Stupid - Part Two

For those of you jumping in without reading the articles in chronological order and wondering what the hell this has to do with the Alaskapade, the next paragraph is a repeat from a previous entry.


I was sitting in a client's conference room in the midst of pre-meeting smalltalk when a co-worker brought up the Alaskapade and asked when I was leaving.  One of my clients asked what he was talking about and my co-worker pulled up the Alaskapade.com page on the conference room's projection screen.  We had but moments before the meeting kicked off, so there wasn't much time for me to explain.  There was time, however for my client to express his opinion that "this has to be the stupidist thing [I've] ever done".  My first instinct was to argue the purpose for my trip, but this is my customer and IBM probably wouldn't appreciate that.  So, I just grinned, nodded, and bit my lip as the meeting started.

It did get me thinking though.  I know I'm firmly resolved in my purpose for the trip and I also know that I've done many things more stupid than this.  There are too many to list without starting another blog, so I thought I would describe my top three in no particular order.As promised in a previous post, here is another of the three dumbest things I've ever done.


 Shooting My Mouth Off to a Prison Camp Guard

"That - Mr. Wilson - is going to cost you."

Many years ago, I served in the U.S. Air Force. My primary job was an Electronic Warfare Systems Technician and in that capacity, I serviced aircraft-mounted electronic countermeasures (ECM) equipment. The gear's purpose was to jam or deceive enemy radar by altering the apparent location and/or quantity of our aircraft as they flew over threat radar systems. We also maintained radar warning receivers that alerted aircrews to the presence of various ground and air based radar-guided missiles and anti-aircraft artillery. In their day, these systems were on the absolute bleeding edge of microwave and RF signal processing technology and as technicians on them, we were the geekiest of geeks. Training for and working with these systems required serious security clearances beyond what the general public even knew existed.  While I was in basic electronics tech school, I was constantly hearing from friends and even high school teachers back home telling me that strange people in suits with badges showed up at their doorstep asking questions about my background. I was squeaky clean - the Air Force's wet dream, so securing the necessary clearances necessary to move on to the specific equipment was a breeze for me. I also happened to do really well in the school. Classes ran six hours a day, five days a week for 18 months, at the end of which I had carved out a 98% test score average. My point isn't that I'm some smart guy. Hell, I flunked algebra in high school.  I just got the concepts and excelled in the training.  Nevertheless, that average earned me honor grad status and that status offered me my choice of base assignments as well as opportunities to join Special Operations forces.  In one of the few conversations my father and I had regarding my career, he strongly advised (based on his own experiences) that I stay away from any special duties that involved National security or Special Ops.

I couldn't wait to get into National security or Special Ops.

I took an assignment at Bergstrom Air Force Base in Austin, Texas and worked in an ECM shop in the 67th Tactical Reconnaissance Wing's Component Repair Squadron (CRS). Many there claimed ECM stood for "Easy Chair Maintenance" and that CRS stood for "Can't Repair Shit".  To a certain degree, they were correct.  So when I was offered an opportunity to step outside the box and work in field intelligence, I jumped at the chance.  I would work in my shop until notice of an assignment came to me. These notifications usually consisted of temporary duty (TDY) orders with the location blanked out. Then, I would disappear for a few days and no one in my shop or immediate command structure was allowed to ask where I was. It was a perfect racket.

These assignments had ancillary training prerequisites that were not overly technical.  Short classes in Falls Church, VA were common. You can determine the Government agencies there and put two and two together.  Less common were the field survival courses which were usually conducted in remote locations in the pacific northwest. One of these courses was essentially a prison camp experience wherein the trainees were dropped-in to the forest, captured by "enemy forces", interrogated, and subsequently evaluated on our ability to cope and maintain military discipline throughout the induced stress. There was one other tech in my shop who had been to "prison" and he had related his experiences to some of us.  So when my turn came up, I had an idea what to expect.  In fact, I was pretty sure that I had the entire game figured out.  Hell, at 24 years old, I thought I knew everything.

I was fortunate to be scheduled in the summer months when surviving in the forest is easier.  There were six of us from various armed services in my drop group.  When I said "dropped-in", I meant it.  We bailed from the back of a C-130 cargo aircraft and parachuted into the forest.  They didn't just strap a chute to us and push us out the door.  I had been a sport sky diver in years past and had some Air Force training as well.  We could see the camp facility from above during our descent and we knew they could see us parachuting in. We had been told that once we were on the ground we would most certainly be captured immediately and taken to the camp.

Having had some idea of what to expect, I packed peanut butter crackers and a heating bladder of water to live on in case I wasn't immediately apprehended. The course had a finite schedule and I figured every hour I was on the lam was an hour I wouldn't spend in "enemy" hands. I also knew the forest was wired and our location would be known as soon as we started moving.  So when I hit the ground, I buried my chute, dug a hole, covered myself with leaves,and laid there. I wasn't alone.  I discreetly shared my sustenance stash with an Army soldier before we jumped. We shared a warped sense of humor and clicked in the hours prior to our flight departure. Beyond that, I figured if I was caught with the goodies, splitting the blame between two of us might make my life easier.

We laid in the woods through the night and were awakened from the pre-dawn silence by an announcement blasted through a loudspeaker system in the trees instructing us to turn ourselves in. Specifically, the instructions were to walk south until we saw a white marker in the trees and then turn left, and to keep turning left at each marker until we received further instructions.  Looking back, I assume they always knew where we were.  They were just to lazy to come get us.  Essentially, they had us following an inward spiral which terminated at a clearing in the forest. The fort was straight ahead of us in this clearing.

Prior to our flight, we were given details of fake missions, nonexistent technologies, call signs, passwords, and other minutia to memorize. This would be the information that our captors would attempt to extract from us during the interrogations that were almost certain to take place in the days ahead.  The instructors actually used Dale Carnegie memorization techniques to force feed the information to us.

My Army co-fugitive and I exited the forest and made our way towards the fort.  After sleeping in the dirt among insects and Lord knows what else and having consumed only stale crackers and warm rubbery water for the last 30 hours, even prison quarters and inmate chow was starting to sound appealing.  The fort looked like a fort I would have constructed as a kid.  It appeared to be a two-story wooden structure with guard posts on each corner and a row of razor wire surrounding the entire place. As we approached the fort, a person appeared in one of the guard towers and yelled to us through a megaphone, ordering us to stop. It reminded me of the French guard in Monty Python's Holy Grail. That movie cracks me up to this day.  Unfortunately, the association of events cracked me up then too and I started laughing. The night before, we had been discussing the tactics they might employ to get to us and surmised that although they would try to scare us, they weren't going to physically harm us.  We assumed were way to valuable for that. This would turn out to be but one of many invalid assumptions that I will have made by the end of this experience. Another guard appeared on the other end of the wall before us and told us to keep walking. We started walking again and the first guard yelled to us to stop. Again, the other guard said to keep walking and we did.  About then, the most realistic bullets-hitting-the-sand-around-us-effect stopped us dead in our tracks. Apparently, when the first guard said to stop, he meant it.  The other guard was unarmed, or at least never showed a weapon. You can guess which orders we followed. The doors about fifty feet in front of us burst open and several people came running toward us with weapons drawn and yelling in some language neither of us understood.

