simply cannot get enough sleep out here. it is an absolute impossibility. we arrive in york be vehicle, wishing greatly to avoid spending the night in the middle of nowhere and find ourselves by the highway amonsgt the chain hotels. i cannot quite remember in whose truck we rode, but mike fell ill the day before or after, and we rode in a number of people's vehicles in attempt to stay on schedule. yes, we do have one. this, and all of its reasons will soon be revealed. i hardly remember any longer, but we rode with a man who called himself "two dogs." we rode with chrystal, who is 29 with 9 children. this woman was strong and grounded and alive. we ate pretzels in a mall while her daughter received a haircut. we rode with cathy, and gene. how odd, this riding in trucks with your bicycle. how odd this. all of this. this sleeping in fields of mud, and women who offer you rides, causing you to spend yet another day in omaha, putting yourselves in quite a pinch because she calls to cancel with a rather strange excuse. {read: lie?} you spend an afternoon in lincoln before reaching omaha, where you meet with the mayor and she agrees to judge your lincoln look-alike photo contest. " {see mike's journal} oh the strangeness of it all. but the stories, they all grow into each other. the are bones that somehow mend themselves. they are cracks in a wall.
we currently sit in omaha, nebraksa on a streetcorner, watching the gray skies remain gray. they do nothing. they only remain. the rain falls hard as it did last night. we camped in front of some corporate office building, and amazingly {thanks to good tents} all of our things {excepting the bikes} stayed dry through the night. today, due to our lost ride, we rent a car to get ourselves to des moines, so that we may reach madison by wednesday night. the brick road here reminds me of paris. spain. places far away that i love. today my friends, we will rocket the highway. we will fly. we will roll down the windows and listen to music. we will go ever so fast.
Posted by jeff pitcher at July 25, 2004 08:16 AM
....................................
Did you realize that your naration is just like Alex from A Clockwork Orange. Yes, dear reader. You don't happen to wear a single fake eyelash when you pedal?
over and out my dear droogs
Posted by: Dusty Sprinkles at July 25, 2004 12:45 PM
omaha is one of my favorite places ever & when i read this i miss summertime in nebraska, when everything smells so sweet & warm & familiar.
i am so jealous.
Posted by: irene at July 25, 2004 02:06 PM
What's going on? Thought the goal was to "ride your bike" accross the country. Occassional hitching though storms & sickness o.k. but renting a car?
Posted by: candy at July 26, 2004 09:40 AM
What beautiful writing you do. Soon you will be with Keri and a lifetime ahead of you awaits the two of you. Such a beautiful time it will be.
Posted by: Sweet N Sassy at July 26, 2004 04:10 PM
This is the nature of travel, intense moments of contact, unmediated on either side by the people who normally surround you, then you move on again.
Janine
Posted by: Janine at July 26, 2004 05:00 PM
pitcher- You disgust me. You bitch and moan. Apparently you are incapable of seeing beauty. I think you are blind. Writing strips us of our superficial egos and reduces us to our truths. I am the cynic. You are the pessimist. At least being a cynic allows me to search for beauty. I think you are incapable of seeing beauty. So I pity you. All you have done is complain throughout this trip. Now you break down and rent a car to keep on schedule. What schedule? So much for freedom. And artistic license. You are half a man. You present the proof through your words. Any enjoyment I might have gotten from this site is gone. Nothing but loathing and disgust now. Mike on the other hand is turning into quite the story teller.
John Rensing
Posted by: John Rensing at July 26, 2004 05:12 PM
Is Rensing part of the gig, or what? He sounds like a broken record.
Enjoying your story.
Posted by: Laura at July 27, 2004 02:55 PM
First off, nobody listens to records anymore. And secondly, If I sound like a broken record, well, pitcher must sound REALLY redundant. "This sucks. That was SO hard. Oh! feel sorry for me. My pain this, My heart aches." Bluech.
Women are so easy. The women that flock here are pathetic. And easily fooled.
Posted by: John Rensing at July 27, 2004 04:24 PM
Chins high, lads!
I am enjoying your entries immensely. Both here and at Mike's Journal. I enjoy the similarities. I enjoy the subtlely different interpetations of the same events. I really enjoy the wildly disparate interpetations of the same events!
