Every holiday season it seems I am running to catch a plane, literally. This year was no exception. One of the reasons I hate to fly is not out of fear, but rather an annoyance of all of the waiting and unexpected surprises that are out of my control.
   I made it to the airport with plenty of time to spare, and once there I learned my flight to Cincinnati, where I was due to catch a connecting flight to Toledo, was delayed.
   Thanks to a mysterious mechanical problem we boarded the plane almost an hour late. This left me barely 10 minutes to make to my next flight. The man next to me pulled out his camera phone to take pictures of the flight attendant. He said the airline hardly ever claims responsibility for a flight delay. Since this woman admitted the problems were mechanical he wanted proof so he could argue his point later at the airline customer service counter. With the delay he had about 30 seconds to catch his connecting flight.
   With a smile pasted on her face the flight attendant said she had no information about our connecting flights, but she assured us that the flights would not wait, and since almost every passenger on the plane was catching another flight, we positioned ourselves like marathon runners.
   As soon as the fasten seatbelt sign went off we bolted upright, collecting coats and carry-on luggage, and as soon as the door opened we were off. I quickly grabbed the bag I checked planeside and broke into a sprint, purse in hand, wool coat on my back, high-heeled boots on my feet and a roller suitcase in tow.
   I was running so fast I barely noticed when I bumped into another traveler and caused him to drop his roller bag. I threw an apologetic glance over my shoulder and mouthed, “I’m sorry.” I may seem like a Grinch, but I did not stop and help the man collect his bag. I did not even break my stride. The man just nodded in recognition, he understood, this was a race and not everyone was going to make it to the finish line.
   In one fluid motion I sprinted to the shuttle bus that would take me to the correct concourse, pulled up my bag and grabbed ahold of the overhead bar. I was not risking any chance of spending the night in this airport. Three years ago I got the last flight out of Cincinnati before the airport was closed due to a blizzard. I watched horrified as every flight on the departure list flipped to cancelled and pushed my way to the front of the Delta line. There was one seat left on the last flight to Toledo, I got it.
    My close friend and co-worker — who was one flight behind me, and traveling to Michigan — spent three days in that airport waiting for a flight out. She described the circumstances similar to that of a refugee camp. They were offered no food, no water, and they had no supplies.
    This, I decided, was not going to happen to me. Even though the problem was mechanical and the flight attendant said the airline would most likely put us up in a hotel, I wasn’t taking any chances.
    When the shuttle stopped I jumped out, bags in tow, and resumed my sprint. It seemed to me I ran about a half mile to the gate, which of course was located at the farthest possible point from where I started. Sweaty and out of breath, I ran through the jet way and on board the aircraft.
    I sat down breathing hard and quickly began removing some of my layers, starting with my coat, so I could breath again. The girl seated in front of me, a child star in her teens (she was in “Cheaper by the Dozen”) had also sprinted to the plane.
    Imagine our horror when the pilot decides he is going to wait for people. I flagged down the flight attendant and told her I needed water immediately. We waited for about a half hour for the rest of the passengers. During this time an older man begins hitting on the child star, and she is moved to another seat.
    On the way home I encountered more of the same. My first flight was delayed and I made it to Detroit with enough time to grab a burger. This time the plane was too heavy and the airline was looking for four people to volunteer to take the next flight, which was taking off many, many hours later.
    “Not me,” I thought as she repeatedly asked for volunteers and warned that if no one volunteered she would select people herself. I was instantly brought back to grade school. It was as if the woman was asking for a volunteer to walk the kid who just barfed everywhere down to the nurse’s office. Like most of the other single passengers I averted her gaze and pretended I didn’t hear her. Three people stepped up and the last was called off the plane. I closed my eyes and prayed for the woman to call a name other than my own. She did, and I made it home without incident.
    The moral of the story is I’ll take a car over a plane anytime. Sometimes it doesn’t make sense to drive when a plane can get you there faster, but in a car I have control of the wheel, the delays and just about everything else. Call me old fashioned, but I’d rather drive.