Blessed Be Bernoulli!

I hate to fly. I know that statistics show that flying is safer than driving, blah, blah, blah. This is a phobia, and phobias are irrational. So, let's not try to argue with an irrational person, shall we? That would be an utter waste of time. And if I could successfully argue my point of view that sitting in a giant bus with wings hurtling 32,000 feet above the earth's surface is likely to result in a firey, painful death ... well, then you'd be just like me. And what good would that accomplish? So, let's just leave the argument and move forward.

And move forward I did. Yesterday, I boarded a plane for the first time since 1995. I'll give you a moment to point and laugh. OK. All done now? Fine.

My day began at 5:30 a.m. as I sat down to put in a full day's work before leaving for Sacramento. My concentration was periodically interrupted by moments of ever-increasing anxiety. What started out as a lack of appetite, eventually gave birth to butterflies in my stomach, then full-on nausea, which was compounded by the lack of sleep from the night before. No problem! I just didn't eat, whined a little, and soldiered on through the day's work, proud of myself that I was actually organized enough to have finished packing a full 24 hours in advance. Kong and I were finally ready to leave the Monkeys alone by mid afternoon. The Princeling acted as our limo driver. He did a good job of hiding his joy to be well rid of us, except for the ridiculous dance he kept doing, accompanied by shouts of "PAR-TAY!" He booted us to the curb at Philly International and sped off, leaving us and our baggage to Fate's determination.

We were booked on a 6:00 p.m. flight to Sacramento, which gave us about an hour and half to wander the terminal and for me to think about wise Mr. Bernoulli, whose principle I knew would keep me in the air. It turns out, the guy was pretty smart, because we never did crash. I thank you, Mr. Bernoulli.

I was able to manage my anxiety quite well. I didn't scream, cry or panic in any way. But, I must give credit where credit is due. I made it through the 6-hour flight to California completely unmedicated. I had seriously considered having an anesthesiologist fly with me, sitting in the seat next to me and administering a lovely IV concoction straight into my veins during flight. But, as it turns out, none of that was necessary. What got me through the flight, you ask? It was simple distraction. To my unnamed seat neighbor who knew no boundaries of personal space and social decorum, I am indebted.

I had completely forgotten that there is something I hate more than flying itself, and that is flying with other people. Enter the Frizzy-hair Lady.

Moments after Kong and I had stowed our carryon bags, and just as we were about to take our seats, a voice in the aisle caught my attention. I hadn't even had time to look around the tiny cabin and contemplate how my death may occur, when someone said, "Here, put this over there." A woman of about 55, haggard, dry, over-dyed hair with 3-inch gray roots frizzing out of control about her head had thrust a bag of bricks into my hands and told me to, "just put that on my seat."

Why, hello! Nice to meet you, too. I'm so glad I booked this particular flight so that I can serve YOU!

MY mother taught me not to be rude, so I kept my thoughts to myself, smiled, and helped the tyrant with her bag. She then proceeded to lift another larger bag of bricks into the air, attempting to shove it into an overhead compartment. Other, non-rude people helped her complete this task, and un-thanked, they were permitted to pass along the aisle as she turned away from them to climb past us to her window seat.

Despite this awkward start, Frizzy Hair seemed to be friendly enough. Perhaps she was more socially awkward than rude, and I will give her that benefit of the doubt. As she stood in the tiny space in front of her seat, she rifled through her bag, arms akimbo, jarring the poor woman who was sitting in front of her. Frizzy Hair told me that she had been in Europe for some time and was headed home to California. She couldn't decide what she wanted from her bag, pitched it under the seat in front of her, dragged it out again, and rifled through the contents, again. This process was repeated several times. I wondered if she was a nervous flyer as well. "Oh, no! I love flying!" she told me. "I get my best sleep during flights." Good, I thought. You'll be still then.

We chatted a little as she continued the tedious torment of her belongings. A full size pillow emerged. It was covered by a filty pillow case and gave off a faint aroma of stale spittle. Lovely. The woman in front of Frizzy Hair was making a desperate loud phone call to her mother in California. I gathered that she positively hated the weather in Philadelphia. "I don't know, Mother. No. I really don't know. I can't think about it now. Mother... Mother ... No. All I know is that I HAVE TO GET AWAY FROM THIS HUMIDITY!"

