Set a goal; work on it everyday

Set a big goal that energizes you. See it clearly, write it down, and immerse your thoughts in it.

Go to work on it every day, and give it everything you’ve got.

It’s why you’re here.

Freedom to Respond

While we may not always be able to control the situation to our liking, we are always free to choose how to respond.

How are you/have you responded to “that situation”?

"Calmness is the cradle of power"

I love this quote from Josiah Gilbert Holland. In my observation and experience, in high stress/high consequence situations, being manic, worked up, and stressed out kills your performance and chances of an ideal outcome.

Stay calm, stay centered, and breathe.  

Access your best self by staying calm.

#21 All I could be.

We drove north, back to mile 590. Franz was just getting there. Ralph and John approached the window of the van, but I couldn’t get out. I was spent. I was disappointed. I didn’t want them to see me in this van. For all they did for me, and all they hoped for me…part of me thought I let them down.

Now we had to go see Tanner finish. We were two hours away, and I didn’t think we’d get to the finish line before he did, but we had to try. “Let’s go see Tanner!” We headed up the road toward Ensenada. 15 minutes later, we called Bobby, who had been chasing Tanner all race with Kevin, Todd, Chad and Doug. Bobby was standing at the finish line. 

Tanner was beat. He laid the bike down ten times in the last 40 miles, where the silt was really bad. Up one hill, a buggy was disabled, blocking the course. Tanner pulled up behind him and had to stop in the left rut. Another buggy came around the corner and up the hill. Tanner flagged him, and leaned his bike over to the left at a 45-degree angle onto the dirt. The second buggy pulled up and ran Tanner’s wheels over. The helmet camera footage was unbelievable. The buggy’s tires were 4” up over the spokes, resting right on Tanner’s wheels. It’s a wonder his wheels were not bent. Maybe it was the soft silt underneath for his wheels to imprint in that saved his race. When that mayhem cleared, he kept going, onto the glory of finishing the Baja 1000 Ironman.

“Tanner just came in!” Bobby said. He gave the phone to Tanner, which was quite awkward for Tanner with all the excitement at the finish. This was the boy I had riding an ATV, holding him between my legs when he was ten months old. “Congratulations, son!” I said. “Are you ok?” He said he was. I let him go as there were three more people waiting to interview him, and a Trophy Truck had just pulled up behind him. In the interview, just before I called, he told them I was out there racing still…I had mixed emotions. I was so happy for him, and so happy for me as his Dad, but depressed that I, his wingman, would not be rolling up onto that podium with him. 

Over 5000 people have climbed Mt. Everest. Tanner had become only the 12th person to finish the Baja 1000 Ironman since they officially created the class in 2013.

He finished sixth out of 11. In a historical year, 8 out of the 11 Ironman starters finished. He was riding for 28.5 hours. I was so proud of him. He paid a heavy price. It was agony for him too, but finishing made it all worth it. Tanner could not straighten out his fingers, or make a fist, but it didn’t matter.

The first Ironman across the finish line, Jeff Benrud, came in with a broken wrist and a concussion. He would be penalized back to second place, but that’s another story. Tanner’s helmet camera showed that the winner missed virtual checkpoints and should have been penalized 10 minutes for each, but his tracker was not working for the first half of the race. We think Jeff should have won.

When we got back to Ensenada, we headed back to the hotel. I met Tanner there in the room in an anticlimactic fashion. It should have been on the podium. This would take time to process. We had been up for 32 hours now. We labored to get our gear off and laid down in our beds. I went unconscious for two hours, when Tanner woke me up to tell me the whole team was going to dinner. I took a shower and found lots of marks, abrasions and burns I did not know were there. My wrist was black and blue, there was a burn hole in the side of my leg, and my nose and neck had scuffs on them. No worries now – they’d all heal. Later I’d find out the severity of my neck injury – whiplash with seven cervical and throsic vertebrae out of place and torn muscles around them. It would take well over a month to feel better.

I sat at dinner with our team – all 13 of us. We were all happy for what had happened. I held my head up with my hand through dinner, looking forward to seeing my chiropractor soon. 

Our friends said it was one of the most incredible experiences of their lives – one they’d never forget. That’s how I felt. We all felt it together. We were different now.

The range of possibilities in life just expanded like a supernova.