Instinctively, I dropped to my knees with my hands in the air.  The afternoon before, I was leaping into thin air form a cargo plane and was as cool as a cucumber.  Now, here I was firmly planted on terra firma and my heart was pounding so loud I'm sure the guards could hear it from their posts.  We were instructed to turn to face away from the fort.  My hands were bound to the sides of our waists and my elbows strapped so close together behind me that I thought my arms would snap out of my shoulder sockets. They bound my feet together and them bound my right ankle to the left of my Army buddy.  One of the soldier's placed a black cloth on the ground in front of us and told us to put our faces in it.  Picture me on my knees with my arms and legs bound and try to imagine how I could comply with their order.  All I could do was lean forward and let gravity do its thing. I managed to turn my head to the right so I wouldn't face plant into the dirt and so I could see what was happening next to me.  That was the last I saw for what seemed like several hours.  The thick, opaque, black cloth was wrapped around my face and its base duct-taped around my neck. I couldn't see anything, but I remember hearing the tape being unrolled and torn.  We were brought to our feet, turned around, and instructed to walk forward. Still bound at the ankles, it must have resembled a drunken three-legged race.  I had no idea which direction I was stumbling. We clumsily stepped up into something and I felt cooler air surrounding me.  I assumed we were inside the fort.

At this point, we were separated and I was led into a musty smelling room. The door closed behind me and the room was silent except for the thundering sound of my heart and pulse. I was still bound with my head covered. For all I knew the lights could have been on with a roomful of people watching me, so I just stood like a mummy.  I could hear conversations in adjacent rooms, but couldn't make out what was being said.

After what felt like hours, I heard the door open behind me.  My feet, elbows, and hands were unbound and that damn hood was finally removed. In the room was a table with a chair on opposite sides facing each other. Behind the table was a window into a smaller room with a big, old-school video camera.  Two older Asian-looking men in foreign military uniforms walked in. One spoke perfect English, the other said nothing. The English speaker spoke softly and invited me to take a seat.  I was offered a cigarette and a glass of water.  I declined the smoke, but took the water.  We were permitted to accept basic living necessities, but were instructed to decline luxuries that might lead the other prisoners to think we were receiving special treatment in exchange for information or cooperation. I sat at the table and drank the hard water.

The non-English speaker spoke to the other in what sounded like an Asian dialect.  The other nodded, opened a binder on the table, and pushed it toward me.  I was instructed to sign a pre-written statement or write my own and then read to in front of the camera. I replied that I didn't wish to make a statement.  The non-English speaker said something to the other and he then told me that it was not a request. "You must make a statement." I thought about if for a moment and reached for the pen. It was a standard issue black Bic Click pen with "Property of the U.S. Government" embossed in the barrel.  That pen totally ruined the environmental mood effect.

I scribbled out a short sentence, closed the book, and slid it across the table.  Without looking at it, the English speaker motioned to someone in the camera room and stepped out leaving me alone with the other officer.  A large red light on the camera illuminated and the officer pointed at the book and then at the camera and said something I didn't understand.  I opened the book, looked toward the camera and read the following statement which I had written moments before.

"My name is U.S. Air Force Staff Sergeant Scott Wilson. the Geneva Convention dictates that I tell you nothing more."  That was the written statement.  At this point, I thought about that pen and the smart ass in me piped up and I added "Do whatever you want to me, but remember; You never found me out there. I came to you."

I could hear someone in the camera room burst out in laughter and then stifle it.  The Asian speaking officer leaned over to me and with a straight face said very quietly in perfect, unaccented English. "That - Mr. Wilson - is going to cost you."

It occurred to me at that very instant that that might not have been smartest thing I had done up to that point in my life.  The events that occurred afterward would confirm this thought. In fact, I would learn during my time there that I was wrong on many things concerning this experience.  We figured we were too expensive and important to take serious abuse from these guys.  We were wrong.

I was led to a cell wherein my feet and hands were bound to the outside of the bars as I sat on the concrete floor on the other side of the bars. From that position, I learned shortly thereafter that if the bottom of your feet are beat with a pliable rubber paddle, the bones don't break and there's no bruising for evidence.  I also learned that it hurts like a motherf*cker.

They uncovered my water bladder and peanut butter wrappers from the forest where we hid out.  I paid for that too and there was no blame sharing discount.

I towed the line and did my best to play by the rules for the rest of my time there. Once again, I thought I could outsmart them during an interrogation session, so I made up details and lied.  I later learned that they already knew all of the information I was given beforehand, so they knew I was full of it.  I learned also that the reason telling lies doesn't work is because your captors could assume it's true and word will get out among the other prisoners that you are cooperating. Morale suffers as a result. It's not like everyone's morale was high to begin with, but I got the point.

I learned that they had called back to my shop at Bergstrom and asked for dirt on me. They asked about things like gambling and drinking habits, girlfriends, pilfering from the paint locker; anything with which they could claim to know about and use to try to get me to talk.  When I said above that I was squeaky clean, I meant it. So when I was told that someone from my shop reported some lame story that I forged my semi-annual physical fitness test results, I knew it was crap and thought (silently to myself this time) "is that the best you got?" and refused to talk.

When our "sentence" was complete, they blew a horn throughout the camp and it was as if the world around us went from black and white to color.  The entire staff spoke perfect English as they opened up the cells and walked the grounds calling everyone to assemble in the courtyard.  We were told that our training was complete and sent to shower and get back in uniform and meet up for our individual evaluations.

I remember being struck by the fact that the instructor staff were all older and were all veterans who had spent real time in real POW camps during the Vietnam war. At that moment, I felt like a heel for the attitude I displayed more so than I felt like a pussy for whining when my feet were beaten the days before.  These guys were the real deal and I felt like I had disrespected them.

The key thing I took away from it all was a comment I received from the "Asian" officer.  All he said to me was "You could stand to take all of this a bit more seriously".  I'm fortunate that although I faced some wild stuff in my last couple of years of Air Force service that followed my prison camp experience, I never faced the circumstances that were presented to me in the camp.

Updates From the Road - Please Read

One of the (many) devices I will have on board with me on the Alaskapade is a GPS transponder unit which will uplink my location via satellite and will allow me to send short updates from the road during the trip.  A great portion of this trip will be ridden through remote areas beyond the range of cellular service and this device will let me keep friends and family abreast of my location and status via short (max 41 character) messages. The messages will include a link to a scrollable, zoom in/out map with my current location and a track line of my trip from its inception.  Viewers can move their cursor over the track line to see when I was at that location.  This device will also be the source for a similar map with the same features which will be placed atop my Alaskapade.com page.  Readers not receiving the messages from the road can still see my progress.

The unit does not receive messages.  I will only receive text and messages when I'm under cellular coverage or stopped at a location with internet services.

The device also provides 911/SOS monitoring and emergency dispatch through the dedicated International Emergency Rescue Coordination Center (IERCC) based in Houston, Texas. If I happen to find myself in serious trouble, (assuming I'm physically capable) I can press a button and activate the rescue process. While the safety/rescue feature is this device's primary purpose, I prefer to concentrate on the messaging capabilities and think of it as a means of keeping in touch with my friends and family back in the lower 48.

The routine status messages can be sent to predetermined groups of recipients who can receive the information via text or email. If you want to receive these updates, I need you to send me an email with the following information.

Name

Your preference for contact - Text or Email (or both)

Email Address

Cell Phone Number & Carrier (if text is your preference)

Email this information to me at ktm_scott@yahoo.com

Please do so sooner than later because updating the network is a bit cumbersome and I expect to be really busy in the days preceding my departure.

 

Neither I nor the service provider will distribute or otherwise compromise your personal information.  Transmissions will begin on my scheduled June 18th departure date and will cease when I return to Dallas, upon which I will delete the recipient group and your information. I don't expect more than one or two messages per day unless something extraordinary happens.  Recipients can opt out at any time by, but I will have to be in a location with internet access to edit the list, so you may receive a few messages after you opt out.

