How Did I Get Here?

Wednesday

Quote of the Day: “I bought a doughnut and they gave me a receipt for the doughnut…I don’t need a receipt for the doughnut – I give you money and you give me the doughnut, end of transaction. We don’t need to bring ink and paper into this. I can’t imagine a scenario that I would have to prove that I bought a doughnut. To some skeptical friend, ‘Don’t even act like I didn’t buy a doughnut, I’ve got the documentation right here.’”

(Sir Phil in the wild)

The adventure began by taking my kids to school and then going over to Sir Phil’s house. So far, not all that adventurous, I know. It gets better.

After my now-requisite stop at Starbucks (hello, venti mocha), we headed to the airport where nothing much happened except the first time I had ever NOT checked bags. It was strange just going to the gate with a backpack and a small suitcase on rollers. I didn’t even have a computer so of course, I was shaking and pretty sure crapped my pants before we boarded.

My first (of many) service-related problems of the trip manifested itself when I realized that for some alien reason, I didn’t have my requested aisle seat. In fact, I was assigned a middle seat which I just KNEW I would be between Two-Ton Tina and Bubba Garlicioni.

As polite as I could, I asked the service agent about this and no matter how carefully I asked, I knew by the “I Hate You” look in her eyes that I had little chance of changing this. Like a retard, I tried to make small talk, politely questioning why they would have changed this since I was certain that I made triple-sure I requested aisle seats for me and Sir Phil. I was informed in the passive-aggressive manner ticket agents are tested on in Asshole School that they do not change seats so the logical reason is that I had not requested aisle seats. I couldn’t exactly contest the point since I needed her to change it.

The only thing she could do is try to change my seat but since she put me behind 5 other tickets that had asked the same thing, I knew I had little hope.

Now I had zone 5, also known as “The Zone Where Overhead Space For Your Carry-Ons Is A Misty Memory” so it was bad enough that I had to wait until every other schmuck boarded but now I was being held hostage (not a good term to use at the gate) by Miss Passive-Aggressive who had my ticket, knowing there was a better chance of Star Jones getting a top slot on my TiVo auto-record than me getting an aisle seat.

So now I had to let all the Zone-6 asswipes get on the plane and take the micro-spaces left in the overhead bins.

Finally she called my name and with a smile borne more of her inability to help me, she said she couldn’t and gave me my ticket.

I’m like a ninja when it comes to getting to my seat, getting settled, and getting out of the way. I have each move mentally rehearsed and I execute them like a cat so therefore it annoys me to the nth degree when others seem to have a total and complete oblivious attitude when they hold their cellphone to their ear with one shoulder, hoist up their luggage in the overhead bin, settle their other bag in their seat while rummaging through it for what they will need for the trip, stand up and take off their jacket to neatly fold it and put it in the bin, pull DOWN their luggage because they forgot something, etc, etc, etc.

This is why I couldn’t be a Sky Marshall. I’d be using that gun, folks.

BAM. BAM. BAM!!! (Two in the chest, one in the head, heave the body to the window seat.)

I ended up with seat 2 of 4 from the aisle and was lucky enough to have a couple sitting to my left. The attractive (and, thank God, slim) woman sat next to me and not only would my general gentlemanly nature prevent me from ogling her, her very large husband sitting in the window seat made this much easier. I imagined him screaming “NERD!” with that animalistic scowl if my eyes even started to drift toward his bride.

On the other side was older lady whose dimensions kept her within the confines of her set. OK, not too bad. Even Sir Phil (who somehow DID end up with an aisle seat) had a person of normal dimensions next to him but next to the window …. whoa Nellie. And I’m not being mean (or at least exaggerating) because Orca needed a seatbelt extender. Oh yes he did. When he sweated his way past the others touching every available surface near him with masses of protruding body padding, I clamped my hand down on Sir Phil’s shoulder and the unspoken sympathy was communicated.

The plane was a 757 so the flight was smooth. I didn’t scream like a little girl (at least out loud) and the layover in Dallas was topped by a duo of bean burritos for only 99 cents each. Yeah, not exactly the dietary powerhouse you’ll read about in Runner’s World but Sir Phil was already having a bad influence on me. It’s a staple for him and since the “meals” were starting at about $5, the cheap burrito approach seemed almost obligated.

When we landed in Vegas, I started getting excited because I missed the desert after a year and was excited to see it again. And see it we did.

