When I learned that my college
team, the AZ State Sun Devils, would be playing in the Kraft Fight Hunger Bowl
this year, December 29th at AT&T Park in San Francisco, against the
Midshipmen of Navy, I was elated. Jokingly, I said to my girlfriend: "It
would be awesome to go to that football game!" To my great surprise she
replied "Yes, it would."!
We flew from Phoenix directly to Oakland via Southwest Airlines, a
very easy 2-hour flight. For those of you who fly, if you ever have a choice
between airlines I highly recommend SW--they do things the right way, in my
experience. We were traveling on a budget so decided not to rent a pricey
minivan. Instead, we would use the extensive public transit system in the Bay
area to get around.
Like most of us quads, I don't do well in cold temperatures on a
good day, but I was in for a rough weekend because I didn't realize that I had
fractured two toes in my right foot when my laundry caught onto my joystick and
sent me [and my tootsies] careening into my bedroom furniture. Well, I knew I
had hurt my foot somewhere, but I couldn't see or feel any immediate damage so
I wasn't about to cancel my trip to see the Sun Devils!
The flight went smoothly, but as we departed our plane I noticed
that I was covered with a fine sheen of sweat, the source of this Autonomic
Dysreflexia as yet unknown to me. We collected our luggage and headed out the
doors to catch a shuttle bus to the BART (Bay Area Rapid Transit--light rail
system.) Wham! The cold Bay weather hit this sweaty quad like slap from an icy
hand. Luckily, we didn't have to wait long and we were on our way to the BART
station. The shuttle to the BART was tolerable, except for the guy across from
me who hadn’t bathed in a year. I believe it is Federal law that there must be
one stinky person on every bus, and we exceeded that mandate.
A few minutes of icy-cold confusion ensued trying to figure out
the BART ticketing kiosks. After some experimentation with the machines we were
happily ensconced on the train, headed up through Oakland, underneath the Bay
and into downtown San Fran where we'd catch one last bus to take us to our
hotel near Fisherman's Wharf. [Be prepared when the BART starts moving because
there are no chair lock-downs. Powerchairs with electronic breaks have an
advantage here, so long as you don't accidentally hit your joystick.]
I wasn't thrilled about our plan to save money by using public
transportation, but as the BART train shook and rattled its way through the
darkness I began thinking "this really isn't too bad!" A few minutes
later we passed the West Oakland station and the train went
underground--underwater too--for several minutes as we crossed underneath the
Bay. I'm sure I could eventually get used to riding a train underground, but
try as I might I could not avoid the thought of earthquakes and the horrendous
way we'd go out if that tunnel ever collapsed.
I faked a light-hearted smile at my girlfriend who faked a smile
right back. I attempted to say something whimsical to ease the tension but
neither one of us could hear the other over the screeching and grinding noises
in the tunnel--a nice addition to the apocalyptic scene playing out inside of
my fevered brain.
I looked around and saw another powerchair user on the train and
was somewhat comforted by the fact that she looked bored. This is old hat for
her; a ho-hum trip into town that she probably takes often. Arriving at our
station she zipped off the traincar and
we hurriedly followed, trying to keep up with her but she is gone, lost is the
sea of humanity exiting these metal rail snakes. "She went that way,"
my girlfriend says, indicating the direction of the elevator that would take us
to street level at the Embarcadero.
"Sorry, Elevator Out of Service," the hand-made paper
sign reads. "Dammit," I grumble, "but this can't be the only
elevator at this station, or that girl wouldn't have gotten off." Several
more very noisy, chilly and frustrating minutes pass as we ask and search
everywhere for another elevator, only to learn that this non-working piece of
crap was indeed the only elevator. Miss Speedy McWheelie must've seen the sign
and still had time to jump back onto the train a few cars back. Did she smile
or frown as she looked out her window saw us standing in disbelief in front of
the elevator, reading the bad news. I'd like to think she said a little prayer.
The extremely apologetic BART phone operator informed us that our
best option was to get back onto the train, get off at the next stop and take
the elevator--which she assured us was working--up. She was right--the elevator
at Montgomery took us to street level. WHAM! The doors open and I am slammed by
a double shot of icy Bay wind, nicely funneled between the high-rise buildings
like an Arctic wind-tunnel. I've [somewhat] planned for this blast by layering
several sweaters and sweatshirts, plus a knit hat and plastic shell, but I
never factored in the toe-throbbing AD sweat that has now drenched the first
few layers, rendering me, at this point, a rolling quadsicle.
"Almost there, babe," my girlfriend says
sympathetically. She knows I'm cold. She can tell especially when my jaw
muscles start twitching and I begin to have trouble driving my chair because my
biceps and shoulders are seizing up. "Your jaw is twitching" she
states, but I am unable to reply. My teeth are clenched so tight I cannot
speak. She holds her body against mine in a futile attempt to keep me warm as
we wait for the F-Line Trolley that will take us to Fisherman's Wharf.
"The F-Trolley comes every 15 minutes," says the traffic
cop near us. Twenty minutes pass and we still haven't seen one. Luckily my
girlfriend notices we're at the wrong end of the trolley stop. We shuffle past
a few other waiting riders and onto a metal platform that is clearly labeled as
a wheelchair lift. We're just in time--here comes a trolley! I can see why
we'll need this lift--the trolley entry is a good three feet above ground
level. I feel my body relax a bit; only a few seconds and I'll be inside a warm
trolley! As the overhead wires spark and crackle, the trolley comes to a
creaking halt in front of us. It now becomes apparent why this trolley was so
tardy--it is full, and I mean FULL. The trolley driver shrugs apologetically
but informs us that there's no room, but the next trolley is only a minute
behind. F**k! And, thank God!--I don't believe I could've survived another
"fifteen minutes" in these elements. Here comes the next trolley now.
"Push'UP' button!" the trolley driver shouts at us. I
can't see what's going on behind me, but I assume my sweetie is pushing the
button marked "UP" on our platform lift. She's a smart cookie and
this isn't really brain surgery. Nothing happens. Trolley man keeps repeating
this same instruction, practically screaming to be heard above the traffic
noise. "Push'UP' button!, push'UP' button!! PUSH 'UP' button!!!" Tell
me this is not happening. The trolley driver seemingly has an epiphany and now
he's yelling something else: "Eeez broke! Eeez broke!! EEZ BROKE!" No
sh*t, man.
As the trolley slinks off, leaving us stranded yet again, the
overhead wires crackle with electricity and the bitter scent of ozone fills my
nostrils. Now I'm angry! I'm just too damn cold to do anything about it. But
we're not giving up; not that we have a lot of choice in the matter. I can feel
the steam building in my head; what started as a seemingly simple commute has
evolved into the Bataan Death March, in reverse. Without looking up I mumble
"I now know what the 'F' in 'F-Line' stands for." My girlfriend
laughs hysterically. Someday maybe I'll be able to laugh about this too.
To be continued[?]