Finally, if you're into the geek speak for this stuff, you can find details on this device here.

IT WAS A JOKE!

Apparently, I didn't make it clear enough at the end of my last post that the Alaskapade is not postponed. It was just an April Fools joke.  Come hell or high water, I'm hitting the road on June 18th and I'm sure I'll have plenty to write about here before I leave.  I hope to have "Stupid Part 2" up on Friday.

Alaskapade is Postponed

I hate even having to type this.  It was tough enough just making the decision, but I had to address it and move on.  I've decided to postpone the Alaskapade until the summer of 2012.  The reason is primarily financial.

Some of you are aware that I am an avid stamp collector. Last week, I was offered the opportunity to purchase the coveted Netherlands #12, og, hinged stamp for only $2,300.  If you're into the stamp collecting scene, you can imagine my excitement.  Dropping the cash on the stamp drained my Alaskapade fund and I refuse to use credit cards for a vacation. Therefore, the financially responsible thing for me to do is to postpone the trip.  I'll continue writing the blog as the months pass and the year will go by before we know it.

If you're as disappointed as I am, saying these two words to yourself will make you feel better: April Fools!  Stamps?  Really?

The Three Most Stupid Things I've Ever Done - Part One

For those of you jumping in without reading the articles in chronological order and wondering what the hell this has to do with the Alaskapade, the next paragraph is a repeat from a previous entry.


I was sitting in a client's conference room in the midst of pre-meeting smalltalk when a co-worker brought up the Alaskapade and asked when I was leaving.  One of my clients asked what he was talking about and my co-worker pulled up the Alaskapade.com page on the conference room's projection screen.  We had but moments before the meeting kicked off, so there wasn't much time for me to explain.  There was time, however for my client to express his opinion that "this has to be the stupidist thing [I've] ever done".  My first instinct was to argue the purpose for my trip, but this is my customer and IBM probably wouldn't appreciate that.  So, I just grinned, nodded, and bit my lip as the meeting started.

It did get me thinking though.  I know I'm firmly resolved in my purpose for the trip and I also know that I've done many things more stupid than this.  There are too many to list without starting another blog, so I thought I would describe my top three in no particular order.As promised in my previous post, here is one of the three dumbest things I've ever done.

Racing My Dirt Bike the Weekend Following My Vasectomy

Does this really require elaboration? I had a vasectomy many years ago.  Prior to having it done, I had heard horror stories about the pain, swelling, and general discoloration immediately following the procedure.  Maybe it was the Xanax, but I found that the drama surrounding the process was really overblown.  I was dropped off for the procedure and was standing in the parking lot waiting for my ride home less than an hour later.  I went home and sat on my bag of Bird's Eye Frozen Peas as I was instructed.

That was on a Wednesday.  By the following Friday, I was feeling fine and was up and around as if nothing happened.  I should make it clear that I felt fine, but I really didn't look fine.  My balls looked like Leggs Panty Hose containers that had been colored with Paas Easter egg dye.  I was impressed with the size, albeit kinda freaked out by the color. But I digress.

Months before, I had signed up to race the Jimmy Jack Enduro, unaware at the time that I would be getting the vasectomy.  Once the surgery date was scheduled, I pretty much blew off the race figuring I would be too miserable.  But, by Saturday I was feeling better than I was on Friday and my balls had shrunk to almost their normal size and color. The sutures in each side were no longer itching either. I decided to load up the bike and ride out to the race with my friends and if I felt like it, enter the event.

An Enduro is different than what most people think of a dirt motorcycle race.  It's not like motocross with massive jumps and berm corners where each rider competes against the rest of the pack. An enduro is a race with the clock, much like an auto rally.  The idea is to get from point A to point B (and subsequently dozens of other points) at a precise time. There are several classes of competitors with classifications based on engine type and displacement, rider age, and experience.  All competitors ride the course simultaneously, but you only compete with riders in your class.  They didn't have a post-vasectomy class, nor a too-stupid-to-know-better class, so I just rode with my usual group of intermediate "B" riders.

The enduro course is long.  Really long. A typical course for intermediate and advanced riders is 80-120 miles. The terrain usually consists of canyons, creeks, rocks, bigger rocks, deeper creeks, and very dense forests. Work with me here because as mundane as these details are, they're necessary. Riders are given details of specific speeds that must be maintained between specific mileage points and there are checkpoints with synchronized clocks along the course to verify each rider is on time. The trick is, you don't get to pre-ride the course and you have no idea where the checkpoints are.  I used a small handlebar-mounted computer that interfaced with my odometer to tell me if I was on time, late, or early.  I was rarely early.  Actually, I was rarely on time either.  A rider who hits a checkpoint late gets a point for each late minute.  A rider who enters a checkpoint early gets five points, plus a point for each early minute.  The idea is to have as few points as possible at the end of the course. It's a cat and mouse game because the riders don't know where the checkpoints are and the terrain is such that there's practically no way you can ride the proper speeds for the entire course. Every so often, the course will have an open pasture or field in which riders can twist the throttle and make up some time.  These open areas were typically my favorite part of any course. That would eventually prove not to be the case at the Jimmy Jack Enduro.

We arrived at the race site on Saturday afternoon, unloaded the bikes, and set up camp.  This was in my early years of racing before I bought a camper. That night, we endured the worst storm I have ever seen short of hurricane Elena which I endured when I was in the Air Force stationed in Biloxi, Mississippi. It was so bad that I abandoned my tent and slept in the car. We awakened to a campground that looked like a refugee camp. Tents, EZ-Up canopies, and banners were scattered "from Hell to breakfast", as my mom used to say.  There was still a light drizzle in the air which was eventually followed by a full-on drenching.  Despite the weather, the promoters did not scratch the race. They were aware that many riders including myself had driven hundreds of miles to ride this event. It was a bitterly cold morning in November and there was rain and wind, but no lightning.  It may have been uncomfortable, but from a weather perspective, the conditions were not unsafe so the race was on.  Still, a little voice in my head was telling me I should sit this one out.

I have a bad habit of ignoring little voices.

Enduro races always start at 8:00am on Sunday mornings. At 8:00am, the first row of five riders takes off.  The second row at 8:01, and so on until all rows are out. I figured someone on my row must have a clue about the course and I would just try to keep up with them.  Problem was, this time I was apparently that guy on my row who appeared to have a clue and to whom the other riders looked up. Insert your metaphor here: blind leading the blind, drunk monkeys porking a football, etc.

The starting area was downhill from the camping area, so I just mounted my Kawasaki, coasted down the hill, popped the clutch in gear, and bump started the engine and rode to the line where my row was waiting. I was about midway through the pack in what turned out to be a smaller group of riders than there would have been had the weather not turned.  One by one, minute by minute, the rows in front of me took off with motors revving as they disappeared into the woods and appeared to be swallowed by the dense fog. When my row started, excitement and nerves got the best of me and I screwed up and stalled the motor. Not thinking about the events that had taken place just three days prior and in a panic over my starting line miscue, I quickly slammed my right leg down on the kick starter of my high-compression, 365cc four stroke motor.

Ouch.

Fortunately, the motor fired on the first attempt and I was on my way.  It was only thirty seconds into the event and my handlebar computer was already alerting me to the fact that I was behind. Keeping an eye on the computer while trying to avoid the trees that seemed to randomly move into my path somewhat numbed the feeling of explosive swelling taking place inside the crotch of my riding pants.

