Post Birdathon Update
Maddie and I in the Ramona Grasslands.
A Marathon For Owls
I spent my day Friday making breakfast burritos and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, gathering last-minute gear, charging my cameras, and ensuring that everything would be set for our performance the next day.
We went to bed around 4:30 PM. Maddie and I woke up at 9:30 PM and gathered all the supplies we had set out that afternoon. I ate a banana, an apple, and two dates. We stopped for gas on the way to Julian, so we wouldn’t have to during the day.
Now I’m silently staring through the windshield, moments of thoughtless peace interrupted by visions of me getting splattered across a guardrail on one of the darkest, sharpest-curving roads in the county. Yesterday afternoon, I sized myself for an oropharyngeal airway and showed Maddie how to insert it. I ran through the SOS feature on my Garmin and made sure she knew how to apply a tourniquet and chest seals. Let’s hope she remembers.
“Do you want some hype music or something?” She asks, breaking my thought.
“No. This is fine.” I reply.
We get to the starting line thirty minutes before midnight, just in time for me to realize my first mistake. It is 38 degrees in the mountains, extremely windy, and misting. I only brought a t-shirt and shorts to run in. I contemplate my fuck-up for a moment and decide I’ll just have to endure.
“Fuck it. I’ve been in Alaska for 3 and a half years, I’ll be alright. My blood’s still thick.”
“Really?” Maddie asked, “That’s what you’re going with? Thick blood?”
“I’ll warm up as I start running.”
A long exposure capturing the light puck and vest as I ran at the start. Credit: Maddie Carr
“Whatever you say… shouldn’t you be stretching?”
I glance at my watch, 11:55. “I didn’t stretch before any of my long runs while training, not going to start mixing it up now.” I pop my first shot of ketones and step out of the car.
I put on a light-up runner’s vest I borrowed from a friend, and clip my backpack on. Thankfully, Maddie had a light puck that I tied to my pack or it would have covered the backside of the vest. I stretch the headlamp around my head and look through the small town ahead of me.
“You got all your pins?” I ask Maddie, referencing the Google Maps folder of 8 checkpoints from here to Borrego, where she’ll wait for me to appear out of the night while listening for owls and nightjars.
“Yup, I’m good,” She says, “You ready?”
I nod and look at my watch.
11:59:37
I cycle through functions until I’m one button press away from starting my first marathon. I take a deep breath and hit it.
The first mile is pretty open road. I use it to get into a groove of the near-Olympic, 11 minute mile pace that I’ve been training at. There’s a sign at the end of the first mile that reads “Sharp Curves Next 7 Miles” I take my water and carbohydrate drink mix from my backpack pocket without stopping, take a sip, and put it back. I’ll sip some every time my watch dings on another mile.
I meet Maddie at the first checkpoint, 2 miles in. “You hear anything?” I ask as I run up.
“Nothing yet.”
“Alright, I’m going to keep going,” I reply still running, and continue into the night.
The next checkpoint is at mile 3, a call box and extremely small pulloff on the outside bend of a tight turn. An old man I met at the San Diego Bird Festival sent me this point. He had heard Spotted Owls calling from here. They are undoubtedly the rarest nocturnal species in the county.
I stop and listen, but the sound of the wind howling through the mountains drowns out everything but my heavy breathing. I rip the top off a carbohydrate gel and suck it down. I wait and wait for the call. They sound extremely similar to Barred Owls; they look extremely similar as well.
I take a sip of my carbohydrate and electrolyte mix from my shaker. A car comes from up the mountain, its headlights blinding as it rounds the corner right next to me. It’s moving more slowly than I imagined it would. Had I been on the road, I would have had enough time from when I first heard it to move out of the way to avoid being struck. I feel better, relieved.
Somewhere between the call box and the next checkpoint, something is rustling in the brush off the side of the road ahead of me. I dial in on it, and it’s motion grows louder. I pass it, and it becomes louder again, like something is going to jump out at me.
“HEY!” I shout over my shoulder as I keep going.
The thought of being jumped by a mountain lion engulfs my mind for the rest of my time on the mountain.
I arrive at the second official checkpoint, mile 6, and find Maddie wrapped in a blanket on the trunk/tailgate/hatch, whatever it is, of her CRV.
“Hear anything?” I ask, running up to her.
“Nothing, you?” She replies.
“Nothing.”
