There's nothing quite as satisfying as throwing out everything you own...To take a flying leap into the unknown and to trust the collective goodwill of the universe to catch your fall...To go from a cramped and cluttered room to the radical simplicity of a bicycle is to become light and unencumbered.
...Or at least that's what I thought before I had to get my boxed-up bike to the airport this morning.
Seatac Airport is about 40 minutes from the city of Seattle as the taxi drives, and that's exactly how much time I gave myself this morning to get there. As I awoke, bleary-eyed and disoriented on the carpeted floor of my friend Joseph's dorm room, I called my local yellow cab and requested a large vehicle to give me a ride to the airport. No problems. The operator told me to wait ten minutes and they'd send someone over. I dragged my bike-box around a bit, just to be ready. It started to rain. A bird chirped.
When the tiny yellow sedan that was to be my taxi pulled up, I immediately realized there'd been a massive error in scale, confirmed by the look of terror in the eyes of the elderly man who sat behind the wheel. For the lonesome early-morning cabbie this bike box seemed to represent the ultimate challenge: The Sword-in-the-Stone™ of professional drivers; the grand stage on which this budding master had been born to perform. He grunted and bellowed magestically as he made valiant efforts. Feats of strength drew forth sweat beads on his wrinkled forehead. It was a massive effort, but ultimately one that proved fruitless. The box was dragged some more, and at last came to rest, right where it began.
Apologies were exchanged, and my noble cabbie drove onward into the morning, leaving me again to contemplate my situation. A different bird chirped as I called the cab company, sweat now appearing on my brow as I began to worry that I would miss my flight. The same woman who had referred me the first time picked up again, this time livid that I had failed to take the first cab.There may have been some angry words exchanged. At the end of the call, it was becoming apparent that I stood a decent risk of missing my flight, and survival mode kicked in. I called in some favors. Some fell through. Arrangements were made. The massively heavy box was dragged back and forth along the dampening sidewalk as I paced. Even one box seems pretty restrictive when you need to take a cab.
At last, my friend Kyle agreed to drive me to the airport in his beat-up 2-wheel drive 4-runner, and we piled into the front seat. I ate a sandwich from a vietnamese deli down the street from my school, and finally felt what I'd anticipated in the morning: Delicious, delicious freedom. When at last I made it to the airport, my box finally scraped out its last desperate sounds on the soggy ground, and I walked through security unencumbered.
. Anyway, greetings from Seatac, and now I have to get on the plane to Iceland.
...Or at least that's what I thought before I had to get my boxed-up bike to the airport this morning.
Seatac Airport is about 40 minutes from the city of Seattle as the taxi drives, and that's exactly how much time I gave myself this morning to get there. As I awoke, bleary-eyed and disoriented on the carpeted floor of my friend Joseph's dorm room, I called my local yellow cab and requested a large vehicle to give me a ride to the airport. No problems. The operator told me to wait ten minutes and they'd send someone over. I dragged my bike-box around a bit, just to be ready. It started to rain. A bird chirped.
When the tiny yellow sedan that was to be my taxi pulled up, I immediately realized there'd been a massive error in scale, confirmed by the look of terror in the eyes of the elderly man who sat behind the wheel. For the lonesome early-morning cabbie this bike box seemed to represent the ultimate challenge: The Sword-in-the-Stone™ of professional drivers; the grand stage on which this budding master had been born to perform. He grunted and bellowed magestically as he made valiant efforts. Feats of strength drew forth sweat beads on his wrinkled forehead. It was a massive effort, but ultimately one that proved fruitless. The box was dragged some more, and at last came to rest, right where it began.
Apologies were exchanged, and my noble cabbie drove onward into the morning, leaving me again to contemplate my situation. A different bird chirped as I called the cab company, sweat now appearing on my brow as I began to worry that I would miss my flight. The same woman who had referred me the first time picked up again, this time livid that I had failed to take the first cab.There may have been some angry words exchanged. At the end of the call, it was becoming apparent that I stood a decent risk of missing my flight, and survival mode kicked in. I called in some favors. Some fell through. Arrangements were made. The massively heavy box was dragged back and forth along the dampening sidewalk as I paced. Even one box seems pretty restrictive when you need to take a cab.
At last, my friend Kyle agreed to drive me to the airport in his beat-up 2-wheel drive 4-runner, and we piled into the front seat. I ate a sandwich from a vietnamese deli down the street from my school, and finally felt what I'd anticipated in the morning: Delicious, delicious freedom. When at last I made it to the airport, my box finally scraped out its last desperate sounds on the soggy ground, and I walked through security unencumbered.
. Anyway, greetings from Seatac, and now I have to get on the plane to Iceland.
Only got 3 hours of sleep because of you, but it was worth it. - Chris
ReplyDeleteCongratulations on getting started! I have faith that you will have an adventuresome time.
DeleteI hope your bike box didn't rip apart in its soggy state!
ReplyDeleteAs you are apparently equally gifted with chunking the word-things into interesting phrases as your two companions are, I look forward with anticipation to your next syllables. I hope your trip over was uneventful and snag-free, after the tussel with the taxi.
ReplyDelete(Aunt Mandy....Beth's sister)