Within a few minutes, I caught up with the riders from my row and had made up my time.  I hit the first checkpoint on my minute and  took no points. I thought to myself how there were dozens of riders who scratched the event just because of some inclement weather and here I was kicking ass only a few days after surgery.  Pussies!  After only an hour or so, the course conditions had deteriorated so much that the trail was almost indistinguishable from the surrounding terrain.

All enduro courses are marked with red surveyor's tape, usually hung in the trees and bushes on the right side along the route. If the markers are on the right, you're going the right way.  I usually had no idea where the hell I was, but I at least knew I was going the right direction.  I must have passed half the pack before I hit the first gas stop.  Before the race, we place our gas cans on a trailer with our row number affixed to them. Race officials take them to a predetermined location on the course and line them up by row number.  When riders arrive at the gas stop, our fuel cans are magically there waiting for us. Before the race, Robert (a friend with whom I drove to the race from Dallas) took my can with a lunch inside an attached plastic grocery store bag to the gas trailer for me while I searched the camping area unsuccessfully for the remains of my tent. It also meant I didn't have to lift anything heavy.

While at the gas stop, I scarfed down my soggy sandwich and cookies and downed a warm Mountain Dew. I decided to forgo filling my tank because I really didn't need the fuel. I had plenty left to get me to the next gas stop and with less fuel weight, my Kawasaki was easier to handle in the sloppy trail conditions. Once again, I was spared from heavy lifting.  I tried to sit on a stump as I ate, but the swelling and pain in my groin were catching up with me so I just stood and tried not to waddle as I walked.  I always packed aspirin in my lunch sack to thin the blood and prevent numbness in my hands.  I popped a few extra tablets  in hopes that the pain relief might head further south.

I took off from the gas stop and couldn't help but notice that the course looked barely ridden.  Apparently, most of the riders bagged the race at the gas stop and took a fire road shortcut back to camp. Pussies. I figured with so many riders out of the race, this was a great opportunity for me to earn top points for the overall State championship in my class.  My balls were arguing against my continuing on, but I had come this far and I was not packing it in due to a little pain.

A few miles after the gas stop, I had accrued very few points on my time card, but had had a tough go at it through some particularly tight woods and creek sections.  The woods were so dense that a few times, I literally had to stop and wiggle my handlebars between the trees and then continue to the next bottleneck. The torrential rains had swelled one previously ankle-high water crossing to waist height and there were course officials there pointing out the most shallow line over which to cross.  The creek was littered with fallen motorcycles and riders attempting to extricate themselves from the swollen flow.  Somehow, I managed to ride across and remain vertical. My swelling balls probably provided additional buoyancy as I crossed.  Whatever the reason, when I hit the far shore, my four-stroke motor pulled like a tractor and I shot up the embankment with ease.

The water crossing was followed by the tightest woods I had ever ridden.  It was clear that this course was laid out by a sadomasochistic motorcyclist. My computer was screaming at me that I was falling far behind.  I could see a clearing ahead of me and hoped that the course would lead me to it so I could open up the throttle and make up some time. The course markers followed a serpentine path, but eventually led me out of the woods.  The clearing was actually a wide valley with a slight decline to the bottom and a slight incline out to the wood line a mile or so ahead on the horizon.  Visibility at the basin was short as the fog was dense in the absence of trees.  Nevertheless, it was a welcomed sight and I shot out of the woods like a rocket.

About halfway across, the dirt in the field had turned into mush and I was fighting to remain vertical and maintain forward momentum. My riding position was such that I was leaning as far back as possible on the bike to keep the weight off the front wheel hoping to avoid a forward flip face-plant into the mud.  As such, the rough terrain was forcing my seat to bump up and slap my butt mercilessly and the kinetic ripple effect on my groin was becoming unbearable.  I glanced down at my computer to check my status and inadvertently steered into a deep, wet rut that eventually swallowed my rear wheel down to the axle.

I was stuck.

I stepped off the bike and realized that it was sunk so deep in the mud that the seat was only about knee high to me as I stood next to it.  I had come too far under too much pain to give in now, so I decided to un-stick myself and keep moving.

There's a process for extracting a mud-stuck motorcycle wherein you rock the bike back and forth from side to side and loosen the mud surrounding the rear wheel.  Then, you can lift the rear end up and you're clear.  I tried unsuccessfully to rock the bike loose and decided to just try and lift the rear wheel out of the mud.

I stood behind the bike and gripped the rear wheel with both hands and gave a firm tug.  It was then that I heard an unfamiliar sound that emanated from inside me, but could clearly be heard from the outside.  In fact, I'm pretty sure it echoed against the nearby woods. It sounded like a thick rubber band being stretched beyond its capacity and the ends slapping against a wall as it tears apart.  The sound was accompanied by a feeling of being hit in the groin by a baseball bat swung by Barry Bonds after a fresh Deca-Durabolin injection.  The actual vasectomy snipping was nothing compared to this.  My eyes crossed and I was so dizzy that I wasn't sure if I would shit or puke first.  Had my boots not been sunk so deep into the mud, I would have fallen over like one of those old toy cartoon character statues that collapses when you push up the bottom of its base.

Despite the cold, I was sweating so profusely that my riding jersey was soaked and I was freezing in the light breeze as a result.  I took off the sweat-soaked jersey, wrung it out, and laid it over the Kawasaki's seat.  All the while, other riders appeared out of the fog behind me and passed by as I stood trying to regain my senses. I was afraid to look, but I had to know what happened.

I unbuckled/unzipped my riding pants and wrestled them and my biker shorts-style underwear down past the top of my racing boots and bent over to throw up first, and then take inventory. My face was probably as green was my Kawasaki when I saw that my balls had been replaced with discolored grapefruits and noticed a strange ooze dripping from them.  About this time, several riders appeared out of the woods and were heading straight for me.  Riders tend to follow other riders' paths in inclement weather with the hope of staying on a defined trail.

So there I was; shirtless and effectively naked from the waist down, standing in an open field with my feet spread wide apart and bent over with my Casper-white butt greeting the other riders as they made a bee-line towards me.  I could see the "what the f*ck" look in the bug-wide eyes of speeding riders as they looked over at me, lost concentration on the course, and then nose dived into the mud.  Within mere seconds, the field around me was littered with motorcycles and riders who were cursing the weather, the mud, and most certainly Casper the friendly ghost.  Some of them saw the humor in the situation and laughed it off. Some even thought I was planted as a distraction by the race promoters. Others were just pissed and blamed me for their delay while they maintained their distance and cursed me from afar. None of them bothered to help me out of my predicament.

About the time the rider and motorcycle carnage cleared the area, my spinning head had begun to slow down and my stomach had completely purged itself. I barfed so much I thought I was seeing coffee grinds in my puke.  An EMT back at the camping area told me later that what I thought was coffee was probably blood.  I donned my sweat and rain soaked jersey, gingerly stuffed my swollen sack into my drawers, marveled briefly at the protuberance, and pulled up my riding pants.  The sweep riders would be by soon and (since I was no longer naked) would hopefully help me out.

Eventually, a course official on a four-wheeler appeared out of the woods and fog and stopped to tow me out.  After I explained what I had been through earlier in the week (and after he stopped laughing hysterically), he offered to trade vehicles with me so I would have a less uncomfortable ride back to camp.  Feeling like a big enough loser for not finishing the race, I opted to ride my own bike back. Once on drier surface, I made my way to one of the fire roads and took the shortcut back to camp.  Pussy.

