Part 1: What were Orville and Wilbur thinking?

Armed with the knowledge that…well…I had no choice in the matter, I booked my round-trip flight to Houston in early April. I would be on Flight 6547 from Sioux Falls to Chicago, and Flight 6201 from Chicago to Houston, and Flight 367 from Houston to Denver, and Flight 718 from Denver to Sioux Falls. Four takeoffs, four landings (my first four of each)…that is, of course, if they didn’t end up scooping me out of the Gulf of Mexico when we overshot Houston.
The same week that I booked my flight to Houston for some intensive job training, I saw an article in the Star Tribune that told of United Airlines’ new policy on hauling around XXXX-chubby passengers. It seems that as of April, they were about to get tougher with those of us who aren’t able to squeeze into their dainty 19-inch seats. Any passengers not able to suck “it” in far enough to lower the armrest separating him or her from the person in the next seat would be bumped to a different flight—if all other seats were filled. A quick check of the online seating chart showed that the seats were filling up quickly. I contemplated just how that would be carried out. Would I be allowed to enlist the aid of a couple of burly passengers in an attempt to force my armrest into position? Maybe slather on some Vaseline? If still unsuccessful, would the pilot make an announcement? “Hello, this is your captain speaking. There will be a slight delay in our flight as the passenger in seat 23C has exceeded our width restrictions. I ask that everyone please lean away from the aisle as he attempts to de-plane. I would like to personally thank the passenger in 23B for remaining calm throughout this process.”
My wife, Kathy (the frequent flyer in the family) seemed a bit too amused by my upcoming ascension. As a matter of fact, nearly everybody I know (except Mom) seemed a bit too amused. My nephew, Brent, the air-traffic controller, assured me that the Sioux Falls airport had done everything in their power to keep the geese away from the runways, and informed me that Captain Sully probably wouldn’t be available to pilot my flight.
Three weeks of underlying nausea was coming to a crescendo as Kathy and I pulled into the Sioux Falls airport. I said my final farewell and went through the baggage check. I detected a nearly imperceptible shudder as the security person entertained, and then rejected, the thought of a body cavity search.
Unable to concentrate on any reading, I waited in the terminal for my flight to board. It seemed like it took forever. When the boarding finally began, the “special” people were called first. People who apparently paid more for their ride than I had. After the Gold and Silver and First Class people were seated, they called for poodles, gerbils, geckoes and finally, “economy class” (read: no class) passengers were called.
That included me.
I stepped into the plane and immediately asked the young, blonde beanpole for my seatbelt extender, and then turned toward the aisle to what turned out to be a pleasant surprise. My fear of flying completely disappeared. Unfortunately, it was because my claustrophobia reached out and seized my larynx…and squeezed.
I’ve always been blessed with the ability to appear calm when my insides are swimming frantically. This much cannot be said for the unfortunate young lady who ended up the seat next to mine. As I was stuffing my laptop under the seat ahead of me and my carry-on into the compartment above, she appeared to be looking me up and down as she was rapidly calculating how a five-pound bag was going to hold 10 pounds of…well, you get the picture.
Apparently the comely young flight attendant suspected trouble after the seat belt request and followed me to my seat.
“If you would be more comfortable here, feel free to move,” she said, pointing to the dual empty seats in the back row, just outside the “bathroom” entrance. This was much better than, “yeah right, lard butt…you might want to haul it back here.”
I swear I heard a whimper of relief from the young lady who had just received the pardon.
I settled my plumpness into the back row and proceeded to attempt to de-constrict my airway. I was astonished how small the inside of a CanadAir jet looked, compared to the inside of those jets in the movies. Again, however, I was about to catch a break. My phobia concerning small places was soon forgotten. After a short taxi to the point of takeoff, the thrusters were engaged, and sudden g-forces were strong enough to pull everything back against my seat, oddly reducing my three chins to two.
My torso was suddenly moving faster than it had at any previous time in my half century here on this planet…the same planet from which I was about to disengage.
It was the most surreal one hour and thirty-two minutes I had ever experienced.
And I grabbed armrests on each side of my double-wide seat as I hurtled through the air on my first-ever trip to Chicago…that toddlin’ town.
I hung on real tight for the next 468 miles, as if somehow the next-day headlines might read, “Tyler man only survivor in CanadAir jet crash. Investigators suspect it was because he hung on really tight.”
Next week, the saga continues.

For those of you reading in the Tyler area, the Tyler Area Community Foundation has asked me to pass on some information to you. If you would like to keep up with what is going on with the group, click on their link on the upper left side of this page. You may sign up for regular blog updates by sending your email address to Tim O’Leary at oleary@mnns.com.