I only fly once or twice a year. This time it was for a family memorial service in the Midwest. Tuesday thunderstorms over Denver delayed both the landing of the first leg and the taking off of the second leg of the trip.
On my return trip through Denver, we arrived early, but the plane had no gate. I already had a short layover time, so watching the minutes tick by, still with no gate, was stressful. The purser assured us going to SF that our connecting flight was only 10 gates away, 37A to 47A. Then the gate was changed to 8A, meaning I now had 38 gates to pass before getting to the right one.
My next flight was boarding and we were still waiting for the ramp crew to arrive before the flight attendants could open the door.
“I’m not going to make it!” I said.
People actually let us 10 connecting flight people out, and I was in row 25, so that as a nice thing they did for us.
I told the United employee that I needed a ride, that 39 gates was too far for someone who was turning 70 in two weeks. She said that they were holding the plane for the five of us, and that it would take too long to procure me a ride.
So I started running, or as fast as a 70 year old can go. I got on those slow-moving conveyor belts and ran until I got close to stepping off. Then I had to slow down to make sure I didn’t go flying when my boots hit the carpet.
Then I hurried, weaving through the people going slower because their layovers weren’t as tight (or as nonexistent) as mine.
Did I mention that I had drunk a whole can of ginger ale? Time to stop in the bathroom? Nope.
When I got to gate 23, I figured I was halfway there and started grunting, while panting, while running. I kept on, announcing my arrival to a woman who was on the conveyor belt, dead center, swaying side to side and definitely in my way.
“On your right!” I said as I pushed on by.
Another conveyor belt, another readjusting the bag and water bottle in my arms, and now I could see the gates in the 40s.
I was sure I would be dead last, and I was.
“I’m here!” I said as I rounded Gate 47.
“Last name!” a United employee barked.
“Boarding pass!” another employee barked.
I’d gotten so many texts from United that it was hard to find the boarding pass on my phone.
“ID!” the employee barked. “Ma’am, we really need to shut the door.”
I fought with my laptop bag where I had tucked my passport (no real I.D.).
I showed her the I.D., forgot about my water bottle and hurried down the ramp. No boarding pass needed.
And then the stares of 223 people, already in their seats, waiting for the last slow passenger, a nearly 70 year old woman who was panting and sweating and hurrying down the center aisle, to the near-back of the plane to row 35, where I had the window seat. Now a large Indian man and another large man had to get up so I could sit down.
Wow! I made it. No one was more surprised than me.
My heart was pounding. It was sort of like a treadmill stress test what I’d just done. My cardiologist would be proud. I wanted a drink of water, but my water bottle was back at the gate.
A willing sacrifice for making my flight.
FIRST DATE, WORST DATE EVER! 