As I arrived at camp and rode past the other riders, I was ignored by most, but greeted with stares, sneers, laughter, and a few middle fingers from others.  I stopped by the officials' tent and turned in my incomplete score card in an attempt to salvage whatever season points I could. I parked my bike at the spot where my camp had been before it blew away in the night, changed into some loose-fitting sweat pants, and crawled into the back seat of my car to lay down.

I awakened to the sound of an air horn, indicating that the race was over and that the scores had been tabulated. I made my way to the tent figuring no one would recognize me since I wasn't naked.  Times and scores were read aloud by the race promoters as trophies and ribbons were distributed. Much to my surprise, I went further on the course than anyone else in my class and took first place.  Confident that my anonymity was intact, I wobbled up to accept my trophy and pose briefly for a photo as someone in the crowd yelled "turn around and bend over".  Everyone under the tent was laughing except me.  Actually, I found it as funny as they did. I was just in too much pain to laugh at that moment.

It was a long and painful ride home. In retrospect, that was certainly among the dumbest things I've ever done.  Interestingly enough however, by the end of the season I won the overall Texas State championship in  my class by only three points over my closest competitor. The trophy was long since donated, but I kept and still occasionally wear the embroidered jacket the Texas State Championship Enduro Circuit gave me.

The Most Stupid Things I've Ever Done

I was sitting in a client's conference room in the midst of pre-meeting smalltalk when a co-worker brought up the Alaskapade and asked when I was leaving.  One of my clients asked what he was talking about and my co-worker pulled up the Alaskapade.com page on the conference room's projection screen.  We had but moments before the meeting kicked off, so there wasn't much time for me to explain.  There was time, however for my client to express his opinion that "this has to be the stupidist thing [I've] ever done".  My first instinct was to argue the purpose for my trip, but this is my customer and IBM probably wouldn't appreciate that.  So, I just grinned, nodded, and bit my lip as the meeting started.

It did get me thinking though.  I know I'm firmly resolved in my purpose for the trip and I also know that I've done many things more stupid than this.  There are too many to list without starting another blog, so I thought I would describe my top three in no particular order.  The first will be posted tomorrow.

Happy 100th Birthday!

The M1911 is 100 years young today.  Thank you John Moses Browning and Colt!

Celebrate it with a bang!

Down 30

I weighed in today at 210 pounds; down thirty from when I first stepped on the scale on December 26th last year.  My goal is still forty/200, but I'm thinking now that I'll surpass that.

To the degree that this could be called a success, I attribute it to one thing: discipline.  I've always been very disciplined in my career and personal aspirations and anyone who knows me knows that when I get into something, I really get  into it.  Some might even say I get obsessive.  I like to think I'm just highly motivated.  

I've been applying the same discipline that I apply for work to my conditioning.  I give my job everything I have. I sweat the details and do everything I can to exceed my clients' and co-workers' expectations.  My diet has been low carb, no sugar, caffeine, or alcohol. My table portions have shrunk to almost half; albeit not consciously.  It's just that my appetite is shrinking along with my gut.  My workout regimen has been strictly cardio since I started and will continue that way until April. I'll start weight training again sometime in April, but I'm aware that the weight loss will drop dramatically once the muscle comes back.

The trick for me has been consistency.  I work out five to six times per week regardless of where I am. I've also found that I can eat right no matter what restaurant I wind up in with my co-workers when I'm on the road on business.  I used to make excuses like "this hotel gym doesn't have my machine" or "I can't eat right at this restaurant, so I may as well indulge."  I've found that I can burn calories and get my heart rate up anywhere and If I can find a low carb, no sugar meal and manage to eat right at Flaco's Tacos with the guys in Chicago, then I can do so anywhere.  My crazy work schedule notwithstanding, I can find an hour to go somewhere and work out 24 hours a day.  I have no excuses.

I apologize if this post comes across as tooting my own horn.  Actually, no; I don't.  I'm proud of myself and I'm motivated to see where I wind up come June.  Maybe I'm just lucky as some say.  Nevertheless, I promised an update when I hit 210 pounds, so here it is.  The jeans I'm wearing in the pic below on the right are a size 38.  I bought them new in October and they were snug around the waist. These days, I'm digging out my size 34 pants and shorts from of the corner of my closet and wearing them comfortably.  An added bonus is that it's been so long that some of my clothes are back in fashion again!  Regardless, I'll hang on to my fat clothes.  Lord knows I'll probably get fat again.  I just hope it's long enough from now that they too will be back in fashion.

Taken 3/18/11 - Not svelte, but no longer the fattest guy in the room

The Movie! It's Coming!

Not the Alaskapade! film.  I'm referring to Atlas Shrugged Part 1.  Appropriately enough, the release date is April 15th. I'm excited about this film on many levels.  I am an avid reader of Ayn Rand's literature and I subscribe to the Objectivist philosophy.  Seeing her seminal work produced in a film worthy of her intentions is very exciting to me. I'm also excited about the negative press the mere existence of the film will generate from people who know nothing about Rand, her philosophy, or the Atlas Shrugged story itself.

I suspect close-minded liberals will be offended the most.  Note that I wrote "close-minded" liberals. I have many politically liberal friends who actually think for themselves.  The liberals I refer to above are the narrow-minded types who refuse to even try to see both sides of an issue before they judge and react.

That said, nothing offends that type of liberal like being forced to look into a mirror and realize for themselves what thinking people have known about them all along.  The mass media will probably trash the film having never even seen it.  Indeed, some of my friends and readers here will probably do the same.  After all, why be burdened the facts?  Many of the uninformed tend to corral Rand into the Republican Party or even worse, that bastion of racist renegades known as the Tea Party.  Rest assured that Rand thought less of the Republican Party than even I do.

Close-minded people always interest me.  I mean, I saw Michael Moore's films.  I watch CNN, CNBC, and Fox News.  I watch Bill Maher and John Stewart now and then.  I even saw Mel Gibson's 2-1/2 hour snuff flick about the death of Jesus.  Unlike most liberals and some conservatives, I am confident enough in my own beliefs to be able to listen to, watch, and ponder  the views of those with whom I philosophically disagree.  I'd like to think that there are liberals who are equally confident, I just haven't met many of them.

Liberal, conservative, libertarian, or whatever; check out the web site for the film, watch the trailers, and go see the movie when it's released in April.  I know that few things embolden me like studying competent work of those with whom I rarely agree and still maintaining the opinion I had before. I rarely read the works of political/philosophical opponents with the expectation of having my thought processes changed.  I read them to know how these people think and if nothing else, strengthen my own argument when the opportunity to debate them arises.  So if you're a Rand hater having read her work or not, accept the challenge and see the movie.  Then hit me up and let's talk about it.  I'm game. Are you?

Like many films of this nature, the initial release is limited.  It may never gain nationwide distribution if certain people have their way.  I suspect it will however, much to the chagrin of the Hollywood elite and the liberal media.

Double Digit Midget

Less than 100 days!

More Reality

When I originally decided it was time to make this trip, my goal was to make it to the Arctic Circle sign, relish the moment, camp for the night on top of the world and then head home.  Since then, as I determined the amount of time I could take and worked out a schedule, I added a trek up the remainder of the Dalton Highway to Prudhoe Bay to the agenda.  It's only 300 more miles each way, but those miles are on some awful and often treacherous terrain. Add to that the fact that the weather becomes less predictable the further north one travels and the possibility of making it riding Hester is pretty slim.  I still have 4,000+ miles to ride to get home and I can't risk unrepairable bike damage.

