not fast, just furious

I’ve got to start writing more than once a week. I just have too much going on to keep this post a manageable length. So, with that disclaimer, read on, readers…

I’ll again start with a humorous story. Now, to be clear, this was most assuredly not funny in the least as it took place. But it’s funny. There’s just no way around that.

This morning, after grabbing a quick breakfast, I sat down at my computer in my hotel room at about 6:45 a.m. and began working on a story for the website. About 7:10, my phone rings. It’s one of our coaches.

Coach: “Are you busy right now?”
Me: “Yeah, I’m working on a story.”
Coach: “Do you drive stick?”
Me: “I only have once before in my whole life.”
Coach: “Can you brave it? Ben’s wife and kids are getting into the airport in about an hour. We need someone to pick them up.”

I’ve got to start letting my phone go to voicemail.

Let me give a quick rundown on my manual-transmission-driving experience before I go into the story:

Manual transmission experience #1:
Empty parking lot at Frostburg State University
No traffic
No traffic laws
No one cares if I mess up
Dallas sitting next to me giving me tips

Manual transmission experience #2, on which I am about to embark:
Country I’ve never driven in
Not totally sure where the airport is or how to work the car’s navigation system
Morning rush hour in the country’s largest city
Rental car that I’m not entirely sure I’m insured on—in fact I’m quite certain of the opposite
All alone, until I will (should I survive) pick up someone’s wife and children

My first thought was that I was seriously concerned for the safety of Ben’s wife and kids. I don’t have the first clue what I’m doing.

After stalling out a dozen times just backing out of the parking spot, I got moving forward after another dozen transmission-killing stall-outs.

Parking spot to hotel exit: 30 minutes.

I finally got rolling on the street. That lasted about .2 km until I came to the first red light where I was supposed to turn left. Sure enough, I was stuck. People were pulling around me to turn left. I sat there through an entire green light trying to start, but only stalling over and over.

Two stoplights later, this scene repeated itself. Eventually, I made it to the freeway.

Parking spot to freeway: 50 minutes.

So I’m cruising along doing fine, glad to be past the city driving. Much to my consternation, the fates had other ideas. Being morning rush hour, a bit of construction brought traffic to a halt. I sat there on the freeway in Berlin morning traffic stalling out time and again for a good 5 or 10 minutes.

Now, I’m normally a patient fellow. By this point, I’m alternately screaming obscenities at the top of my lungs while feeling as though my head is going to explode and sending SOS prayers up. Cars are passing me on the shoulder. People are honking me and letting me know that I’m No. 1.

As an aside, this is all taking place in a car with the Berlin Thunder logo clearly displayed. Tonight, motorists all over southwest Berlin are cursing the stupid Americans bringing their ridiculous sport and horrible drivers to their country.

So I finally get rolling again, but there’s a long line of cars stopped on the ramp I need. So I just go cruising slowly looking for a gap to dive into. Meanwhile, the driver behind me is honking because I’m driving at such an incredibly low rate of speed. Finally, I find an opening, whip into it and somehow keep the car rolling. It was a minor miracle.

I reach the airport pick-up area, but drive past where I need to be and find myself heading out the exit. I curse yet again, find the next exit, get turned back around and again approach the airport, this time finding where I need to be.

Parking spot to airport: 75 minutes. (Note: It’s supposed to be a 30-minute drive.)

I park at the airport and go to search for Ben’s wife and kids. The only information I have is that they’re coming in from NYC at 8:30. By a stroke of luck, their flight was delayed the extra 45 minutes I took to get to the airport. Somehow I find them and get them all loaded up into the car.

Not wanting to scare them too badly, but also wanting to explain should this all go awry, I say, “I’m a little inexperienced driving a stick shift.” That’s the understatement of the year.

We must have had some sort of divine protection on the way back because I didn’t once fear too greatly for our safety (in stark contrast to my drive to the airport). The only time I even stalled out was about 2 blocks from the hotel. Ben’s wife started laughing.

“I’m not laughing at you,” she points out. Thanks for that.

So there you have it—easily the best story of the experience to date. My heart rate is high just recounting the episode. All this stress cannot be good for my health. I think that means I need a day off. Someone please correct me if I’m wrong, but I’m fairly certain I have the world’s most ridiculous job in every way.

Anyways, I’ll rundown this last weekend quickly because I realize I’m taking up everyone’s valuable time.

On Friday, we bused to Hamburg for our game. A 182-mile trip took 3½ hours. Sweet. I went out that night with some of our staff and watched them drink themselves silly. That was a real treat.

On Saturday, we played the Hamburg Sea Devils to a 17-17 tie. It was only the second tie in league history. No one on our sideline really even knew what the overtime format was. It was mass confusion. At the end, no one knew if we should be happy or sad. The feeling in the locker room was the most surreal I’ve ever seen. It was as though we hadn’t really even played the game.

By the time we got on the bus, it was nearly 11 p.m., so we pulled back into our hotel at 3 a.m. Sunday morning. We were able to stretch that 3½-hour ride to 4 hours. That ruled. I slept a little bit when I could over the bus driver’s German soft rock that he kept at a blaring volume.

Somehow, in spite of the exhausting road trip, I got up Sunday and went to church for the first time since I’ve been here. It was an urban, diverse, English-speaking church. I was glad to finally have the chance to get back to church. I sometimes forget how good going to church really is for me.

I went with an American friend I’ve made since I’ve been here. After that, she and I and one of her friends all went out to their neighborhood and had a picnic lunch by a lake. Sunday was the first day that was possible weather-wise. It was definitely a treat. I ate the heck out of those sandwiches. I also warned them that if they keep feeding me, they will never get rid of me. They didn’t seem too worried.

Wow, I didn’t even get to cover Thursday-night bowling. Another time. You are weary of reading, and I am weary of typing.