We were in it together. I am certain I would not have gotten as far as I did without my friends’ presence. We laughed. I think we all cried. We suffered together. We mixed blood. Boundaries erased. We towered.

What does it mean to do something you didn’t think possible? To give it everything and go beyond yourself? What does it feel like? What does it do for a man?

I left Baja, in late November of 2016, with all I am, and all I could be, in harmony.

#20 600

 “You are done”.

I didn’t want to accept it.  I struggled to find the least uncomfortable position.  Finally I broke onto the straight stretch of dusty road  that ended perpendicular into Route 3.  I could see pit vehicles ahead.  I knew I’d have to make a decision.  The next leg was 60 miles of sand whoops.  My neck could not take the G-ing out 5000 more times.

I saw the white van, a welcomed sight as always.  Javier and Brian had beat me to 590 with their 5 hour drive – only because I was going so slow.  My friends were not there yet.  They put the bike up on the stand while I dropped down into a folding chair they set up.  I knew it was over.  I was disappointed.  No, I was more than that.  I held my face guard up, and cried in my helmet; not for what I hadn’t done, but for what I had. 

Javier didn’t want to declare anything. He was quiet. He saw my condition, but was patient.  He pretended to take longer with the bike than it really took.  He knew I was processing.  A few teenage kids walked up.  I gave them stickers.  They could tell by looking at me that I was at a crossroads.  They turned silent and just observed me.

“Where’s Tanner?”  “He’s near Ojos Negros” Javier said.  Ojos was 40 miles from the finish.  I knew he had it made.  For all his suffering, I knew the excitement of closing in on the finish would anesthetize him for now.

I noticed a nail sticking out of my rear tire.  If it weren’t for the foam inserts, I’d have had a flat.

I took a breath.  My voice was firm as I told Javier my final plan.  “I’m going to 600.  Follow me.  The course is alongside the road.  I’ll meet you there.”  

“Ok” he said, like a silent negotiation had been settled.

Mile 600 was where I wanted to get.  It was not a scheduled van stop.  It would be my limit – today anyway.  

Two trophy trucks had collided somewhere nearby.  I heard that a driver’s leg was severed off right in the truck.  A whole bunch of guys were working on the front end of a truck next to me, but I hardly noticed.

I got up and swung my leg over the bike.  I knew it would be for the last time.  I headed down the road, standing on the pegs, resting my helmet to the side on my neck brace.  

I didn’t see a sign for mile 600, and the course turned off the road into a wash full of deep sand with the occasional boulder half buried in it.  I turned in and weaved through, the soft sand cushioning my ride, careful not to hit anything hard.

There it was ahead.  Mile marker 600.  It was 9:30 am.  I had been riding for 27 hours and 7 minutes.  

Could I go on?  Ahead I saw monster sized sand whoops.  If I went farther in to tackle 50 miles of that, I’d have to stop every five minutes.  Maybe I’d be in there for many hours before I saw my trucks again.  I wouldn’t gain anything by it, it was mathematically impossible for me to finish in time in this condition.  A DNF (Did Not Finish) is a DNF.   Nobody cares how close you got.  There was no point in prolonging the agony.

I pulled up onto the road where Brian and Javier parked the van.  I couldn’t turn my head to see if any cars or trucks were coming, so I just listened.  I crossed the road and shut the engine down. I had Brian take a picture of me, and gave him the bike.

I slowly walked back to the 600 sign across the street.  I stared at the sign a long minute.  I took a picture; a picture of great meaning.  I walked back in the deep sand to the van.

In the Baja 1000 there is a radio antennae high on a mountaintop.  It’s monitored by a guy called “The Weatherman”.  Any accidents or emergencies would be reported to him and he’d dispatch emergency crews.  These reports included disabled vehicles on the course and vehicles dropping out of the race.

I climbed up into the passenger seat as Brian got on the radio to do his duty.  “Weatherman”, he said, “714x is out of the race at mile 600”.  

The Weatherman repeated it back.  “714x out at mile 600.”  I sat there stunned on hearing the words. 

There was nothing more I could do…

#19 Not a quitter

I wasn’t a quitter. I never was. 

When I was a kid, I was small. In Little League, they moved me from the farm team to the majors only because I was too old for the farm team – 12. My first year in the majors, my batting average was .067. I was trying. I wanted to do well. But I was 89 pounds and the pitcher had a beard. I had no chance.