I started looking at alternatives like renting a motorcycle suitable for that terrain in Fairbanks and riding it up to and back from Prudhoe. There are numerous operations that rent the right kind of bikes, but with the cost and restrictions, those options are slipping away also.  They all rent bikes for about $150 per day, but they demand a four to six day minimum and an additional $300 to $500 fee for riders heading north of the Arctic Circle.  The more I look at the numbers and examine the bottom line, the less feasible it seems that I'll go north of the Circle sign.  Honestly, there's nothing up there to see, but it's as far as anyone can go and I wanted to see it.

I'm a bit bummed, but I know the cash and days saved will allow me to alter my return route to include Deadwood, Devil's Tower, Sturgis, and the Black Hills.  I will still meet my initial objective and that is the most important bottom line.

Drill Baby Drill

 

Well, here we go again with the spring break-into-summer gas gouging.  I anticipated paying excessive prices this June/July in Canada and Alaska, but in Dallas, in March?  This sucks.

Many Americans just nod when our leadership points the finger at Qaddafi, but the reality is we have had no domestic energy policy in the United States for decades.  We sit atop the largest oil supply on the planet and we have the technological means to extract it, but we are held hostage by eco-Nazi extremists and politicians on both sides of the aisle who lack the balls to face them.  Meanwhile, China is completing plans to begin drilling for oil off of Cuba's coast.

Mark my words:  We will be buying our own oil from China in a few years.  The Chinese will drill it from our back yard, store it tankers, and transport it directly to the United States putting our coastal waters at risk instead of their own.  It's a given that they will employ the same ecological oversight and standards they use in their own country - none.  We as a country will be powerless to enforce any ecological standards on them because it's unwise to piss off the lien holder on the trillions of debt we owe.

The age-old argument that drilling now will not make the extracted oil available for years because of shale oil processes and lack of refineries is just that - age old.  We heard that excuse from politicians in the 70's, 80's, 90's, and even the last decade.  Imagine the progress we would have made had we ignored those claims forty, thirty, twenty, or even ten years ago.  We would be independent of of oil from countries hell bent on our destruction, our economy would be stronger, and the middle east would go back to being little more than fodder for glass.

I'm taking my trip regardless of gas prices and am pretty much adjusting my budget on a daily basis.  My goal is to have and spend cash only while I'm gone and take a credit card for emergencies only.  Obviously, I have finite financial resources, but I will find a way. Qaddafi, Obama, Pelosi, Reid, or Boehner won't get in my way.

Freedom of Speech

You may have heard that the Supreme Court ruled yesterday in favor of the Westboro Baptist Church and supported their right to torment the families of our fallen Soldiers at their funerals. I have stood face to face with these people and I know how vile and vapid they can be.  Be that as it may, I admit that I'm really torn on this one.  While I find the Westboro actions repugnant, I believe in the Constitution and I do not subscribe to the theory that the framers couldn't foresee the situations we face today and we therefore need to alter the basic tenants of the Constitution itself.

Nevertheless, the Supreme Court has spoken and freedom of speech has been protected.  While the Westboro people celebrate, they need to remember two things:

1. That freedom goes both ways.
2. There are people out there who will now feel pre-vindicated in their right to take matters in their own hands in terms of silencing the Westboro clan.

I documented my first and other encounters with the Westboro clan as a member of the Patriot Guard Riders back in 2006. Read about it here.

Mama

Just Another Trip - NOT

I travel for work and will typically spend 45 weeks out of the year on the road. These weeks normally begin and end at DFW Airport and often include an additional airport or two in between.  Despite the fact that there are no airports on the Alaskapade, some people still ask me why it's not just another trip. Turns out, there is such a thing as a stupid question.  For me, the Alaskapade is the trip.  I don’t consider my business travel to be an adventure, although if you’ve read some of my other stuff, those trips sometimes turn out that way, usually because of some dim-witted action on my part.  The Alaskapade will be enough of an adventure without my help.  But I digress.

I’ll cover thousands of miles passing through eleven states, four Canadian provinces, and innumerable cities and counties; all having never stepped foot into an airport or on an airplane. The travel machine will have no influence or impact on my itinerary. Listed below are some elements from my typical air travel experiences that I will neither encounter nor miss while I’m on the road in June.

Let’s start in the terminal. I’ll skip the security theater details here as many readers (and apparently the TSA) are aware of my clearly articulated opinions and experiences there.

In the departure lounge:

First of all, It's presumptuous of the airlines to call the gate seating area a departure lounge.  Lounge? Really?  I know they work for the airline, but have they ever had to sit in one of these "lounges"?

Priority Carry-On Bags

Passengers with "Special Bags"

On most flights, all of the gate area seats are taken and many passengers are forced to stand. Still, there are inconsiderate idiots who feel their baggage is so important that it deserves its own seat in the overcrowded departure lounge. Some people actually take up both seats on either side of the one in which they're sitting. I personally don't care because I typically stand while waiting for my flight. I'll have plenty of time to sit when I'm in the air. I just hate seeing older travelers having to stand so some snob's Hartmann bag can sit in a chair.

The boarding stampede

I am as guilty as most when it comes to boarding.  The difference is on American Airlines, I am a Platinum flier and I get to board immediately after the a-holes in first class.  They're only a-holes because they're in first class and I'm not.  If I'm upgraded to first class, then it's perfectly acceptable; even necessary. [I'm claiming writer's prerogative on this one.]  I get a kick out of the people who's boarding pass clearly states GROUP 4, yet they charge the jet bridge and demand to board with the earlier groups anyway.  For the most part, the gate staff do a pretty good job of telling them they must wait. I personally believe there should be a trap door through which these dorks are dropped and then forced to ride in the plane's cargo hold.

People who think that wheels on a suitcase, no matter the size, makes their bag a carry-on 

Need I say more?

Passengers who think the weather gods work for the airline

I get a kick out of pASSsengers who blame the flight attendants, ticket agents, or gate personnel for weather related delays. If these employees' name badges don't say Anemi, Aurae, Boreus, or Zephyrus, chances are they don't possess the power to command the forces of earth, wind, and fire. If they did, do you really think they would wast their time at a job where they have to listen to idiots like you?  These passengers should get the trap door and ride with that dork from GROUP 4.

On the plane:

People who slam their seat back with no consideration for how little space there is behind them

I used to carry a wooden door stop type wedge that would fit into the articulating hinge of the seat back. It was always entertaining to watch the guy in front of me push the button and try to lean back, bouncing back and forth and then finally give up. I could have sold dozens of those little gems to the passengers on my row. I suppose the joke is on me because I forgot it and left it on a plane a few years ago.

People who put small carry-on's in the overhead storage bins

These people must be inbred relatives of the inconsiderate dick who's bag needed its own seat. Overhead storage is to passengers as catnip is to cats.  There's always a frenzy to get some. If the space over my seat is occupied by a bag that would fit under the seat and there's no other space near me, I have no problem pulling it out (the bag), asking who's it is, and placing mine in there. Of course, this is after stuffing my other bag under the seat in front of me. You can't be a hypocrite when you call someone else out, ya know.  They usually whine to the flight attendant, who in turn advises them that it will fit under the seat in front of them.

Captain Quaalude

Bueller?  Bueller?

We’ve all heard the pilot make his announcements during the flight. I always wonder to myself if the s-l-o-w, draaaaaged-out, breathy speeeeech is contrived or if thses guys are really that mellow. Maybe they teach it in airline pilot school. Nevertheless, I get the impression these guys could sleep through an orgasm. No matter what they’re announcing, it’s the same monotone pattern that makes reading the nutritional information on a box of rice more exciting. I sometimes wonder if Ben Stein is my pilot. If I were in the cockpit, I guarantee you the announcement would be more exciting and my passengers would damn sure be paying attention. “Ladies and gentlemen, please ensure your seatbelts are securely fastened. I’m gonna try something.  I saw it in a cartoon once and I’m pretty sure I can pull it off.”

