Worked a cross country event on Friday and again on Saturday.
And then, the REAL race began…

She had already gone directly from work/school to the airport on Friday while I was at the event and was therefore a day ahead of me. 

The last race on Saturday was scheduled for an 1155 start and I had made an 1810 (6:10 p.m. and from here on out do the math) airline reservation to New Orleans.  Shouldn’t be a problem at all — plenty of time to go home, shower, and make a leisurely drive to the airport.  Wasn’t sure what to expect on a three-day weekend, but I’d think most folks would be in place by Saturday evening.

As the date grew near I decided to get  more aggressive with my scheduling.  I booked a 1510 flight.  I remember days when the reservation computers would block attempts to make duplicate reservations, but I suppose with so many people flying these days that is more difficult to do without really screwing up some “innocent” person’s travel plans, but whatever the reason, I was able to book two tickets on the same day from the same place to the same other place.

My new target, however, was 1510, a press to be sure, but doable if everything fell into place.

On Friday it rained.   I mean it REALLY rained.  Last year we had rain so bad on both days the courses (8K and 5K) turned into a muddy mess.  The lead vehicle got stuck in the mud and had to be dragged out, delaying the start of the next race.  This year’s Friday rain was not a good sign for someone hoping for the following day staying on schedule and having a short final race so the clothing change, pseudo shower in the men’s room, walk to the car, etc., could all be made in time to catch the fight.

Saturday’s weather wasn’t bad — lots of cloud cover, periods of warm sun but temperatures moderated by a light breeze.  And the races stayed pretty much on time, a little behind at one point but catching up later so the 1155 final race went on time.

I left the field, to the men’s room for the change and wet-towel act, a swipe of anti-stink, and out to the car.  Not bad, I’m going to make it, I think. 

Drove to the off-site parking place I’ve been using ever since we moved here and found as I approached that it was no longer there.  What the hell?!  It is not only no longer there, but they owe me 7 days of free parking!!

Not having time to look around, and having seen no signs telling me their new location, I had no choice but to park at the airport, always an expensive proposition.  I decided that though the satellite lots are supposed to be cheaper (I don’t know the rates — never use them), I have no idea how often the shuttles run, where they pick up (I’m not dragging even that light bag very far — no wheels), and how many lots they visit before dropping off at the terminals.  Bottom line is that I chose to park in the main airport garage so I could control the time.

There must have been a lot of people traveling this past weekend.  The lots/garages were nothing more than driving lanes and by the time I found a spot I was about as far away from the elevator the to the terminal tunnel as one could get.  The satellite lots would have been a better choice, I think.  The only positive in the parking experience is that I was able to zip through rather than sitting in line to take a ticket — my expressway pass allowed me immediate entry.

I’d already printed my boarding passes (remember, 2 flights) on Friday evening after returning from the field, achieving boarding positions pretty much not making advance check-in worth the trouble, but at least I was able to go directly to the Terminal Stupidity Amalgamated ID check, where the “agent” looked over my ID as though it were a missing page of the Dead Sea Scroll.  On the boarding pass she dutifully checked the flight number and destination, as though she had something to verify them against (???) and finally handed my ID back to me.  I thought it interesting that I’d flipped my wallet open  to expose both my retired military ID and my state driver’s license.  She chose the retired ID which shows my name to include “Jr.”  Despite all that microscopic examination it made no difference to her that my boarding pass did not include that suffix.  Oh, folks, we are safe.  We are so safe thanks to Terminal Stupidity Amalgamated.

“Please remove your laptop, sir.”  I ignore him.  He’s assuming far too much.

“You’ll have to remove your laptop, sir.”

“Uh, does this bag look like a laptop case to you?  There is no laptop in there.”

“Well, if you have one you will have to remove it from its case.”

Unsaid:  Look, you ignorant blithering jackass, do you see another case?  This is it, shoes and bag and both are on the rollers awaiting your rough handling, but if you think I’m carrying an invisible second case then I am also carrying an invisible laptop which you can’t check.  Good grief, where do these idiots come from?

Beeeep

“Do you have any metal objects in your pockets?

“No.”

“Do you have a cell phone?”