At the start of my second year in the majors, they did something I got the idea they had never done before – they put me BACK down to the farm team. I was humiliated. All my friends knew. I could have done the obvious thing – quit. I think that’s what they wanted me to do. I didn’t. After three games or so, and I think some heated debate among various coaches for it being a terrible thing to do to a kid, they moved me back up to the majors – sequestered to right or left field when I did play. I don’t know why – I just don’t quit. 

Some people don’t play unless they know they can win. Only if they can be the best in the world at it – or the best in the neighborhood or company. This ensures they don’t play much. They’ll take themselves out so they don’t lose; so they don’t look foolish. If they don’t play, they can’t lose, but they can’t win either. If they don’t stick with anything, they’ll never be great at anything – because being good at something takes lots of practice and experience. Yes, you have to get in the right game or career for you. One that your talents and passions line up with. For me, baseball wasn’t it. But whatever you try, you have to be willing to be bad at something to be good at it one day.

This quality would serve me well in life. I have stayed in there when my competition gave up. I have stayed in there when things were going badly, and ultimately made them come out well in the end – sometimes really well. If you quit when things are down, you lose. But it’s not over until I win.

Forty years later, the kid with the .067 batting average was in the Baja 1000 – right now. 

I raced up the paved roads, switchbacked through the hills. I passed buses, and semi-trucks with my little race bike. At mile 520, I pulled onto the dirt and to the Baja pit for fuel. My friends, who were heading north on Route 1 behind me, stopped and checked with me. Trevor came running up to the pit. “Are you ok?” Franz gave me a hug. The sun rose higher and I was full of fuel now – in my gas tank and my heart. That’s what I needed – heart.

I raced up the crossover road – open, wide and fairly smooth with no surprise rocks sticking up. It began going up in elevation, and the switchbacks started. It dropped off like a cliff on the right, and the earth went up on your left. When Tanner was on this road hours earlier, he had to stop twice to warm his hands. Another rider had the tube from his hydration pack freeze. It was very cold, but warming now.

I realized, that like the rest of the course, this section was not how I remembered it from two weeks ago. It was washboarded – badly. The vibration from the endless mini bumps sent shockwaves through my hands – and Tanner’s too. I struggled to find a body position that would pound my neck the least. Was it standing? I couldn’t lift my head up that way. So I pushed my hips way forward and locked my knees, so that my head would stay up easier. But this was awkward and I could only hold it for some time.

Sitting seemed best. My butt was on fire from 24 hours of abrasion on the seat. I had a special wider seat to spread out the load, and I wore padded bicyclist shorts under my riding pants – but the contact point under me had taken a lot of abuse. Washboard chatter was not welcomed.

Still, my speed was faster than it had been for a long time. I was putting miles behind me. When we pre-ran this section, I hit 90 mph at times. But I was rested then. Now I didn’t dare go faster than 60. I didn’t have the strength to handle surprises and my head could not hold my helmet up against 90 mph winds. 

Fans peppered the sides of the course, waving and giving the thumbs up. The sunrise over the mountains was beautiful.

I stopped at another pit. They were super supportive. They did all they could to persuade me to eat a banana. “It’s good for you right now.” I couldn’t. I had to go. They told me Tanner was there at midnight. He was 7 hours ahead of me. “Go Tanner” I whispered to myself. I gave them stickers and took off.

Fifteen miles later, I had to pull over again. I sat on the side of the road and ate a Clif bar, resting my head. I continued, and the pain increased. I was doing the math, thinking about what sections were ahead, and figuring a plan. Thoughts of trying to finish by 6:23 pm were going through my head, but I had to face reality – it wasn’t going to happen.

I held my head up by shrugging my neck brace up. I was in trouble. I knew now that the limiting factor, of all of the things it could have been, would be my neck. I rode very slowly for the road I was on.

Strangely, I wanted to feel what it was like to not be able to go on again. To have my mind say yes, but my body saying a final “No.” I wanted to conquer this moment. Maybe I had been conquering it for many hours now. But now the body was forcing its message on me. “You are done.”

#18 Friends

I sat on the tailgate of the truck. Happy to see them, and so happy it was getting light out. I leaned forward and my head hung down in front of me like a buzzard’s head does. I held it with my hand and ate a bread and ham sandwich that I didn’t want. While I faced the ground, Ralph and John massaged my shoulders and back. I could feel each individual tendon in my left wrist like five tight electrified guitar strings.

