When I was in college, I came back to Indiana for a visit. At one point, out with one of my best childhood friends and her parents, her mother commented that Hoosiers are some of the worst drivers. Ha ha ha, I thought, clearly you haven't driven in L.A.

Ah, to know everything like I used to. That would be great. Great. Just great. It'd be great. (Hi, Kyle!)

I actually haven't driven much in the area. Eh, not quite true, but close. I rode my brother's motorcycle when I was 12 because he told me girls couldn't ride motorcycles. Of course, that was when I didn't know the difference between the brake and the gas and couldn't understand why I kept going faster and faster the harder I turned the brake.

Uh, yeah.

Driving in Valparaiso, sure. I've driven in the town. But not really to the town. Dad or Jenny or Jessica would pick me up from the airport or the bus station closer to home, so I haven't driven to town.

Today, however, I rented a car that I'll drive to Poultry Days, for my first chicken tournament. It seemed to make sense, even though I'm sure had I asked, Dad would have picked me up from the airport, no questions asked.

Using Kris' GPS unit, I plugged in Dad's address and started driving.

And started understanding just what Mary was saying about Hoosier drivers, though I suspect she was talking more about Illinois drivers.

I can honestly say, I've never seen a fully-loaded semitruck with trailer lay on the horn from the second lane, right next to me, nearly ram the car in front of it (admittedly doing only 45 on a 65 mpg speed limit road), swerve around it and accelerate away from us. I can't say I've ever seen a big-rig truck driver exhibit such road rage before.

This, after it nearly swerved left into me.

Did I mention they gave me a minivan? I reserved a compact car, figuring I needed a car big enough to sleep in the back seat, since I surely was NOT bringing a tent to the tournament. Too much to carry, and I prefer showers in the morning. Or so I thought. With all the hotels fully booked for 40 miles in all directions, that backseat is looking mighty comfy.

A few miles later, in my light grey minivan, I watched in train-wreck fascination as a trailerless tractor (Dad tells me that's what they call the front of a semi when it has no trailer attached) zipped in and out of traffic easily driving over 80 in moderate traffic on a construction filled 94.

I'm convinced Illinois is annoyed at people moving to Indiana, and has decided to thwart such commuters by having the entire stretch of road between the two of them under construction at all times.

This, with crazy drivers on the road.

I passed a frighted girl driving 40 in the first lane as traffic whizzed by going over 70 to her right (except me, of course, I was clearly driving ONLY the speeding limit, Dad. Clearly).

I drove behind a man who would drive a quarter mile between the lines painted on the road, then a quarter mile to the left or to the right of them, yet still on the road. I tried flashing my brights at him when he started to swerve off the road. Didn't help much.

I drove in front of a car that reminded me of the summer I worked for my dad, when he handed me a gun to put under the front seat. "I'd rather you be in jail than raped or murdered," he told me, after telling me of the van drivers who were running cars with single women drivers off the road, then raping them. I agreed with him, then showed him how to remove the safety, and how to put it back on.

I flinched as crazy drivers in Escalades came flying up behind my van as I drove with traffic, and watched as they slotted between cars to edge one, two, maybe three cars in front of us in traffic, wondering if I weren't really back in L.A. after all. Did I board the wrong plane?

And I reminded myself that I wasn't in any hurry when cars were flying by me, as I drove the speed limit in the slow lane. I'm on vacation, and didn't need to hurry home. I was in an unfamiliar car, on unfamiliar roads. Just because everyone else is crazy, doesn't mean I need to be, too.

I mean, there are crazies on the road tonight. One of them might even be driving and trying to take pictures at the same time. I mean, come on, that would be nuts.

My dearest, annoying co-traveller,

When it is time to disembark from the airplane, please do so efficiently. We, your fellow passengers sitting behind you, and to your side, specifically request you not wait until your row has exited, then immediately block everyone else from exiting the plane while you dash back two rows to clamour into the overhead bins to retrieve your overstuffed rollerbag that took up all of the bin because you stuffed it up there with a sledgehammer and wedge.

We kindly ask you to wait until people in your row and the several rows behind you, but in front of your luggage, exit the plane, then move back a few rows, one at a time, as space opens up between other passengers exiting the plane.