Flight Attendants who make up excuses for having to turn off your electronic devices

Anyone who flies knows there is no technological reason to turn off your electronic devices when the plane is taking off or on approach for landing. The flight attendants should just shrug and acknowledge the rule is bullshit and admit that it's not their rule to break. Personally, I just accept the rule, nod, and like any seasoned passenger, hide my iPod and phone so the flight attendant can't see it. I don't have to hide them from the other passengers. They're too preoccupied hiding theirs to pay attention to me.

Twenty ears ago, I participated in an extensive study for a major airline who wanted to understand the effect of cellular phones on their aircraft systems. After a six-month study, we delivered a New York City phone book sized report with our findings.  Our tests, which were conducted on the ground, in the air, and in hangars, yielded no interference whatsoever to the "sensitive" avionics. The results were not what this AAirline wanted and they subsequently buried the data. At that time, they were selling phone airtime through their GTE AAirfone product.  They were simply protecting their turf and hoped that physics would back them up.  The flying public in general was not sophisticated enough to know any better.

These days, airplanes are externally bombarded from a wide spectrum of frequencies which, by comparison,  relegate mobile phone measurements to negligible at best.  Avionics systems designs have been refined over the last twenty years and can deal with the increasingly pervasive presence of consumer radio frequency devices. Consumers have become too tech savvy to just accept the lame interference line from flight attendants. I wanted an explanation, so I consulted an insider; an industry expert.  My sister has been an American Airlines flight attendant for over 30 years. She admitted that the FAA, the FCC, and the airlines are well aware that there is no interference from consumer devices.  They just want your attention when they take off and land. So in the interest of passenger safety, all Kindle users must power off their reader. However, these same passengers can open a book and immerse themselves, completely ignoring the flight attendant instructions.  Laptops and personal video players must also be powered down before taking off and must remain that way until the flight attendant remembers to announce that "approved" devices are approved for use.  Interestingly enough, the video screens on the airplane continue to run throughout the taxi and take-off without placing the passengers and crew in peril.

The airlines also tell you that personal electronic devices that are Wi-Fi capable are allowed only if the wireless function can be disabled in order to "prevent harmful interference to sensitive aircraft avionics systems".  I find it interesting that I am allowed to enable my wireless functions if I'm paying to use the Wi-Fi system installed on the aircraft.  It's not clear to me if paying the fee makes the avionics less sensitive or if it makes my wireless function interfere less. This is a hypocrisy the airlines don't even bother to try to cover up.

Misbehaving children

When the kid is screaming and kicking my seat from behind, three words come to mind: Flintstone's Chewable Valium.  The flight attendants should be empowered to forcefully dispense heavy doses of Benadryl at my discretion.

The guy who stuffs his oversized carry-on into a bin at row five when he is seated in row 33

I have actually moved people's bags to other rows to the other side of the plane just to screw with their heads.  I've also sat and watched them lose it when they think someone stole their bag. On a crowded Air Canada flight to Winnipeg, I found myself on the last row where I got to enjoy the roar of the jet engine outside my window and the aroma of the lavatory directly behind me. Traveling on airlines other than American with no frequent flier status sucks. But I digress. As I placed my bag in the overhead bin, I also got to enjoy the company of a guy who proudly proclaimed that he put his bags in a front row bin so he wouldn't have to drag them up the aisle when we deplaned. I just nodded and smiled as I took my aisle seat.  When we landed, the flight attendant announced that we would be deplaning from the rear of the aircraft and I thought this guy was going to come unglued. I'm normally one of those people who stands up as soon as allowed when the plane lands so I can stretch and gather my belongings.  This time, I just sat patiently, waited for them to open the rear door, and watched this guy's skin crawl off his back.

Pay for food, Pay for drinks

Pay for your checked baggage

Pay for a blanket

Pay for a pillow

Pay for crappy headphones to watch CBS reruns

The airline can pay to kiss my butt.  I paid enough for my airfare. I never check bags, I bring my own headphones, and I drink water, so those fees are out. I can't imagine paying for one of those disease infested blankets that have been used as snot rags, diapers, and baby wipes by thousands of passengers. And the pillows?  How do you think I tolerate the rock hard cushions that comprise the bottom of the seat.  I would never pay for a pillow that I know people sit on for hours at a time.

The exit row emergency briefing

These days, you need to pretty much be a Navy Seal to qualify to sit in the exit row.  Beyond paying my airfare, now I also have the added responsibility for saving the lives of the passengers around me.  The briefing I usually receive depends on the flight attendant delivering it.  Some are as succinct as "you guys all know the routine, right?" We nod and the attendant walks away.  Others practically read the speech to me and they don't like it if I look away unless I'm holding the aircraft safety briefing card and faking like I'm listening instead of my usual habit of trying to guess their age and cup size.

One one flight, I was the only passenger in any of the ten exit row seats.  The flight attendant, one of the oldest I've ever seen,  practically sat in my lap as she conducted the most thorough exit row briefing I've ever had.  Her instruction included using my right hand to grasp the bottom of the door and my left to turn the latch, how and where to place the door inside the aircraft after I removed it, and where to stand on the wing as I directed exiting passengers to safety after we "land".  Ever the smart ass, I informed her that I was left handed and asked if I should sit on the other side of the aisle.  Her head cocked sideways slightly like Nipper the RCA dog hearing his master's voice. Then I asked her what to do with the door since the exit row seats have immovable arm rests that occupy the space where she had instructed me to place the door after I removed it.  More head cocking.  Finally, I asked her if I was supposed to open all four of the doors since I was the only briefed and qualified passenger on this flight available to do so, and if so, in what order should they be opened?  At this point, she looked like Regan from The Exorcist and her head pretty much did a complete 360.

Look, I've been in a plane crash. Not a commercial airliner; a military transport, but a deadly crash nonetheless. So, I know exactly how I will proceed in the exit row if the situation calls for me to respond.  Left hand, right hand my ass. I will chew the handle off and rip that door off with my bare feet if I have to.  Which door?  The one closest to me and God help any passenger who sits between it and me. The door will wind up wherever the hell I throw it. If we have a water "landing", rest assured the door will wind up in the drink and if it floats, I have a life raft. Finally, any passengers who exit after me (which will be ALL of them) will not need any direction as to where to go because they will see and hear my happy ass paddling away on my floating door.  I think they should let me conduct the exit row briefing.

The dirty doo doo diaper changer

I know babies are necessary. Somebody has to speak for E-Trade and model for diaper commercials. I don't mind traveling near babies as long as they aren't mine. On one flight, a woman on my row actually lifted the arm rest between her window seat and the middle seat where her baby was laying, stripped the kid and changed its runny shit-filled diaper right next to me. I glanced over briefly and it looked like she fed him a green chili sauce burrito from Taco Bell. My eyes were watering so much that my contacts fogged up and I thought I was going to barf. Other passengers were turning to stare at me like I farted and all I could do was hold my nose with one hand and point with the other. Then, she folded and taped the doo doo bomb into a neat little triangle and proceeded to take precious and its diaper bag to the lavatory - leaving the bomb in the seat next to me.  I waited till she was far enough away and then stuffed the diaper into the carry on bag she placed under the middle seat. I suppose she thought the flight attendant took the diaper because when she returned, she didn't ask.