Wimp! If the founding fathers could birth a nation in the July heat and humidity of Philadelphia in 1776, how horrible could life be for those of us with access to air conditioning?

The distress of the impatient daughter in front of us spurred Frizzy Hair to begin a conversation about the weather. Yes, I told her. It is often humid in Philadelphia during the summer. Yes. It's been quite hot. Europe was hot, too, she told me. And it'll be hot in Sacramento, as wel.

It's a good thing she told me. Because I might not have been prepared for summer in July.

We endured a brief delay on the runway as planes stacked up a bit due to storms to the west. But, before long, we were screaming toward yet another test of Bernoulli's Principle. I waited for the moment when the increased air pressure beneath the wings would lift us in the air, and darned if it didn't happen just the way it's supposed to!

I opened my book to try shift my attention to the enormous area of nothingness between my feet and terra firma. But, I hadn't completed one paragraph before Frizzle Hair began to arrange herself for an in-flight nap. She began plumping her stinking, dirty pillow, jammed it between herself and the window, then behind her neck, then on her lap, under her arm, back between her and the window, and on and on and on. While she engaged in these upper body calisthenics, she engaged in a lower body workout, as well. She shifted her hips from one side of her seat to the other, then crossed her legs, uncrossed them, slid down in her seat, pushed herself back up, turning from side to side, leaning forward and back in what seemed like painful seizures. I wondered when she might begin that deep sleep she told me she enjoyed during flights.

Finally, she seemed to find a position that suited her, and for a few minutes, I was able to read quietly. But then, as if stabbed in the back, she sat bolt upright, leaned forward and put her head between her knees. I thought she was ill, but apparently, she was only reaching into her bag yet again. After lots of sighing, jabbing, squirming, and yanking, she rose up from her dive with an eye mask in her hand. She gave me a triumphant thwap on my shoulder, smiled and rose her mask in the air. "I couldn't sleep without this!" She slid the mask over her eyes while I stared at her dumbfounded. She began her squirming again as she readjusted her positioning. I continued to stare, and safe in the knowledge that she couldn't see me, I childishly stuck out my tongue at her and crossed my eyes.

I returned to my book as her thrashing subsided. She finally found a comfortable position and lay there unmoving, eyes covered, head smashed into her foul pillow which was jammed against the cabin wall. Her body was contorted into a serpentine shape, arms bent up close to her chest in something like the pose of the rotting corpse of a long dead T-Rex. Her mouth hung open and the loose folds of skin under chin gently shook with each tiny rumble of the jet. She was still.

And I would have been happy with this situation, had it not been for the forgotten armrest. An armrest on a plane is not just for supporting one's forearm in a comfortable positon. It is a boundary which defines personal space, equivalent to yellow crime scene tape. I had haplessly forgotten to lower the armrest when I claimed my seat at boarding. Now, with no boundary between us, Frizzle Hair's comfortable sleeping position included about 3 inches of my own seat. In her Jurassic fetal position, her butt was now pressed against my left hip and thigh. I was not happy. But, if I woke her to lower the armrest, I'd have to endure another 20 minutes of thrashing. I decided to let that sleeping dog lie, and instead sidled over a bit close to Kong, as we had quite appropriately left the space between us un-armrested.

True to her word, Frizzle Hair did indeed sleep well. She barely moved. She paid no attention to announcements from the captain about turbulence ahead and completely slept through the drinks and snacks served by the flight attendants. I tried to doze, as well, but I have never been able to sleep in an upright position. I was, however, settled in for the flight, and was thankful that all of Miss Frizzle Hair's contortions had kept my mind off the actual flying. I was sure I could endure the rest of the flight.