“What’s the math, Trevor?” Still 40 hours to finish at this rate. I was in seventh place. Two Ironmen had dropped out, and two were behind me.

I earned what was coming next. 15 miles of pavement, and 70 miles of smooth graded dirt road. I made it here, and I was going to take this gift Baja was giving me. I was hoping next time I asked Trevor at mile 590, he’d say I had made up a lot of time and my projection was within the 36 hour time limit.

Where’s Tanner? He’s at mile 716. I thought, and told my friends what he was dealing with. He’s on pavement right now, and will be heading into the wash where he went over the handlebars last week in a few miles… I was overcome with emotion.

I looked like absolute hell. But I joked with my friends, and they knew I was ok. Ralph was wearing a filthy knit Basement Systems hat that he found under the seat of Franz’ truck. I laughed. I have fond memories of that 10-minute stop at mile 505. When I needed them most, my friends were there for me.

Friends are important in life. Friends that will be there for you when you are in distress. When I was a kid, I didn’t know about all the dramas and hardships life could bring. For example, nobody told me what to do when someone dies. For a while I’d just say “I’m sorry,” and be solemn. I didn’t go to many funerals. Nobody told me I was supposed to. Now that I am older, I have experienced more hardship and loss. It took a while – I lived a pretty disaster-free life in my twenties and thirties.

Now I know, that when people are suffering, you need to talk. Use your rapport skills, but talk. Say something, anything. People need people at low times. I’m not the most nurturing person in the world; it’s not my talent. But we need to stick together when times get tough. Communicate. A caring word, a hug, and hand to the shoulder, or holding hands. It makes all the difference. 

I remounted and thanked them all. “I’ll race you to 590!” I yelled over my engine. They were doing a great job helping to hold me together. Now they had a five-hour drive to see me again. They discussed my plight a bit, and then the truck was mostly quiet for the journey, as they wondered if I’d get there safely – or at all…

#17 Daylight and Hope

There is a difference between being exhausted and being injured. I was both, and the adrenaline that masked my injuries was long burned off.

I was shrugging my shoulders to push my neck brace up against the bottom edge of my helmet to take weight off my neck. I couldn’t breathe for the pain. This is what the path I chose had lead me to – suffering.

I pulled off the course and put the bike on the stand. I dropped down on the rocks and aggregate, laying down in the dark to get weight off my head. I reached up inside my helmet and squeezed an energy gel into my mouth. It would have no effect.  

I’d “invest 5 minutes” in this. I NEEDED it. My body took advantage and acted as if I’d fall asleep and stay here for a dozen hours. My eyes closed halfway, my neck throbbing. My C2 vertebra was way out to the right. My head was on a broken swivel. My left wrist…my knees…my hands.

A minute passed, maybe two. Precious, glorious minutes.  

I had to get up. Tanner was ahead. I needed to get to him. I opened my eyes and turned my headlamp on. A desert plant was illuminated inches in front of me that I had not seen. Get up.

Was I crossing the desert or was I bridging the gap between what I am, and what I could be?

I wasn’t done. Get up.

I held my helmet to steady my head. It took a surprising amount of effort just to sit up. I rolled over to face the ground on my hands and knees. The moment was a masterpiece for me. I pulled one knee up and put my foot on the ground, and slowly lifted my torso vertical. I pushed down with one hand on that knee, holding my face guard with the other hand. I rose.

I got on that bike, and headed up the course. I supposed it was an hour before dawn.

I came around a really silty uphill corner and a guy was flagging me. A Trophy Truck was stuck in the silt, all the wheels buried to the bodywork. I was in the left rut, but the right was where I could blast through the bush and pass. I couldn’t turn out of the deep silty rut. Two locals came to help and push me. I left the truck behind.  

The silt was incredible. None of it was here two weeks ago. Uphills were where trucks spun their tires the most, and that’s where, if there were no embedded rocks to hold it together, the silt was produced deepest. 

Ahead was another silty uphill. The silt takes one shape on top, but being light as flour, your wheels are riding on the harder substrate, which has a different shape. Your brain sees the shape of the silt and your body responds as if that is what you’ll be rolling over. But the wheels see what you can’t, underneath.