ZZZZZZZ

People who snore loudly

I know I snore occasionally, but I do it in my bed. Passenger snoring can be entertaining for a moment or two, especially when they awaken and look around wondering why everyone suddenly looks away grinning.  After a while, I find myself willing to actually pay for a pillow to stuff down their throat.  Nevertheless, don't snore on my row or you'll wind up on my blog.

People who jump up the instant the plane gets close to the gate

I know when we land at DFW, the trip from the end of the runway to the gate often feels as if we landed in Houston and are taxiing up I-45 to Dallas. And heaven forbid the aircraft arrive five minutes early or we get sent to the nether regions of the airport to sit in time out.  Despite all these usual occurrences, there are always people who jump up and reach for their bags in the overhead. I can hear it coming when their seat belts clank loudly. When the pilot hits the breaks and the idiot falls forward, it takes every ounce of control for me to not laugh out loud.

I could go on and on ad nauseam about this.  Indeed, many of you probably think I already have.  My point is that business travel is far more glamorous to those who don't have to do it than it is for those of us who do.  That said, The Alaskapade will have no dirty diaper babies, nobody telling me how to exit, and nobody snoring; except possibly me. And if that happens, I'll be sleeping alone in my tent and no one will hear me.

10,000 Hits!

Wow!  Too cool, people.  Thanks for reading my babel and for being patient.  The posts should become more trip focused as June approaches. In the meantime, my head remains filled with random fodder that tends to spill out on the blog.  So, I'll keep posting and hopefully you'll keep reading.

I've decided that since Google AdSense refuses to respond to my appeals for reinstatement, I shouldn't give them anymore traffic.  I've tried to see things from their point of view, but I can't get my head that far up my own ass. I'd rather go Galt on them than let them benefit from my efforts.

To that end, Alaskapade.com will be launching shortly...just as soon as I can find the time to figure out the publishing tools provided by my hosting company.  Stay tuned and I'll post my progress and links here.

Security Theater – Act II

Scene One – Marked Man

I was fortunate to spend the holidays and most of January off the road, working from my home office. Chaucer said "all good things must come to an end" and so it was for my working vacation from home.

Yesterday, I was carrying out my usual Monday morning routine negotiating the travel machine at DFW airport. Monday mornings can be a traveler’s hell at DFW with all the business fliers fighting to make their morning departures.  Fortunately, the vast majority of people in the terminal are professional passengers who, like me, fly most every week.  Unfortunately, we pros still have to face the Security Theater shakedown that is the TSA who despite carrying out their routine every day, still appear as coordinated as dogs mating – the two actually doing the work are usually surrounded by a pack of semi-interested observers.

Anyone who knows me knows of my pertinacity. I am not the most patient man on the planet.  When it comes to travel, I have even less patience for rookies.  I know that some people are put off by the existence of elite level traveler “express” lines in airports.  Me?  I’m put off by the fact that rookie travelers aren’t corralled into their own separate terminal.  There, they could wander around slothfully and aimlessly, stand in the middle of the corridors blocking traffic while staring up at the departure/arrival monitors as their kids scream and roll on the floor, argue over the size of their “carry-on” luggage with the ticketing and gate agents, wait till they get to the front of the line to fumble for their ID, and forget that their cell phone, keys, and iPod, all have metal in them as they set off the metal detector over, and over again.

When it comes to passing TSA screening, I am the epitome of efficiency.  George Clooney’s character Ryan Bingham could take lessons from me.  I can doff my shoes and coat, have two bins filled, my pockets emptied, and be waiting to pass through the metal detector faster than President Obama can dream up a new entitlement program for America’s new crop of moochers.  Today was no different. I checked for the departure terminal from my cell phone and rode the parking lot bus to its last stop at my terminal – bypassing the “correct” stop, knowing that the line for screening at the last stop is always the shortest because the rookies usually get impatient and hop off the bus early.  I received my boarding pass on my smartphone last night, so I don’t even need a paper copy.  (That’s as green as I get, people.) I patiently waited my turn in line and then placed my two laptops, coat, and shoes into the plastic bins. I put my watch, phone, and change in one of those little dog food bowls and waited for the TSA agent to wave me through.  That’s when the unthinkable happened.

I set off the metal detector.

I heard the beep and bumptiously ignored it thinking it came from some clueless rookie passing through the detector to my left.  After all, it couldn’t be me.  The TSA agent held up his latex gloved hands in a halt position and proceeded with the usual questions.  I can only image the look of contempt and that unspoken smug expression of “really” on my face.  The conversation went something like this:

“Do you have metal objects in your pockets?”

            “ My pockets are empty.”

“Do you have a cell phone or change in your pockets?”

            “In my pockets that are empty?”

At this point, the TSA guy’s face pretty much matched mine.  It was a smug stare down except he was wearing a badge.

“Back up and proceed through the detector again, slower this time.”

            “Sure.”

The alarm beeped again.  Suddenly, I’m that guy in the airport that I loathe. The people in line behind me were now looking at me like I would have looked at them.  As I looked at their rolling eyes, I felt as if I could hear their thoughts… 

“Retard”, “Douche”, “ROOKIE!”.

I frantically patted myself down in what must have looked like an old time movie being played at fast forward speed, shrugged my shoulders, cursed the metal detector, and then walked forward again.

BEEP

Now I’m silently calling myself a retarded rookie travel douche and vocally questioning the functional integrity of the metal detector.

BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP

As I was descending from low earth orbit, the TSA agent asked me to step into what he called a advanced passenger imaging machine. I call it a radiation chamber and politely refused, requesting an enhanced pat-down instead.  Actually, I wasn’t very polite.

“Why don’t you get one of those guys holding the wall over there up to do the job I pay them to do and just pat me down so I can board and do the job I get paid to do.”

“Come with me, please” said another voice.

Oops.

They patted me down alright.  But they took me into a closet-sized office behind a locked door to do it.  I surrendered my ID (Concealed Handgun License, not my driver’s license; my attitude was still south) and boarding pass as requested.  After the most thorough pat-down I have ever experienced, I was tempted to ask for a note to give my doctor as a credit to bypass my next prostate exam.  Before I left the closet, an apparent agent in civilian attire asked “Is this you?”  Thinking he was talking about my CHL, I replied “yeah, my hair is longer, but that’s me.”  He turned a computer monitor towards me, pointed, and said “No, this one.”  The photo was the one with my INFDEL license plate used as my avatar for this blog. He turned the monitor back before I could read the text near my photo. “Yeah, that’s the same expression you had in line.”  I gotta tell you, my expression was different after that.  I think it’s cool that this blog is approaching 10,000 hits, but this is the kind of attention a frequent traveler like myself does not want.  I'm a marked man.  I’m also assuming this entry will be read too.  No opinions in this one guys; just the facts.

They attempted to re-pack my roller bag, which was full of cables, USB memory sticks, batteries, antennas, and countless old hotel room key cards.  I offered to do it myself stating that there was a method to my apparent mayhem.  They agreed, released me, and I made it to my gate with time to spare.

So what set the alarm off?  Well, that was (gasp) my fault. I almost always carry two challenge coins around with me. One is a symbol from Atlas Shrugged, the other a symbol from my past.  With both of them in the pocket the dress slacks I was wearing, the jingle and clank sound with every step was really loud, so I separated them and stuffed the NSA coin into my back pocket.  I apparently didn’t feel it during my frantic free form rookie retard self-initiated pat down.

I normally pick up a whole wheat muffin for breakfast from one of the DFW airport vendors, but I skipped it today.  After all, I just ate a smorgasbord of humble pie.  I sure hope it was low carb.