I started taking flying lessons this week. Being in the Bay Area, a little extra care was in order to choose a place to learn that didn't have me dodging jets half the time. I did some research on flight schools, emailed a pilot I used to work with for suggestions, asked around and settled on going out of Livermore Muncipal Airport -- relatively good weather, just outside the busy air traffic area and has a school with the required quirk factor.
And actually, to be most correct, I started taking flying lessons about 17 years ago. I just ran out of money when I was young and dumb (dumber?). So, I took 17 years...off...to...think about it. Or something.
I'm learning in a Cessna 152. Now, I'm 6'4" and my flight instructor is about 6'2". However, the inside of a 152 is much more suited to Tom Cruise and the creepy lady from Poltergeist. We literally have to fold ourselves into the plane and then unfold ourselves out. Human origami. Hope no one has a camera.
The other thing about where I'm learning is that it's a school that specializes in unusual training -- quirk. For instance, I'm in a Cessna 152, which is about as basic a plane as you can find...but this particular version is modified to do aerobatics. That was made crystal clear when my instructor showed me the red handles dangling near each door. He told me not to pull them because they make the doors instantly fall off. "A few of the guys like to wear parachutes while doing some unusual things in this plane," he said.
Well, okay then.
So, lesson #1 was a blast. Lesson #2 coming up tomorrow.
I will try not to pull the red handles.
Why is it when people talk on their cell phones in public places, they feel as though they are sitting in their own sound proof living room? This guy was sitting next to me at the Las Vegas airport the other day. I was tired, on my way home from a work trip (in Denver, not Vegas -- Vegas was just a stopover. Too bad) and wanted to punch him when he took out his phone and started talking...loudly.
Instead of punching I decided it would be great sport to see if I could break out my Treo and video Mr. Annoying Businessman sitting right next to me without him knowing. All so I could show you, my loyal reader(s), just how effing annoying this guy was. Please note how clearly you can hear him. And that's through a crappy Treo microphone. The video is short and doesn't do the experience justice. Hope you get the idea.
I may need to start a blog dedicated entirely to BART. Yogi here, was part of my ride home tonight.
And yes, that's my shoe.
If I were to choose a place to play my trumpet, a cramped BART car during my evening commute would perhaps not make the list. This fellow, however, had other thoughts.
It's been a tough week.
So, I've been doing various things to make sure I take care of myself mentally and physically. This morning I thought it was a good time to start running again. So, I strapped on my trusty Nike Air (classic, but still my favorites) shoes and dressed for the second mile.
San Francisco is not a place built for novice joggers. In addition to being terribly out of shape, I found myself struggling up hills that would be better suited for rock climbing gear than my pitifully equipped running shoes. Then, you crest the hill, breathe a quick sigh of relief/victory, only to have to hold on for dear life as you try not to let your rubbery legs buckle beneath you as you amble down a grade equal to the one you just climbed. I shortly looked for a place to stop running, but it was breakfast time and I was now in an area with shops and bakeries. I couldn't possibly let these bacon-eating breakfast diners see me quit, so I forged on, trying not to show the fire that was in my chest and the rubber that was my legs, quite certain that I would collapse at any moment. Then, sweet salvation.
A couple in a little green Miata pulled over and beckoned the struggling jogger to the car. They needed directions. Now, a Miata is a small car, so instead of just leaning over, I took the opportunity to kneel next to them. Ahhhhh. They asked me how to get to the 101 (In Northern California, we just say "101," but they said "the" so, obviously they weren't from around here. But I digress.), which is an answer I knew, but enjoying my kneeling respite, I drew out the conversation as along as possible. Just long enough to get wind back in my lungs so I could run the next couple blocks until I was safely out of the sightline of the breakfast-eating public. I finally stopped jogging in front of a homeless guy who I think was sleeping in this morning.
I walked the remaining few blocks home. All in all, though, I was feeling pretty good about myself. I had exercised, for oh, probably a good hour. I had conquered at least one hill. I had helped the tourists. I was triumphant.
I struggled up the steps to my flat. Never had the steps seemed this daunting. Coughing profusely (can one cough profusely?) I stagger into an area where I can sit. I sit down coughing and wheezing, look up at the clock.
I had been gone 15 minutes.