You see, Sir Phil sees no reason to rent a car in Vegas. We got there today (Wednesday), we will walk around tomorrow (Thursday) and leave for Lone Pine on Friday morning. Therefore, in Sir Phil logic, why rent a car until Friday morning? I have to admit this is pretty solid logic especially considering that the sole reason to fly into Vegas for Sir Phil is to do a whole lot of walking before the marathon. Combine that with the fact that neither one of us gamble and you get a strange set of mental processes from the two of us.

“You are going to Vegas but you don’t gamble? So you go there to walk? A lot? Before a marathon?”

Oh, plus we are both too cheap to actually pay money to see a show so yeah, we go to Vegas to do nothing but walk and eat.

Last year, Sir Phil was violently offended when he paid $8 to get shuttled from the airport to the HoJo, seeing how it was about a two-minute ride. It naturally follows that he wasn’t going to pay that this year and we could walk.

Yes, walk from the AIRPORT to our motel, luggage in tow.

It was farther than he thought but not so far as to be ridiculous. Since I only had a backpack and a small carry-on, and considering we were there (in Sir Phil’s world) to walk the Vegas walk, the adventure was only tainted by a couple of harrowing crossings of places where the airport designers never dreamed pedestrians would try to negotiate. That and a couple of raw desert portions and my imagination telling me people were pointing and laughing at our cheapassedness©. Good thing it was only in the mid-70s.

This wasn’t unprecedented because often I will pick a parking spot at the far end of a parking lot, not because I’m an ass who has to protect the paint job on my car like my daughter’s virginity but because I am there to shop. And what do I do when I shop? I walk. So why should I spend 20 minutes of roaming around in my car to save 40 seconds of walking when I’m going to spend the next hour or so walking anyway?

Sorry for the tangent, I just thought this post was not going to be long enough.

But along the way, we talked about the possibility that we may be the only people ever to walk from Vegas airport to their motel… voluntarily. We waxed philosophical over the novelty of being transported via plane and going right to foot to get to our destination. When does this EVER happen?

Being incurable creatures of habit, we stayed at the same Howard Johnson dive as last year. If you look up this place on the travel websites where people can rate them, you will see this particular one is somewhere between the Little Shop Of Horrors and skid row. It really does have bad service and Sir Phil has the patience of a crack whore in rehab so you can piece together the scene.

We were there to walk so we started out by reconnoitering the places we knew we would be frequenting which happened to be in the exact opposite direction as the strip. You see, Sir Phil and I like to hit the non-tourist areas because they are always cheaper. We happened to be near the UNLV campus so the college “Ave” area provided us with endless fast food joints.

We settled on Pizza Hut for no particular reason, other than Sir Phil knew he would be getting his fill of mucho macho burritos from the newly built Del Taco nearby. He was ecstatic about this because to him, these burritos are like crack to the aforementioned crack whore. He could live on both their mucho macho “rolled up phonebook” burrito as well as the breakfast version which is like a blanket around 17 Denny’s meatlover super slams.

We actually had good service from a pudgy bald guy who really seemed to want us to have a pleasant dining experience. I mention this only because it was so out of the ordinary. We thoroughly enjoyed the wilted, dried out salad bar that looked like it had been out all night on prom night and the excuse for pizza that The Hut offers.

After that, it was off to the strip where our dedication to walking was epic. We saw what there was to see in Vegas: the big architectural marvels, the immigrants offering porn by the flick of their cards (I guess they are not allowed to speak so they get your attention by flicking their cards and holding the porn flyers in front of you), and of course, the hookers.

After a day of traveling, a gut full of pizza, and many hours of walking, I was about done. I was still worried because my legs and feet STILL hurt from my long run last weekend. My right hamstring was also talking to me and I prayed that it would heal itself before the race on Saturday.

On the way back to the motel, we stopped to get some water at a Walgreens where I found the best deal and the savior of my experience: an Icee. For only $1.50 I got a huge cherry and cola Icee that tasted pretty much like the best thing this side of heaven. I couldn’t believe how good this tasted and thought I had found the best hidden secret of the strip, seeing how something that good should be about $10 in Vegas World.

The walk back to the motel was bad but not as bad as last year. I don’t exactly subscribe to Sir Phil’s walking philosophy but I had to admit that we did it last year and I had felt worse at this point and it had resulted in my best time ever at the race.

Phase one complete. We were in Vegas, had a motel, and were ready for our one-day adventure in Sin City, minus the sin of course. For us, what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas only because it isn’t interesting enough to share. But I appreciate your patience for my indulgence.

Free Advice for Today: “Life is short. Eat more pancakes and fewer rice cakes.”