Maudie at PokerWorks

I have great parking karma. In fact, if one were inclined to wager on my ability to land prime parking spots, one might do very well indeed. However, when my karma goes bad, it goes real bad. If the prime spot isn’t mine to have, then you can be sure I’ll be relegated to the wilderness of parking spots at the end of the parking lot universe.

However, for the Philly/AC trip, my parking karma at my airport was in fine form. I landed a spot on first level, first row, with a short walk to the terminal, up the escalator and showing my boarding pass and ID in less than five minutes.

My airport karma, on the other hand, sucks.

As the airplane sat idling on the tarmac in OKC I glanced at my itinerary to confirm my connection time in Detroit. I had a 9:35 arrival time with a 10:15 departure time. Forty minutes. Well, thirty to thirty five in actuality. That was now being cut even shorter as we waited for the almighty computers to tell the pilot he could get that bird in the air. Twenty minutes is the standard “you’ll be fine” connection time.

When our plane finally taxied to the runway, my hope was that we’d be making up some time. My anxiety kicked up a notch, though, and wasn’t eased by the fact my seat was at the back of the bus.

I pulled out the Northwest magazine to get a view of the Detroit airport layout. My boarding pass listed the arrival gate and the departure gate. From what I could tell, and what came as absolutely no surprise, we would be landing at one terminal and my departure was at another. A tunnel, approximately thirty miles to the end of the world terminal and less than optimum time to get there.

I stuffed the magazine back into it’s pouch and did the only thing I could do at that point. I pulled out my iPhone and watched a movie. Lovely little gadget that iPhone…

As we descended into Detroit, I steeled myself for the sprint. The airport map offered little information regarding trams. They were there, but there was no guidance as how to access them. Once at our arrival gate, of course it took forever for the deplaning to begin. When I hit the gangway, I launched into my stride - pausing briefly to confirm gate numbers at the monitors.

I breezed to the left and then to the right, down an escalator into a blue tunnel. The people transport tread mill thing sped me up as I headed toward the end of the tunnel and up another escalator. I came out at Gate 38. My destination was Gate 76. Thirty-eight gates to traverse.

I spied a directory for the tram, but there was no immediate cognitive connection as to how to get to it. I didn’t have time to figure it out. I had minutes to get to the end of the terminal.

I like to travel in comfort. I am careful to select clothing and shoes that will not bunch, ride, scratch or irritate, or cause blisters. Hence I was wearing the lovely shoes at the right (no doubt that gasp you heard was a certain California chic who eschews all things Croc related….). The shoes are, indeed, very comfortable, but I was soon to learn they are not built for speed.

My bag trailed loudly behind me - really loudly behind me - announcing my presence to any and all in front of me on the people movers. It echoed my irritation with each scrape across the corrugated metal at the beginning and end of each stretch of moving tread.

I stumbled slightly once, twice - marched on at the quickest pace my way too out of shape body would allow. Then between gates sixty-three and sixty-four, I stumbled again, again, and…

I know it sounds cliched, but a look back at the moment, it’s surrealistically in slow motion. There was a precise moment when I knew I would not be able to regain my footing and prepared my body for a hard landing. I let go of my bag, hands went forward, elbows crashed into marble, or concrete or whatever… my face met the floor and I felt my tooth bang hard. I immediately thought I’d broken it. Strangely, it was intact. Even more strangely, my head did not hurt.

Four or five people came to my aid. I know I was in a bit of shock, but I immediately picked myself up, did a quick inventory - I knew that any injuries would not be immediately known. Not until the adrelinine subsided would the real pain begin. I thanked the folks, mumbled something about being in a rush and went on my way, leaving behind a few layers of my DNA on the Detroit airport terminal floor.

I reached the gate, empty of passengers with two flight attendants behind the counter. The door was still open so I knew I’d be okay. I presented my passport and boarded. And, yeah, my seat was at the back of the bus once again.

It was when I stowed my bag that I saw my thumb was bleeding, badly bruised and swelling. I made my way to the front and asked for some ice. I was afraid it was broken. The only clue I had that it wasn’t broken was the fact I wasn’t queasy or near to passing out.

I had enough time to send a text to BG. “Is there a bone Dr. in Philly?” Of course, that sent him into a panic and he immediately called me. You see, he thought I meant a cancer bone doctor and the Gracie had been diagnosed with cancer and… well, there’s no logic to panic. I apologized profusely and explained.

So there I was, nursing my swelling and bleeding thumb, my elbows and knees informing me of their injuries on a plane finally to Philly wondering again if this was another omen… For a graphical idea of the sprint, click the image below.

This entry was posted on Thursday, September 6th, 2007 at 10:56 pm and is filed under Poker.