I fall over in a foot of flour. The header pipe instantly burned a hole in my pants, and I feel a searing on my leg. Locals, who had a tent set up not 40 feet away, run out to help me. We get the bike up and they push – but I can’t go forward uphill without coating them with silt. They are happy to help and don’t seem to mind. “Go! Go!” they yell. At that hour, their encouragement means more than they will ever know.

Keep moving forward. The course goes around a hotel along Route 1. A lonely building with no neighbors. Heading back into the desert there is a steep uphill – with some of the deepest silt I have ever seen. It was hard dirt two weeks ago. I make it up, using all the power my 450 would produce. Over the crest of the hill I see a rider with his bike leaned against a barbed wire fence post. I stop.  

“Are you ok?” He has his helmet off. A Japanese rider, 211x. No response. “Are you okay?” He manages the words – “Resta Time.” He’s trying to use his cell phone. I reach into my pocket and get an energy gel. “Here. For energy.” He comes over and takes it. “Thank you,” he says. I take off down the hill, into more silt.

My friends are waiting for me at mile 505. Javier and Brian took off from mile 470 to drive 5 hours back to Ensenada and down Highway 3 to mile 590. It should only take me 2 1/2 hours to take the crossover road on the course to get there, so they had to leave me early. The plan was my friends would meet me at mile 505, and see me at mile 520 where I would leave them for the 70 mile leg. Hopefully, Javier and the van would get to 590 before I did.

Waiting was tough for my friends. It was only 35 miles since they saw me last, but I was taking unexpectedly long. Their minds raced and wandered. Did something happen to me? Where was he? Each time they heard a machine approach, they thought it was me. It wasn’t. They looked to the hills for lights. They’d see a bit of light sweeping around up there, and then disappear. Finally a vehicle would emerge – not me.

Finally, I broke free from the desert hills to see Franz’ pick-up truck. Franz, Trevor, Ralph and John were anxiously waiting. They knew I was in bad shape. A funny thing happened so gradually I hadn’t noticed the moment – it was getting light out. 24 hours of riding. I now knew it was possible for me.

After each day, follows night. After each night, follows day. When things aren’t going well in your life, nights are tough. Darkness and dark thoughts. But each morning the sun rises, even if it’s obscured by clouds – it rises. We get a new chance at life each morning when we awake. Things are new. There is hope. A blank slate for something better…

#16 "Trevor, tell me the truth."

I pulled closer to Route 1 and saw lights. A welcome sight. There were a few small structures. Then I see a bridge. Route 1. I pull up a steep dirt slope onto the road. Two blocks, and I see my van. Mile 470. Mercy.

I get off and Javier and Brian check the bike over again. No damage. If they only knew…

They ask me questions to see how I am, physically and emotionally. Like a trainer assessing his boxer between rounds when he is absolutely getting his ass kicked. Should they call the fight?

I am wet from sweat and it is very cold. I need to change my shirts. I had four layers on including my jacket. The jacket was the only thing not wet. I took it all off. I only had one extra layer in my race bag. Javier scrounged up a shirt. Brian gave me back the team pullover I gave him. Jacket back on. I drank some chia, and ate a banana.  

I joked with them – “How are you guys holding up?” They laughed. But it was a serious question. They were staying up for as long as I was for the most part.

“Trevor, tell me the truth.” I knew they wouldn’t bring it up. I had to ask.“You have been riding for 21 hours. At this rate you will finish in 40 hours.” I knew I had lost a lot of time. I knew I was going slow to save my neck from jarring. 

I thought my team would not be surprised if I waved the white flag. It did not cross my mind.  

I knew that the worst of the course was behind me. Could I make up time on the next 385 miles? I needed to make it to the crossover road. It was 85 miles of smoother course where I could make up time with less investment of energy and less punishment on my neck. I had one more section – 35 miles to 505 to where it started getting easier – at least to mile 590 it was easier. That’s all I thought about.

I cherished my time with my team there at mile 470 at 3:30 am. I don’t know how long it lasted – maybe 10 or 15 minutes – but it was heaven. I had dry shirts on, some food and encouragement, and felt a bit renewed.

I rode away up the pavement a few miles to find the course and dive back into the desert. This section was relatively easy when Tanner and I pre-ran it. Not anymore. The trucks had ground the rigid soil to silt.

