Happy Thanksgiving

There has been a gap since my last post because nothing has happened. I have been sitting around in Minneapolis waiting for a call that never comes. Sitting on reserve in this distant land they call Minnesota is not always pleasant. While I ensure that my name is on the preferred call list and despite having recurring dreams of receiving a flight assignment, my phone has been silent.

Last week, I reached out to a variety of folks who were in the area in an attempt to remain social. On Tuesday, I met with a friend from LA on an interview in Minneapolis. On Wednesday, a fellow airline pilot on reserve. His name is Lorenzo, so I naturally met him for lunch at a place called "Fat Lorenzo's." It was hidden on the back side of a VA building and I can only recommend it if you like being around old people and garlic. On Thursday, I reunited with a friend from my high school. As she put it, I am in a unique position. I can arrange my own high school reunion, but only meet with the people I actually care to see. In any event, I was able to slightly break up the monotony of last week by engaging in that basic human need called conversation. This week, however, is a different story.

During my brief return to sunny Los Angeles, I was welcomed by 80 degree temperatures. Numerous people were out cycling and jogging on the beach paths. We ate outside in Long Beach wearing t-shirts. I mention all this to contrast with my return to Minnesota. Early Thanksgiving morning, I drove to the airport to pick up my EFB (electronic flight bag). On the way home, it was raining. Shortly after that, it turned to snow. And because it was a mere 28 degrees, it stuck. This created a very different image than my visit to Long Beach harbor a few days prior.

My fellow pilots were called up to do some flying on Thanksgiving and anyone else normally in town had left for the holiday. I spent the day alone snacking on muffins, macaroni, and Kix cereal . . . just like the pilgrims and native Americans. I felt a bit cooped up. On Black Friday, I decided I was going to leave the comfort of central heating and face an environment that just looked cold.

I decided to go for a run on the nearby trails in Minnetonka. I planed to head out in the heat of the day, so I asked Siri what the temperature was and even she was a bit apprehensive about what I was about to do. I put on my only long-sleeved running shirt, a pair of gloves, a hat, and a pair of swishy athletic pants that harken back to 1999. Initially I felt like a true badass. Clearly nobody was as mentally tough and fierce as I to face such bitter temperatures. . .


Wrong. There were just as many people out running and biking on the trails as there were in Los Angeles when I ventured out a few days earlier. And keep in mind that there is a layer of snow on the ground. There is evidently a market for wide snow tires for bikes in Minneapolis. Many of those out running didn't even have hats or gloves. I don't know how this is possible. It takes a certain kind of person to live here. That person is not me. Sure, you can call me weak and feeble, but just remember that it was I who went for a run when it was 25º. I deserve some sort of pat on the back . . . or a jacket.