Discombobulated

If yesterday I had gone to hell in a hand-basket, I would have enjoyed more legroom than I did on Iberia Express flight 3942 from Madrid to Tenerife (one of four flights involved in my journey to La Palma). They should rename that carrier Oz Express as the seating plan was designed for Munchins.

Not that I’m complaining.

Shown actual size.

Without low-cost air travel (and a very obliging wife), I wouldn’t be able to visit such a far flung destination as the Canary Islands. Airlines, of course, keep fares down by using algorithms and clever engineers to determine, to the millimeter, the minimum space travelers will tolerate. By similar calculus they design routes that shunt passengers to intermediate cities far out of their way and downgrade food offerings to the level of Kal Kan.

Not that I’m complaining.

Not the best tasting, but it's packed with nutrients and good for your coat.

Truthfully, my calf muscles will recover and the upholstery impressions will fade from my knees long before I adjust to that other consequence of long distance travel: jet lag. Ever the nervous nilly, I tumbled out of bed Tuesday morning at 2:00 a.m. fearful of missing my first flight, which left LAX at 9:30. Contorted and stuffed into a space the size of a can of Spam, I didn’t get much sleep on any of my flights and arrived at my hotel looking and feeling like Tom Hanks halfway through Cast Away. Still, I expect I will adjust to local time just in time for race day, when I have to catch a bus outside my hotel at 3 a.m. Given my M.O., I probably won’t sleep past 8:00 p.m. the night before and will be packed, ready to go and waiting at the bus stop at midnight. 

I hope to get off to a fast start on Saturday.