“Wrong question — yes I have a cell phone, but it is in my bag going through your machine right now.”

“Do you have a belt on?”

“Yes.”

“You’ll have to take it off and place it with your other belongings.”

“You weren’t listening, were, you?  I just told you my bag is going through your machine.  Do you want the belt on the black belt?”

“No sir, it will have to be in a container.”

Wonderful, just friggin wonderful…

I go back, in my socks, over that surely sterile airport floor, yeah, uh huh, to where the totes are, squeeze between two other passengers who will soon enjoy Stupidity’s thrills, grab a tote, drop my belt into it, go the front edge of the machine, hold someone else’s tote back, and insert mine, eyeball-apologizing to the interrupted person.  She seems to understand and I’m betting she’s got her fingers crossed for her passage, but I don’t have time to look.

My belt and I are separately, quite separately, determined by Terminal Stupidity not to be of danger to the flying public and the great nation.

Ahhhh, a few minutes to rest.  I’m dressed again and my pockets have their usual contents once again.  Well, with one major exception, but we won’t go there.

All things considered, the timing has worked out very well — I’ll easily make the 1510 flight and now need to cancel my 1810 flight.  So, I fire up the Treo and so to the Southwest mobile site.  Uh oh.  I was afraid of that.  My 1810 flight, the original one, is part of a round trip that brings me back Monday night.  Though Southwest’s system acts very much like everything is one-way and a round trip is just two of them tied together, that tie is crucial.  I can’t just cancel the 1810; it will also cancel my Monday return.  I’m not about to try that on the Treo because Southwest’s mobile device screens are few and limited in functionality.

I call my sister in New Orleans and she kindly interrupts her driveway preparation (new recreational trailer — too nice to call it a camping trailer) to go inside and play Bob’s secretary.  We coordinate via cell phone the cancellation of the 1810 and the Monday return, make another Monday return reservation to match the one I had so the wife and I still come back together, and use the funds of the cancellation to pay for the new reservation.  Ah!  All done.  Thank you.  By the way, how much money do I have left over in the deal?

Crap.  That was not good news.  Besides paying top dollar for the 1510 flight because I waited so late to get aggressive in my scheduling of race-finish and flight-out, well, that Monday return flight, a one way, cost me only 12 bucks less than the previously arranged full round trip.  Air transportation was an expensive part of this trip, for sure.  Both ways were equally expensive.

Next, sister in New Orleans calls Hertz for me to tell them I will be arriving 3 hours early.  I’m a Gold Club member and the car should be ready when I step off the shuttle.  Not likely to happen because my sister calls me back to tell me the Hertz folks in New Orleans basically blew it off.  Not a surprise.  I’ve said for years that the Hertz operation in New Orleans has always been the worst of any Hertz location I’ve ever used, and I’ve used quite a few.  (Avis wasn’t any better there in years past, either.)

Sure enough, I had a nice conversation with a courtesy bus driver (I was the only passenger) who wouldn’t take the bet that my name would not be on the board.  When he pulled up in front of the board we both looked — my name was of course not on the board.  I’m not upset about it because that’s pretty much what I expect from that location.  Oh, well, nice talking with you and thanks for the ride.

I go inside and tell the person there that I’m early, name is so and so.  He begins to pull up my reservation and in walks another agent.  She takes over, types a few strokes here and there and never gives any indication that she recognizes the name or the reservation.  Wow.  Blowing off customer calls must really be a run of the mill behavior around here.  At the end of the process, as she hands me the packet she somewhat proudly tells me, “And I have a Honda for you.”

“Excuse me, you said you do have a Honda for me?”

“Yes, sir.”      

Ah hah.  Another TSA wannabe.

My customer profile specifically states that I do not want a Honda.  Ever.

I head for the car, she 10 paces ahead of me to get it started and the air conditioning running.  I’m going to drive a Honda for the next days because I just don’t want to deal with these people today.

I am definitely, most certainly, in New Orleans.

Got to tell you, though.  That Hertz shuttle driver was one hell of a nice guy.  I think he and I could enjoy a few beers together one evening.  And I know we could enjoy each other’s company.