At about the 3-hour mark, however, she stirred and awoke. Now bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, she smiled at me and chatted about the sorts of things strangers on planes talk about. Where we were from, where we were going, the weather, etc. In short, we completely repeated the conversation we had when we first boarded the plane. Three or four times we repeated the conversation, in fact. Only now she seemed distracted. She wanted water but had slept through the beverage cart. She started to turn and twist in order to get a view down the aisle. She was searching for a flight attendant. When finally she was able to flag someone down, she grabbed an empty plastic water bottle from her stash of goodies below her feet and thrust it quickly across the 2 inches of air space directly in front of my nose. She didn't really say anything. She just jammed this empty bottle toward the attendant, who thinking that Frizzle Hair was simply passing along some trash for collection, took the bottle, smiled, and trotted off down toward the front of the plane. Frizzle Hair leaned back in her seat, but after just a minute or two, she lurched forward and pushed her hand into my left shoulder, and exclaimed, "Oh, no!"

"What? What?" I asked, thinking that perhaps she had seen a gremlin on the wing of the jet just outside her window.

"She thought that bottle was trash!"

"Excuse me?" I wondered what she was talking about. In rapid succession, thoughts fired through my brain. Bottle? Trash? Why did you hit me? Is this the person I'll be sitting next to when I die?

"I gave the stewardess my bottle. She thought it was trash. I wanted her to fill it with water."

Oh, Dear Lord, I thought. She began twisting and turning again, waving for help like a woman stranded on the side of the road. A flight attendant came over, and Frizzle Hair began a long story. "It may have been you or one of the other people, but I gave my bottle to someone and I wanted water. But they took it, and I think they thought it was trash. But I wanted some water. Was that you? Do you know who it was?"

She repeated these statements several times, until the patient flight attendant assured Frizzle Hair that she would bring her some water. Which, thankfully, was done very quickly. With water and ice in place, Frizzle Hair appeared content. She pulled down her tray, got out some reading materials, and I retrieved my iPod in an attempt to shut out her and the noise of the jet engines. A headache was beginning just behind my left eye. Coincidentally, this was the eye closest to Frizzle Hair.

My iPod did not deter her, however. She turned and spoke to me several times. Once or twice, she wanted to recap the empty-water-bottle-mistaken-as-trash story. Then, she wanted to tell me abot the weather again. I will give her credit, however, for only getting up to walk to the bathroom once.

We were now 4 hours into the flight. With my headache growing, I focused on the relatively brief amount of in-air time ahead of me. It looked like I was going to make it through this trip alive. Frizzle Hair decided to try to sleep again. She started to seize again, as she twisted, turned, adjusted, re-molded her odiferous pillow. Before settling into a satisfactory position, she hip checked me once more, and I shoved back a little. I heard her mumble, "Sorry."

All would have been well, if she had stayed like that for another hour and a half. But that was not to be. She had one last trick in her bag to distract me from my troublesome thoughts of crashing that would rise to the front of my brain every few minutes or so. Just when my headache was building to a crescendo, just when I thought I was about to lose it, she startled herself to wakefulness, nose-dived between her knees, reaching into her bag for a good rummage. She emerged with a bottle of Purell and very nonchalantly squeezed a good sized portion into her right hand, and then reaching across her body to her left side, I wasn't quite sure, but I thought perhaps, she was smearing the stuff under her left arm. In a second or two, she squeezed another good sized portion into her left hand and then left no doubt in my mind that yes, indeed, she was cleaning her armpits with Purell.

I felt violently ill. I spied the sick bag poking out of the pocket in the back of the seat in front of me. It was comforting to know that the little white bag was so close to me. I would not have to spew into Kong's lap. I twisted away from her and buried my head in his shoulder. I didn't know whether to moan or laugh. I checked my watch and saw that we had about 45 minutes left to the flight. Thank you, Scientist Bernoulli! Thank you. I was sure we'd make it through alive!

We began our descent into Sacramento. I tried not to think of the words of a good friend, a former pilot, who once told me that landing a plane was nothing more than a controlled crash. I listened to my breathing as I tried not to listen to the rattle of landing gear, the changing sound of the jet engines, and felt the stomach-lifting drop of the plane onto the runway. Made it! Oh, joy of joys! I survived the flight AND Frizzle Hair.

I smiled at her as we gathered our things, said good-bye and wished her well. She had served a purpose. Her annoying behavior had kept my mind off my fear. I have survived, and am settled into California.

Check back later for updates from the track meet. Chuck is scheduled to run in the M50 800 meters this afternoon.