Should your luggage be in the bin opposite your row, and you were unable to retrieve it before your row started exiting, once again, we request you wait a few moments. Do not, under any circumstances, believe it is okay to knock the woman exiting the row opposite you in the head with your elbow while causally murmurring "excuse me," and reaching into the overhead bin for your bag.

As you are doing this, the row across from you and the remaining 15 rows behind you are all waiting for you to hurry with your bag. The 20 seconds you take to retrieve your bag while placing your well-travelled butt in everyone's way may not seem like a particularly long time to wait for any individual person. However, on a full flight, that 20 seconds translates into (20 seconds * 15.5 rows * 6 people per row * 1 minute for 60 seconds) = 31 minutes of combined lost time for the remaining passengers on the plane.

Do you know what we could have done with those 31 minutes?

I assure you, watching you fumble with your four bags was not at the top of our list.

So, next time, seriously, wait 60 seconds until a gap forms in the line of exiting passengers before you bowl your way over to the overhead bin.

It'll save me from needing ice for the lump on my head next time.

Sincerely,

Passengers of Flight 2657

I'm sitting here at the airport, waiting for the passengers from the previous flight to disembark from the plane I will board in ten minutes. To my right is the line to board the plane in the first boarding group. To my left is a short but growing line of people also in my boarding group.

Between these two lines is a woman with sense. She recognized the people sitting in the chairs by the window were actually in the first boarding group line. Rather than walk down the aisle between these rows of chairs, one of which my butt is sitting, she has chosen to stand at the end of the row of chairs, forcing everyone else who shows up for this boarding group to line up behind her.

And that line is growing.

Yet, there are empty seats around me.

Looking at the other boarding lines, I realize the flight will be full and even if I board at the and of the first group, I will get a good seat, one where I am on the aisle and can get up to use the lavatory, without interupting my temporary travelling companion's sleep. Or game. Or reading.

I am tempted to gather my two bags, my two very heavy bags, and move farther to my right, allow these people access to these empty chairs around me.

I stand up to move down a seat.

But, to do so means I jump in line in front of the other passengers around me, the ones who were here before I was and who should have earlier dibs on the good seats, than I.

I sit back down in my original seat.

Yet, is there really any difference between row 14 and row 15? Do I care if the ten people to my immediate left board before I do?

Maybe I do. I stand up.

Maybe I really don't. I sit back down.

The woman at the end of the row of chairs watches me, amused. She doesn't move.

No. No, I really don't care. The flight lands at the same time, whether I'm in row 12, 17 or 25, as long as I have an aisle row.

Any other row, and the flight takes an eternity.

Stupid girlie tears.

At today's track workout, I ran pretty much by myself. The warmups and the plyometrics were in a group, but the rest of the workout was "at your own pace." On our way to the workout, Kris warned me again, "don't overdo it." Although this is really good advice in general, it essentially gave me permission not to finish the workout, and giving me permission to slack is never a good thing.

The full workout was supposed to be:

For those not at homestead, here's the track workout:

Warm up 800m

Form running/dynamic stretching

Plyos:
squats (x30, x25, x20)
lunges (x15, x15, x10)
ankle hops (x25, x25)
squat jumps (x10, x10)

4 lap fartlek (sprint first 50m of straights, jog rest)

2x400m (90s rest between)

4x200m (60s rest between)

... but the rest between sets was actually much shorter for the 200s and longer (to 120s) for the 400s. I ran the first 400 in 96s, beating my goal by 4s. The first 200 of that 400 I ran in 46 seconds, much to my pleasure when I realized how consistent I was in that 400.

After the first two 200s, I was thinking UGH, my legs are beat. I considered just being done with the workout. Then I thought about two weeks ago at the Stanford workout, and how I hated not finishing the workout. I then realized my legs were tired, but it was the achy sort of tired that I really like.

Suddenly, not finishing was no longer an option. Stupid of me to think it was ever a possibility.

When I crossed the finish line after my final 200, I looked down at my watch. Before running the 400s, Doyle told all of us to pace ourselves: we wanted to be running the 200s as fast as the 400s, and not jogging them.

Well, sure, 46s is a crappy 200 time (a VERY crappy 200m time, in fact), but it was certainly quite consistent.

I even cried with joy when I realized I managed to finish my first Mischief workout this season. Only took me long enough.

be healthy
be supportive of the team
which you do admirably already
take some initiative
do your best
don't be afraid to fail