I refuel with a gel, sip some water, say “See you at the next one,” and take off.
The run is going well. I pass through the curves and winds without getting smeared on a guardrail, l and my body feel better than it has on any of my prior runs at this point. On my last few training runs, one or both of my feet would go numb from about the 3rd to the 6th mile, and I’d be on the verge of shitting my pants around mile four. Neither inconvenience has struck yet, and I’m 8 miles in. I breeze through the next checkpoint, mile nine-ish, having the same “Ain’t heard nothing yet” conversation with a blanket-wrapped and heavy-eyed Maddie.
Halfway!
Credit: Maddie Carr
The mountain portion of the run is over, and the chances for a Spotted Owl are now zero, and the odds of a Western Screech Owl are basically the same. I’m upset. The wind, the light rain, and the luck of the draw were all against us. The mountain portion, through those birds’ ranges, was 80% of the reason I chose this route… and it flopped.
The fourth checkpoint is at roughly the halfway mark, about 13 miles in. It’s also the start of the Anza-Borrego Desert State Park, right where the sign is, and at a low point full of vegetation that was supposed to provide us with one of the nocturnal species… Supposed to, but upon my arrival, it yields the same conversation as every other checkpoint. I take a longer break here, four minutes, and listen. Again, nothing but the wind. I was hoping it would die down once we were off the mountain, but it’s only picked up, enough so that I can feel it pushing me down the road.
The sky above is full of a magnificent star field. I spend a good bit of my run looking up, but deserts are freaky. No one here but me. Maddie is another 25 minutes down the road, and I’ve only seen five other cars in the two and a half hours I’ve been running.
With what feels like the entire universe hanging over my head, mixed with the strange arid energy that permeates the air, and more rustling in the bushes, I start to worry about being abducted by aliens.
I laugh at myself, realizing that aliens wouldn’t rustle in the bushes; they’d simply fly their saucer over me, and the rhythmic thumping of my feet would cease as my legs fluttered through the air into the opening on the bottom of the ship. I wouldn’t hear bushes, just the wubwubwubwubwub of a saucer's tractor beam.
So, no aliens in the bushes. It’d have to be something else, a skinwalker. That’s the only logical explanation for that noise. A genuine fear seeps into my core, and I feel my chest tighten. My headlight flips back and forth between the sides of the road. I imagine a long, gangly gray thing with long claws and disgusting fangs dripping with saliva, bursting off the edge of the road, switching from running on its hind legs to running on all fours, and then tearing my body into a million bloody bits before I even have the chance to die.
The inside of my brain
I start to run a little faster… but maybe they wouldn’t want to eat or abduct me. Maybe they’d think I’m cool. The road cuts through a hill, a mini 30-foot cliff on both sides. I imagine a little gray alien and a slightly larger gray skinwalker standing just out of sight, silently cheering me on. The alien is holding a homemade poster that says “Go Jake!” with a bird drawn next to it. The skinwalker turns to him and nervously says in an anxious whisper, “Ohhhh man, I want to go give him a high five!”
“No! You can’t!” the alien replies in the same intense whisper, “He can’t know we’re here! We just have to cheer him on in spirit.” The alien looks back down on me, my headlight bobbling down the road below, and he says under his breath, “Come on, Jake. You got this.”
I meet Maddie at the next checkpoint: mile 16. She still hasn’t heard anything. It’s probably because she was asleep until I knocked on the back window. I refuel with two dates and take off without mentioning the alien or the skinwalker.
The next checkpoint is at mile 19.5, Tamarisk Grove campground. I’m slowing down a little bit, a 12-minute mile pace now. I’m starting to feel it. My legs are getting tight, and I have to shit. Thankfully, there’s a bathroom at the campground. It hurts, but I make it there without messing my pants. I refuel first, then head to the bathroom. At almost 20 miles in, the runner's high is in full effect. My legs feel 80 years older than they are, but mentally I’m sharp and blissful. I sit on the toilet and stare at the rough concrete wall in front of me. It has a purplish tinge and looks like it's melting and morphing into itself, reminiscent of psilocybin visuals.