It beats "the Great Sitting On My Ass In Front of my Computer" (shall I buy the URL?) which, I dare say, may be a bit more of an endurance test than your current ride.
[Even writing a magazine article about my recent installation in the New Mexican desert is still, very unfortunately, "sitting on ass in front of computer."]
And so I was out for a ride this past Sunday and met a feller riding out by the Golden Gate bridge. We got to talking about how amazingly great it is to ride one's bike really far. I told him of the Great Sitting, and he was inspired, then and there, as we pedalled together back toward the City, that he vowed to end his procrastination and take a tour heading south along the California coast.
Do you see them?
The ripples still expand from this stone you have cast into the pool.
ride on,
Matt
And a note to Mr. Rensing - you need to develop your repertoire, or at least explore the more subtle, interesting interstitial shades of hatred. Refine thyself. Your predictability is so much worse than aggravating. It's boring.
Perhaps you could flip the script on us all with expressions of your ardent love for Pitcher?
I pay good money for this entertainment and you're just not carrying through on your end of the bargain...
And why is the word "computer" in bold type here and throughout my post?
computer
computer
computer!
Posted by: Massmore at July 27, 2004 05:00 PM
What I meant to say:
pitcher- You excite me. You dream and moan. Apparently you are capable of seeing such terrible beauty. I think your eyes see farther than mine, through me, through time. Writing strips us of our superficial egos and reduces us to our truths. Or it obfuscates and pretends. Sometimes I forget which. Do you remember? I am the computer program. You are the human soul. At least being a program allows me to search for beauty in bright shiny boxes. I think you are incapable of seeing beauty because you never look in the bright shiny boxes. So I admire you. All you have done is follow your dreams, while I am stuck here teetering on your every move. With no more tongue than a wound, I am sucking the very meaning of my existence from the mundane scraps of your day.
All you have done is complain throughout this trip. Now you break down and rent a car to keep on schedule. What schedule? This is MY trip, Pitcher! You owe me! I am so hopelessly inured to your every move, your every pedal stroke, that I cannot bear to countenance a shift in your plan! I have set my watch to your breath, and I wind it every morning before you wake. So much for freedom. And artistic license. You are a man. You present the proof through your words. Any enjoyment I might have gotten from this site is gone. Yet I remain. I stare in awe, I am the deer in your headlights. Nothing but loathing and disgust now. Yet still I am called to the trough, daily, sometimes twice a day, to wallow in the muck of my own making. What does that say about me? I will be here tomorrow. And the day after. As long as you are Above the Orange Trees, I will exist. I am John Rensing and I belong to you.
Mike on the other hand is turning into quite the story teller.
John Rensing
Posted by: John Rensing at July 27, 2004 05:31 PM
What kind of ego creates a blog?
discuss
Posted by: Tad Farthing at July 27, 2004 06:44 PM
Do not type things in my name. I am very dangerous.
John Rensing
Posted by: John Rensing at July 27, 2004 07:44 PM
pitcher runs from life. Escapes responsibility by fleeing on a bike and dragging impressionable women into his folds. He is palpable with his own hate of the world and himself. I am attacked because I bring truth. Pitcher is a coward. As you, that post under my name, are. pitcher is not profound. Just sad. His music fails, he takes up another pursuit. It fails, he rents a car. I wonder, Does Keri pay for the plane tickets or does pitcher?
John Rensing
Posted by: John Rensing at July 27, 2004 07:51 PM
What is happening to me?
John Rensing
Posted by: John Rensing at July 27, 2004 11:01 PM
pitcher digs into the sweet marrow of life. He adventures boldly by bicycle and rental car and apparently has "folds" and so is it any wonder certain amazing women find him irresistible? I am ripe with the musk of jealousy and lash out from the dank cage of my own construction. I hate that he has what I can only covet. Why should so much be given to one man? I call forth to the world and in it I name myself Coward, as I want to destroy what I cannot possess. Pitcher is profound, measured if by nothing else than his affect upon my being. I pursue him madly. He compels me to lash out in impotent hatred thinly veiling my love that would drive my wife to tears. Today I wish he were my wife.
I am the shadow indexed by his sun.
John Rensing
Posted by: John Rensing at July 27, 2004 11:28 PM
Ha! That is so seven years old. And I'm not nearly so eloquent.