Picture this – a road with two 18” deep ruts. Now picture it uphill. Now bending left or right. Now add rocks into the ruts. Now add a rock ledge step up once in a while. Now cover the whole thing with a foot of silt. Now make it night and ride your motorcycle up this. It was brutal. It makes an expert rider feel like he started riding last week.

You can’t call “no fair.” There is nobody to complain to. And if you surrender, you stay in the desert until someone finds you the next day – hopefully. You have to go on.  

I had conversations with my daughter, Chloe. I told her I loved her and I was proud of her. In talking to her, I had to stay strong. I was Dad. I couldn’t crumble.

I talked to my father who taught me how to fly, back in the day of Loran navigation. “Keep the bug on the line, right, Dad?” “Right, son.”

There is an interesting relationship between the mind and the body. The body sends the mind signals – it tells the mind how it’s doing. In our regular life, we are accustomed to responding to the body. But the mind has the ability to send signals back. The mind can ignore the body. The mind can tell the body “I hear you, but I am ignoring you,” or “I am telling you to keep going anyway.” It is a battle for who is supreme. If the body wins, the mind says “Oh my gosh, I am in so much pain I have to stop.” If the mind wins, the body keeps going despite the pain.

My mind was winning so far in this race. But the body’s feedback was getting louder and harder to override…

#15 Moments

Another truck comes by.  Damn them.  This was not a motorcycle course; it was a trophy truck course where the motorcycles are human obstacles for them. I can’t see – again.  I go really slow and pick up the pace as the dust gets thinner.  All of a sudden there’s a rain rut perpendicular across my line.  Front wheel goes in, and it draws the front of the bike left to the big daddy rut on the side of the course.  Bam!  The bike is stopped, nearly vertical, headlight in the hard dirt on the opposite side of a 3 1/2 foot deep, 5 foot wide rut.  

This is what happens on slopes.  When it does rain hard the water gets to running fast down the wheel tracks of the roads and gouges them out one particle at at time.  This is how your left with rocks at higher elevations and silt and sand at lower ones and in troughs.  I hit my visor and helmet going down.  This was the highest speed crash I’d had so far, besides the one I got hurt on.  Low visibility was the cause.  

The rut snaked to my right downhill and got deeper until it finally fell off a cliff.  To the left it went uphill, and there was an 18” vertical step to get out.  I had to try to go that way.  I muscled the rear end of the bike down into the rut with the front end pointing up.  The sides of the rut were even with my handlebars.  I started it and walked alongside the bike and pushed.  I got it out.  I’ll call that one lucky.  I could have been there a while.

Up ahead, Tanner knew this was not going to be easy.  He had battled with various Ironman riders, and found they were surprisingly tough.  He thought if he could just finish, that he’d get on the podium – first, second or third.  Historically that was the case.  Jeff, the special forces guy, was out front.  Tanner was in second at one time, but had fallen back as the pain increased.  He took short breaks at his van stops, and marshaled on – like an Ironman.

At mile 505, he told his crew “I don’t know if I can finish.”  From Tanner, those are meaningful words.  He was suffering, like I was.  He had just buried the rear wheel in soft sand when he pulled off the course for a trophy truck.  The sand was 4” ABOVE his swing arm.  60% of his rear wheel was buried.  It took 10 minutes to get out.  He was angry, tired and in pain.  

After seeing his van, he rode away into the dusty night for more.

I tried to be present.  To not think about how far I had to go, how much it hurt, and whether I could finish this way or not.  Lots of people do that.  They live in the past and think about how it is unfair or relive troubles over and over.  And some live in the future, thinking only about how difficult it will be or how overwhelming it is.  They forget to live now – to be here now.

On my gas tank I wrote the words “Be present”.  No matter how far I had to go, the terrain immediately in front of my wheels didn’t care.  I had to ride this 100 feet, before I could get to the next.  And if I did well in this 100 feet, I’d be set up better for the next 100 feet.  If you do well now, this hour, it sets you up for a successful next hour.  If this day is a good one, tomorrow is more likely to be as well.  Lives are built not of years, but of moments.  We cannot live a year, a month, or even a day.  We can only live now.  Now.  Now and it’s gone.  Now, and it’s gone.

Be present to where you are, what you are doing, and who you are with.  A successful jouney starts with a single successful moment.