The Fun Part
I finish my business and sign the paperwork. It hurts to stand, but I do. I wash my hands and run out the door to meet the hardest portion yet. The entirety of the 20th mile is a steep incline to get up and out of the valley. I slow down drastically, to something much closer to a power hike. Everything hurts, even my shoulders. There’s less than 5 pounds in my backpack, including the pack itself, but it’s wearing on me. I can feel the blisters swelling on the inside of my feet, at the widest part just below the big toe. The blisters don’t feel good, but provide some relief. In my past runs, I’ve only gotten a blister on my right foot. I’m assuming I’ve been running more symmetrically than normal.
I make it up the hill, but struggle to regain the speed I lost on the way up, and by struggle, I mean I don’t. I try to push faster than the 13-minute mile pace, but it’s like I’m stuck.
I meet Maddie at mile 21.5. “Any word from Isaiah?” I ask while I eat two dates.
“He’s at Los Peñasquitos, but hasn’t heard or seen anything yet.”
“Gotcha,” I say and check my watch. I’ve been running for almost five hours now, which means it’s almost 5 AM. “One more stop,” I tell Maddie.
“How are you feeling? Do you want me to go to the pin you gave? Or stop closer?”
“Go to the pin. I’m good. I’ll make it.”
Since I hit mile 20, this is the farthest I’ve ever run in my entire life, and now this is the most I’ve ever traveled on foot in one day. I really don’t want to be doing this anymore, and I still have almost 5 miles to go. Most of it is downhill, so it is easier on the muscles but harder on the joints. Shortly after I leave Maddie, I feel a sharp pain in the back of my left knee. It feels like there is a ligament or a tendon that’s hyper-stressed and wants to pop. The pain passes after a moment, but it makes me uneasy. Ten minutes later the pain shoots again, but passes after a few strides.
I glance at my watch. My heart rate is low, 127 beats per minute. I want to move faster. My lungs don’t even feel the work they’re doing, but from the waist down I’m toast: tight, sore, and hurting. I try to pick up my pace, to finish faster, so this can finally be over. Maybe I’m just being a bitch, but everything is locked at this agonizingly slow pace.
The best part is that once I’m done, then my day actually begins; another 18 hours of hiking around for as many birds as possible. The thought makes me laugh.
Maddie’s car appears out of nowhere on my left as I stare further up the road on the right, to what I thought were her tail lights.
“Last one,” I say, arriving at the speed of a broken Z-amboni. “Any word from Isaiah?”
“He didn’t see anything. He’s on the way to the mountains.”
“Damn, nothing from either of us this morning,” I reply. That’s upsetting, not the start I wanted on a day we’re trying to break a record.
“How are you feeling?” she asks.
Experimental high-velocity coyote deterrent system (HVCDS)
Credit: Maddie Carr
“Slowing down, I think it’s finally catching up to me.” I rip the top off my last carb gel and take my backpack off. My shoulders find some relief from the monstrous load of a half-pound pack, a roll of toilet paper, two empty water bottles, and a light puck.
I forgot to mark the finish, so Maddie drives alongside me.
A pack of coyotes yips in the distance.
“Did you hear that?” She looks out of the window with an excited look.
“The coyotes?”
She stops the car and looks at me with a face that says, “I don’t think so.”
A moment later, they sound off again, we both laugh, and I continue slothing my ass down the road.
“You better not get attacked by coyotes right before the finish,” She says.
“That’d be the last thing they do. I’m running a 14-and-a-half-minute mile. I am not to be fucked with right now.”
The sharp pain behind my knee returns, and I check my distance: 25.5 miles.
Almost there.
I round the last corner, onto the road with the turn off to the settling ponds we’re starting at. I feel the waist-down destruction of my body just the same as I did for the past four miles, but somehow, it doesn’t suck as much.
My watch dings as I stride through the end of the 26th mile.
“What was that?” Maddie asks.
“Twenty-six,” I say.
“Woohoo!”
I run for a while longer. After a certain point, I don’t know what I’m at, but I know it’s over. I keep going. I’m not sure how accurate these Garmin watches are, and I want to run a little extra just to make sure I did it.
I check my watch: 26.3
That’s it. Holy shit.
I just ran a fucking marathon.
Garmin summary of the run
I keep going, without saying anything. I want a moment just to myself. My strides hit the desert floor one after another. The sun will be up in about 30 minutes, so I finished right on time. The creamsicle glow on the horizon illuminates the desert enough to finally enjoy the view. I try to think of something, but my head is clear, there’s nothing to think about. I just smile and keep going.
“What are you at?” Maddie calls out.
