Great Story Don! We want more! Best Wishes In a message dated 2/22/2013 8:23:19 P.M. Central Standard Time, [email protected] writes:
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[?]
