BOS and IAH: The Boston Marathon

When talking or learning about public speaking, the human stress response gets a lot of crap. “Fight or flight was designed for ensuring the survival of humans in a world where tigers are a real problem,” we are told. It’s not so great for modern life, where the body still believes that standing up in front of a room and giving a talk is the same kind of problem as being chased by a tiger.

However when it came to the super-modern problem of making a tight flight connection, I found the stress response to be perfectly suited to my needs.

I finally managed to get out of SFO on a red-eye to Boston, facilitated by a rapid e-mail exchange with my brother who very patiently explained to me that yes, this was a good way of securing both a night of sleep and a way of getting out of the aiport. I was out cold long before we took off, and saw no stars over the course of the night until just before landing when I woke up and blearily saw the sun in the distance and the morning star hanging heavy in the sky, alone. It was very evocative, but I didn’t get to think long about it. I had a 29-minute connection in Boston to try and get myself to Houston, and then back to DC, where a shower awaited me. As soon as the seatbelt sign went off I was up, had my suitcase, and elbowed my way to the front of the plane to wait for the door to open. We’d landed 7 minutes early, and I was probably going to need them.

Standing in first class, clutching my suitcase, my stockinged legs quivered with anticipation of the trial they would soon be subjected to. As soon as the first couple rows shuffled blearily off onto the gangway, I sprang into action, dodging the few people in my way and sprinting into the terminal. Despite a marked lack of tigers.

The obstacles were mighty. I’d arrived at the C gates and was shooting for the A gates, which involved a trip through security and what felt like miles of moving walkways. I knew I could get pretty far in half an hour though, even dragging a suitcase behind me. I made the entire journey, including security (which I was ushered through when the TSA staff noticed me nervously checking my watch), in 20 minutes. I may never know exactly how far I ran, but it felt like a good workout.

Houston airport (IAH) is full of wonders, but I did not sample them on this trip.

When the previous flight was delayed I stowed my chucks and put my boots back on, preparing for a few hours of exploring the George Bush International Airport. There would be no running this time. I was out of luck, and I could afford to look good while I wandered, right? I paused to Instagram the plane I’d just gotten off of, and had a look at the departures board. I poked at my phone to see what, if anything, I was in the queue for.

I didn’t see the reservation for UA428 in my mobile app, and hadn’t thought I was booked in. When I found a power outlet and booted my laptop to try and salvage my itinerary, I found I had indeed been confirmed, and the flight was leaving in fifteen minutes. Two terminals away.

Uber has noted that while humans are well designed for running, we are deeply opposed to actually taking advantage of the fact.

I debated. I walked a few steps then stopped. I looked around longingly at the airport. The primary site of interest was a sports bar. I despaired for a moment, but tried to make the most of it. “Houston is where the space centre is,” I thought with desperate interest. “I’ve never done Texas and I could make this an adventure. I could rent a car and drive to New Orleans. I could…ask this nice looking young man at the hot dog stand how far it is to the C gates.”

I don’t know what he must have thought. Before him stood a smelly, wild-haired, crazy-eyed woman with a laptop power cable dangling from her cat-clawed handbag, asking a very specific question. If I weren’t wearing heels, and if I ran very fast, how long would it take me to get to the C gates?

“Three or four minutes,” he said easily.

Oh.

I could make this a Texas adventure, totally. Or I could just run for my gate and be in a shower within half an hour of landing.

“Really?” I asked the nice young man, tipping up one heel and unzipping my boot, getting ready to run.

“You’re going to listen to me?” he asked incredulously. I grinned and nodded and peeled off my other boot while he gave me directions. I listened, nodded, thanked him, and started running.

This dash was not as impressive as the run through Boston. With my boots flapping from one hand and my suitcase unsteadily trailing from the other, my laptop case unbalanced me enough that running quickly wasn’t an option. Luckily the young man hadn’t led me astray; his directions were good. I think his time estimate might have been a little off, but I made it to the gate to find a gigantic queue of people waiting to get on the plane. Hallelujah. I could have clicked my way here in my heeled boots after all.

I texted my sister. “I’m on the flight to Dulles, I’ll be in at 5:09pm.”

She replied quickly. “We’ve been visited by a bout of norovirus, but we’ll try to have everything cleaned up by then.”

I looked down at my phone in slack-jawed dismay. “You’re shitting me,” I said to it. A couple of my fellow passengers gave me looks, reminding me that I was in the South now and I should moderate my language, no matter how relevant the pun.