I check my watch again, “26.4.”
The answer gets stuck between her ears for a moment. “Wait.. Doesn’t that mean you’re done?”
“Yep.”
“Well, why are you still running?”
“Just in case my watch is off, I’m going to hit 26.5 and stop.”
“Jake, I think those watches are accurate. You can stop. “You ran a marathon, dude.”
“Just in case.”
I hit the mark, stop my watch, and she pulls in front of me.
I clear a spot on the bed she has outfitted in the back of her CRV. I flop down on it with my upper body and try to use my legs to push the rest of my body up into the car. It doesn’t work. My arms reach back to grab a headrest, a handle, the window, anything. I lazily flop and flail like a dying fish until I can bend my legs enough for her to close the hatch. She does, and I use the door to push myself back far enough to stretch out.
Holy fuck.
That feels good.
Now for the Birds
She rolls the windows down, and the first sounds of Mourning Doves and House Finches pour into the car.
“Great Horned Owl!” She shouts. “Did you hear it?”
We stop and listen. I don’t hear it.
“You sure?” I ask.
“Yeah, Jake. Nothing else sounds like that.”
“Fuck yeah,” I say, rolling over to fish my camera from my other backpack. “Take the left onto the dirt road across from the big ass roadrunner and rattlesnake.”
“What?”
“Just drive, you’ll see it.”
We pull into the settling ponds and spot some odd-shaped birds flying back and forth over the ponds.
“Those are Nighthawks!” She shouts.
“Fuck yeah they are,” I say, trying to shoot out the window. They’re a little too fast for what little light we have to shoot with. I miss every shot. I guess I’m a little too slow right now, and then, without warning, they’re gone.
Maddie lets me out, and I take off my shoes, socks, and underwear to allow some airflow. I put on my “crans”... Croc Vans, a pair of Vans that are made of the same rubber as Crocs. I run my gym shorts commando, sling my camera over my shoulder, pop a ketone shot, grab one of the burritos I made yesterday, and hobble into the world.
I make it about 10 minutes before I ask Maddie if she has a chair I can use. She grabs a small 3-legged foldable camp chair from her car, and I spend the next two hours sitting for a while, then hobbling 50 feet, and sitting again.
Our first stop, the settling ponds, yields 20 species, including Lesser Nighthawk, California Quail, Brewer’s Sparrow, and Northern Harrier.
California Quail #601
Scoping a drip at Tamarisk
Credit: Maddie Carr
We return to Tamarisk for the Long-eared Owl and several other songbirds I had spotted during a scouting trip, but the high winds mask the sounds of birds and keep them hunkered down. We only spot five species here.
I hadn’t really considered the possibility of the high winds during my planning and scouting. I guess I assumed the desert was always just hot, dry, and calm.
Daniel and Isaiah had much more success in the morning. Daniel had 51 species at the Tijuana Slough, including Ridgway’s Rail, Snowy Plover, Black-throated Magpie Jay, and Bell’s Vireo. Isaiah spotted 28 and 31 species in his two morning stops, with some amazing highlights: Mountain Quail, Band-tailed Pigeon, Pygmy Nuthatch, Cassin’s Finch, Townsend’s Solitaire, and Hermit Warbler.
Daniel at the Tijuana Slough
Credit: Daniel Fortunati
Maddie and I’s morning stalled out as I scrambled to find some worthy locations on eBird. We checked out three, but only birded at one: The Borrego Springs Resort and Country Club. The resort is still operational, but the property out back appears to be an abandoned golf course, with a system of trails weaving through the now dried-up ground around one large, horseshoe-shaped pond.
We head straight for the pond, and we’re greeted by several Ruddy Ducks and a Green Heron. Western Flycatchers flutter from palm to palm on the peninsula that juts into the center of the pond.
“We gotta check that out,” I say.
“Obviously,” She replies, and we circumnavigate the pond to where the peninsula begins. Palm trees densely line the entire peninsula and provide much-needed shade from the now midday sun.
“Someone told me that Barn Owls will roost under the dead palm fronds,” Maddie says, basically diving headfirst into the closest tree.
“Anything in there?”
“I can’t tell, it’s way too thick,” She shakes one of the hanging fronds, “Helloooo… Anyone home?”
We walk to the end of the peninsula, both of us scanning the ground for reptiles just as much as we scan the trees for birds.
“No way.” I hear her say.