John Rensing
Posted by: John Rensing at July 28, 2004 07:13 AM
Seems to me, Rensing, that you have a new fan.
Posted by: ChinRingDingO at July 28, 2004 08:54 AM
Does anyone else hear that buzzing noise?
John Rensing.
Posted by: John Rensing at July 28, 2004 08:59 AM
I Just got my "great sitting" shirt in the mail.
It has a coffee stain on it and it stinks of self-importance.
Can I get a refund?
Buttercup Jones
Posted by: buttercup at July 28, 2004 09:56 AM
I am John Rensing. You may wonder why I enjoy posting my full name at least twice in every post. I love myself and my ideas and am far more superior to any of you.
Truth be told a while ago my sexual advances were turned down by Jeff Pitcher. This made me very upset and so I now misplace my anger on all you "easy and pathetic women" who follow Jeff's music and bike trip. I hate Pitcher for being so musically inclined, and for being so committed to riding his bike across this great country I love so. The home of the free and the brave. I love America, especially because I love being able to have a gun.
It tears me up inside to see all of these people (friends) who support Jeff Pitcher in his music, his adventures, his own relationship. So this is why I spend so much time ragging on Pitcher. I am bored with my "wife" and choose to ignore her to spend my time here, in cyberspace, where I am safe and can be a coward. I am a coward. I am John Rensing. John Rensing.
Now that Pitcher is no longer in California, and now that I really don't stand a chance with him, if any of you know of a man who is anything like Pitcher, please direct me to his website so I can stalk him as well. And I need more women to hate.
For you easy and pathetic women, here it is once again......
John Rensing.
Posted by: John Rensing at July 28, 2004 10:46 AM
I'm tired of reading the cruel and heartless stabbes that you throw back and forth from one comment to another. Whats the goddanmed point. do you honestly think that you are helping or hurting eachother? I don't like how you use Jeff as a means of attacking one another. In the time that I have known Jeff he has taught me and enspired me more than almost anyone else in my life. Sure he's confused and quite frankly rather crazy but show me someone who isn't. so please, I beg you, Shut The Fuck Up!
Posted by: meghan at July 28, 2004 12:36 PM
I am John Rensing and I really wish people would stop posting under my name. Did I mention I have a gun? I have a gun.
But whoever you are, this is childish, tiresome, and I know one of you pitcher-lovers is behind it. Oh, wait, I am a pitcher-lover too!
Do you want proof? Google my name. Even though I clearly spend way too much time in cyberspace, the sum-total of my impact upon the online world consists of:
two comments on Pitcher's blog.
(Unless I am dead, in high school, or a Christian hockey player.)
Oh, wait, there's another comment I left on the Film's blog about pitcher.
I am a footnote to pitcher's life! Can you imagine? It is very hard for me.
Perhaps I will buy "JohnRensing.com" and start anew. Start my own website - "Cleaning and Rensing"
My own blog even. Dream some big ole dreams and make 'em real. Start a band. Fix my mountain bike.
You all could come there and read about me and comment upon the doings I do.
I could really turn this ship around!
Cleaning and Rensing!
You would all be welcome.
John Rensing
Posted by: John Rensing at July 28, 2004 04:27 PM
Actually Meghan, I found your email far more offensive than anything else on this website. I hereby curse you to never ejaculate again.
Posted by: Randy McGillicuddy at July 28, 2004 04:35 PM
I have had an epiphany. I really do love pitcher. I'm even going to start capitalizing His name; Pitcher. God that felt good. You see, the evil me opened my eyes. I found myself deep in the closet, along with a lion, a witch, and a pair of Imelda Marcos' shoes. Well now that I'm out, I forsake vagina. Pitcher, I love you and all your mediocrity. I too shall look at people through elitist eyes. And give the occasional virtual blow job here, like a good bloggroupy [sic]. I'm even considering a move to Vancouver to be closer to you. Perhaps you and Keri would consider the occasional threesome? I do love you. You complete me. Feed the fire.
John Rensing. John Rensing. John Rensing
Posted by: John Rensing at July 28, 2004 10:03 PM
I am trying folks. I am trying to get past the sarcasm, the invective, past all of the smart-ass insults I pretend they make me feel better.
I am digging in the dirt.