“Snake?!” I ask excitedly.
“No, owl pellet… and another… and another one! Holy shit, they’re everywhere.” They’re scattered under a palm towards the end of the peninsula.
“Check the trees, your Barn Owls definitely like this spot,” I reply. “If we don’t find any, we should come back tonight. This is a good spot to do some herping and look for scorpions, too.”
“Yeah, for sure.” She says, closely admiring a handful of vomited fur and rodent bones.
We scope the peninsula just a little bit more, and I’m hit with a wave of exhaustion.
“I need to lie down for a minute.”
“Where?” She sounds concerned. “Just on the ground?”
“Yep,” I say, slowly taking off my camera, bending over through the aching soreness that encompasses my entire lower body, and setting my gear on the ground. I plop down on my butt and gradually rest my back on a pile of fronds. My legs kick out, and relief washes over me. I put my hands behind my head and stare up at the branches above me.
Conked
Credit: Maddie Carr
“I saw a Costa’s Hummingbird while you were napping.”
“What!?” I reply, “How long was I asleep?”
“I don’t know. Not long, ten minutes maybe.”
“Fuck, there goes birding for 24 hours straight.”
“Oh well, you needed it.”
“I guess so, but damn…” My legs feel better, and the grogginess has been washed away. I suppose I did need that. I feel a thousand times better. “Come here, help me up,” I say. She grabs my outstretched hands and pulls me to my feet.
We continue our circumnavigation of the pond. An excited squeal slips from her mouth every time we find a clearing in the reeds that yields a view of a turtle. She’s investigating the openings in another palm when I spot something in the tall grass.
“Snake!”
“Where!?”
“Right there,” I say, and before my next thought, she takes three steps and scoops it up without an ounce of hesitation. The five-foot gopher snake attempts to slither away for a moment before it relaxes in her graceful hands.
Maddie and her gophur snek
That was kind of hot.
“Take a picture of it!” She says, and I oblige, still happily stunned. “Do you want to hold it?” She asks. I caught a million snakes as a kid, and more since, but I hold it awkwardly with a little bit of hesitation, nowhere near as casually and relaxed as she did.
Maddie takes a picture of me, and I set it on the ground. It fully stretches out as it slithers away. “Holy shit! That thing was long as fuck. How big do you think it was?” She asks.
“Had to been at least five-foot,” I reply.
“Hell yeah!” She gives me a high-five, and we mosey the rest of the way around the pond back to the car.
I crush a sandwich and some strawberries while calling the rest of the team. Daniel is killing it at Tijuana, but is unsure of where to go next. There are several locations nearby that are always fruitful. I direct him to some ponds and another field that occasionally has raptors. Isaiah is dialed in with his next moves and is on the way to pick up Ben.
Maddie and I decide to head toward Ramona. I offer to drive, and she assembles a sandwich in the passenger seat. I noticed another location on eBird, a creek, that we’ll drive past on the way to the grasslands.
Neither of us has been here, and we end up blowing an hour trying to find a spot to access it. I check the satellite map on my phone and notice a dirt road that leads right to the heart of the oasis.
Isaiah and Ben at the La Jolla Seawatch
Credit: Isaiah Freedman
Unfortunately, it’s gated, motor vehicles aren’t allowed, so we walk the mile down the road, through the remnants of a forest fire, and are halted by dense brush. My knees feel weak. The sharp pain hasn’t returned since I stopped running, but navigating even the most basic uneven terrain is sketchy and makes me feel weak and wobbly.
On a day with fresh legs, I would have flown through the brush without a second thought. Either the fear of blowing my knee out again or the wisdom of the bigger picture turns me around toward the car. There were no new birds on our way in, but a small flock of Phainopepla dives into a large bush near the car on our way out. It wasn’t a complete waste, but I’m hit with the realization that anything outside of the biggest miracle in birding history means we aren’t breaking any records today. I should have scouted more. Researched more. Planned more.
I should have done more.
Thankfully, though, I’m too exhausted to get too down on myself. I pop the tab on a Peach Mango Bang, and we head back through the mountains. Driving up the road I just ran down doesn’t even feel real. Maybe because it’s light out, but still, I kind of don’t believe my memory.
Ramona yields a couple more new species for the team: Bald Eagle and Western Meadowlark, and we get to watch two Lark Sparrows have sex just a few feet away from us. The sun is setting, but we have time for one more stop.
Isaiah, Ben, and Daniel hone in on a few more targets in Mission Bay and La Jolla. Maddie and I find Dos Picos County Park on eBird; it has a high species count, and it’s not too far. We wander the park, slowly moving toward a pond. The call of a Yellow-breasted Chat sucks us in as we try to get our eyes on it. It’d be a lifer for Maddie, but their shy nature keeps it hidden in thick brush, and we never manage to spot it. The day ends with one final new species, a Wood Duck mixed in with a small flock of Mallards.
Maddie at Ramona
Night Time
We head back to Tamarisk Grove and set up our campsite. There’s nothing new on the ride back through Ramona, but we do spot half a dozen Red-tails perched along the road. At the campground, Maddie and I listen for any new owls and the Common Poorwill we’re still missing, and I scan the ground for scorpions with my UV flashlight.
Our last hurrah is to try for the Barn Owl back at the country club. I drive us, but take the wrong turn, which leads us down a dead-end road. I continue to the end just to see what’s there, checking the map in hopes that maybe there’s a shorter trail to the pond. There isn’t, but Maddie spots something better.
“Turn the car around, I think I saw something.” She says, “Keep going, keep going…” The car faces back down the way we came, and I start to creep forward slowly.
“No, no, no, keep turning.”
“For what?” I ask.
“I think I saw a snake… Stop the car!” I tap the brakes, and before we come to a complete stop, the passenger door flies open, and she darts in front of the CRV. A small white snake, heavily striped with orange and black, struggles to slither up the short but smooth concrete slope that borders the road.
“What is it?” She asks.
“I don’t know. Seek it before you touch it,” I reply, cautious of the coral snake-esque vibe it’s giving off.
Looks like it was drawn by a 4th grader
She pulls up the Seek app and aims the camera, “Nonvenomous! It’s a Colorado Desert Shovel-nosed Snake!” She gently scoops it up, and the snake relaxes in her hands.
“Sick.”
The wind has picked up even more. We don’t have high hopes for the owl, so I scan the ground for scorpions while keeping an ear open. There’s nothing. The night ends without another owl, snake, or scorpion.
Searching for scorpions and snakes
Credit: Maddie Carr
I give Maddie a big hug when we get back to camp, and we realize the craziest part of this entire day, which solidifies my impression of myself as superhuman.
“Thanks for all your help today,” I tell her, “I couldn’t have done it without you, and I apologize for smelling absolutely awful.” We’ve been up for 26 hours, I ran a marathon, and we’ve been birding in the hot desert basically all day.
“Actually,” She says, breathing in audibly with her face right next to my armpit, “You don’t smell that bad.”
“Really?” I ask.
She takes a clarification sniff, “Yeah, I mean a little bit, but honestly, you smell kind of good.”
I let go of her and see for myself. She’s right, I do smell good.
Results
With the day all said and done, Maddie and I spotted 63 species, Daniel 62 species, and Isaiah and Ben had 95. There was a good bit of overlap, so our final count for the day was 141 unique species. My marathon time was 5 hours, 44 minutes, and 52 seconds, and I ran for 5 insurance minutes after that. My total step count for the day was 65,025, covering 34.7 miles, and my watch says I burned 5,589 calories.
We didn’t break the bird record, but we still have a chance for the fundraising. We can raise money until May 31st, and we have about $7,000 to go to break that record.
As far as I can tell, this event was a first of its kind. I read about one man who did a birding marathon, and another who did a bird photography marathon, but no one has ever run a marathon before the sun came up and then attempted a Big Day right after.
If you’d like to donate, you can here:
https://charity.pledgeit.org/sandiegobirdathon2026/teams/jakewatchingbirds
Donate even if you don’t want to. Matter of fact, donate especially if you don’t want to. That’s an evil spirit corrupting your mind, tricking you into thinking you’re too good to support bird conservation and a friend trying to do something cool.
And don’t try to tell me you’re broke either. You’re reading this on a smartphone or a computer. I know you got 20 bucks, and if you’re reading this, you’re probably one of my friends. So I know for a fact that you suck at money anyway, and are gonna blow at least $100 on booze and cocaine this weekend. Save $80, go to bed early, and wake up early so you can go play outside on Saturday morning.
Love you, bye.
-Jake
Thanks again to all the businesses that sponsored the team.