I am trying to really get down in to the very essence of my obsession with pitcher, to see what's really going on inside of me.
Yes, I can well pretend that it is solely because I think pitcher is a poser and a fool.
but as anyone can tell, that explanation alone does not even *begin* to explain why I am compelled to post on this blog every day, month after week after day, at least one time.
You would think I'd be bored of it by now!
Yet I press on with this sad enterprise. So, I ask for your help.
Tell me, why do YOU think I, John Rensing, feel compelled to so constantly and consistently attack pitcher?
If I receive enough responses, perhaps I'll even cook up a little Powerpoint pie chart.
The best answer will receive $50!
I am serious!!!
So, why do I do it?
Submissions to:
cleaningrensing@hotmail.com.
John Rensing. John Rensing.
For the last time John Rensing.
Posted by: John Rensing at July 29, 2004 02:08 PM
$50.00 bucks!? I'm worth $50.00 bucks to get off of this site?!?! Sweeeeeeettt!!!!
Feed the Fire!!! Hallelujah, I have arrived!!
John Rensing :)
Posted by: John Rensing at July 29, 2004 03:00 PM
My draw to this site is the photo album. Pitcher with that
rag wrapped around his neck. Civil War bandage?
Don't get it caught in your spokes.
Posted by: Dusty Sprinkles at July 29, 2004 03:18 PM
Dear Readers,
For a while I have been coming here and relishing in my utter disdain for everything Pitcher. Yet I am drawn here like some traffic accident. The smarminess of this site, the poetic ramblings of a simpleton and his love for a woman equally self-obsessed makes me wanting more. I suffer, dear readers, from the same affliction that Mr. John Rensing suffers from. Rensing is hilarious, truthful and shines a light on the transparent Pitcher which amuses me to no end. I wish Rensing would do the same to his airhead girlfriend (Keri) but, alas, one should be happy with what the universe hands us. I am sure I read that on one of their blogs so I'll go with it. Mr. Rensing, I cannot enter your $50 contest. Like I said, I also am dumbounded as to why I need to read about these 2 egomanics. Upthread, someone posted, "what kind of person starts a blog?". This is the million dollar question. Blogs are started by people who have such an air of self importance that they see their writings as important to the world. These are the same people who cry at Life Insurance commercials. They usually smell like patchouli and are self obsessed. They are accountable to no one but themselves. They tend to violators of the human environment by constantly spewing bad art and music into the world. In fact, the rapid nature of the spewage is almost impossible to minitor - fermentation is immediate and causes a lingering odor that is almost impossible to remove. Yet, there is a beacon of hope. Every so often, a John Rensing appears to reveal the truth by the arrogant postings. A Robin Hood, if you will. So Mr. Rensing, while I cannot offer you an valid reason as to why you're obsessed with this traffic accident of a web site, I can tell you that I understand. Lord, how I understand...
Posted by: Ugly Shyla at July 31, 2004 08:28 AM
Mr. Pitcher is a true and honest artist. He wears his heart on his sleave. You blog wreckers out there should get off your high horse and try it yourself. It's fucking hard. I have a webcam and I have to do three shows a day....I know how difficult it can be to create content..
And, I think you are all jealous because Jeff will be the first man to ride his bike across the U.S.A....imagine that!
Mr. Rensing...I know who you are....I'm gonna fuck you up.
Trista
Posted by: trista at July 31, 2004 10:40 AM
Look at me, I'm glowing. Trista, you're right. pitcher is an artist. He should get a web cam and put on three shows a day. It could be so erotic. Yeah, he's gonna be the first man to ride his bike across the US. Trista, thank you for making me laugh. I hurt something, laughing so hard. All of this entertainment for the price of DSL. It's so worth it...
John Rensing
Posted by: John Rensing at July 31, 2004 04:01 PM
starting a blog is not much different than writing a book, except that blogging is essentially free and more easily accessible. if you think blogging is egomaniacal then do you think all writers are egomaniacs? and what about people who post comments? isn't everything we do egomaniacal???
there are good books and bad books, good blogs and bad blogs, and much of that is a matter of personal opinion. judgement and cynicism are the marks of a simple mind, human constructs, obstacles that prevent us from fulfilling our best human potential...
Posted by: viola at August 5, 2004 01:16 PM
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