Pack Up, Report for Flight, Go Back

This morning at 0730 my fellow travelers and I were told to report back at 0945 with our gear--there would be a flight later today. We packed up, dragged our gear to the meeting point, had a roll call, then were told to return to the tents. Next formation would be roll call at 1930 (730pm). No more flight information. Maybe there will be a flight one the 4th of July.

It is strange to be 100 miles from the end of a 6000 mile trip and no closer than I was three days ago, but there is nothing to do but wait for the flight. Maybe there will be a flight tonight or tomorrow. In the meantime, this is a great way to get over jet lag. Fly across seven time zones then eat, sleep, and read for three days.

Last Race Update

Passing on the first descent


Climbing uphill at the back of a disappearing pack

Thanks to Jan Felice for pointing out these photos on www.cyclingcaptured.com, photos are by Anthony Skorochod. The race was fun while it lasted for me (two of four 8-mile laps, with the pack only on the first lap). After the race I rode for a while with Jan, Jim Pomeroy and Linford Weaver.

Where is Neil?
No flights out of Kuwait for me yesterday. So I spent another night here, which is actually better in some ways than going straight home. I slept a lot yesterday but was tired enough that I could go to bed by ten and get up at five this morning. I overate for breakfast and then read email and waited for the 0730 roll call when we will find out if there are any flights today.

There were no flights. So we won't hear anything until the 730pm roll call, but the sky is somewhat clear this morning so maybe the sandstorm has calmed down enough that we will fly out tonight. I called my unit this morning to let them know how the trip is progressing. I'll go to the gym soon and ride the exercise bike while I wait for news on night flights. More soon.

Good Advice

Sarah Reisert, my replacement at work for this year, suggested I could volunteer for something in Shannon and fly business class for the rest of the trip. I did not exactly do that, but I went to the WH Smith bookstore and bought a copy of Le Monde to see what the French were saying about the return of Lance Armstrong. By the way, in French Lance is one form of the verb Lancer with 34 dictionary meanings including throw, hit, launch, and race. I am sure French sportswriters have been making puns on Armstrong's name for the last decade.

Anyway, one of the senior sergeants on the flight bought a bicycling magazine from the UK. We started talking about the tour. When the flight reboarded, the bicycle-riding sergeant first class had an open seat next to him in business class, so I got to ride in the front of the plane from Shannon to Kuwait. And as Sarah said, the exit row in a DC-10 had lots of leg room. So I am now three-for-three in the front of the plane to and from Iraq with just one more flight to go. And that flight--the flight home next Janaury--I won't care where I am on the flight!!!

Tuesday Morning in Shannon

Shannon, Ireland
We are on a two-hour layover for fuel and crew change in Shannon, Ireland. Because we are Americans we swarm in, spend money and eat. On the flight back they loaded us by rank so I am in the back of the plane. I did manage to get an exit row, so I slept for an hour on the first flight and should be able to catch some sleep on the flight to Kuwait. We can't leave the terminal, but the countryside is a lovely green outside the terminal windows. Seven more hours in the air and we will be back to Kuwait. Then back to Iraq for the 4th of July.

Long Walk to the Gate

This very long day of beginning my return to Iraq started really well. I got up at 0500 listening to NPR news on WITF radio. I know I can listen to NPR in Iraq, but it has to be on the internet, which is not quite the same as a clock radio. At 0550 my friend Matt Clark picked me up in his van and we went to Starbucks on Columbia Avenue in Lancaster for one last latte at my favorite coffee place and a New York Times, another habit I can't indulge at Tallil Ali Air Base. Matt and I talked and joked on the 35-mile drive to the airport. Then I checked my bags and walked toward the gate.

that was the worst moment of the whole trip. My family was between 400 and 4000 miles away, Matt was on his way back home and the only person I knew was a young sergeant getting on the same plane I was boarding. He was with his wife and mother. He was sad. They were crying and I almost lost it at that point. But when I got to security, the folks who check the bags smiled at me and wished me a good trip and said to come back soon. They know the soldiers on the morning flights in uniform looking glum are the ones going back to Iraq.

When I got to Atlanta, the USO volunteers were waiting to direct us at the arrival area. A big guy in his 60s shook my hand and said, "From the look on your face, you must be going back." By noon we had boarding passes and eight hours to wait. Most everyone grabbed the free USO food and then split into two groups: one group filled the chairs in front of the big screen TV, the other went out into the walkway around the atrium and started looking for electrical outlets for their computers or started taking naps. One of the good things about these incredibly slow (by commercial standards) boring trips is that the rest and sleeping leave us with less jet lag than high-speed travelers. Of course, it's not a great nap when every 15 minutes you hear about liquid and gel restrictions for passengers on the PA system.

I just finished a six-hour wait and am now going to the gate now to begin the next two-hour wait. I am glad these uniforms don't wrinkle easily.

Hollywood

Jon Rutter wrote a follow up article about me in the "Lancaster" section of today's Lancaster Sunday News. Here's the link.

Today's Race

Nigel at the Brownstown Race

At 0845 this morning, I had rode in the first of two road races I will do this weekend before heading back to Iraq. Today's race, the Brownstown Road Race, was flat and offered no state championship points to participants, so there were not be many participants in the 55+ category--and none of the state/national championship riders that filled the field in last week's race. The race was also close to home so my daughter Lisa and I could ride the 12 miles to and from the race as a warm-up for me and cross training for her. When we arrived, she ran around the five-mile course while I finished warming up.

The eight 55+ riders started with about 30 racers in the 45+ category. With mixed categories, the older guys who stay with the younger group are the top finishers. As we made the sharp left turn toward the finish line on the 2nd of five laps, I felt like I might be able to hang on to the pack for most, if not all of the race, then in the middle of the turn I heard a rider yelling "Flat!!" and bikes started to swerve wide in the corner. I ended up in the dirt off the edge of the road. When racers hear another rider is in trouble, especially if the hear the thud and yells of a crash behind them, they ride as hard as they to drop all those trapped behind the crash. I tried to catch back on, but couldn't.

I rode the next two laps with another 55+ rider who was dropped. We passed the guy I thought would win 55+. He crashed--just scrapes and bruises--and was on the side of the road. Two more of the 55+ riders dropped out and I was 4th!!! My best result in my trip home because in today's race, there is no age-group. I will be racing with 20 and 30-year-olds on a hilly course. It should be a very short race for me.

As Lisa and I started the ride home, Lisa said that I definitely had the loudest cheering section. She and my wife and son Nigel cheered every lap as they did last week and were the only people cheering for 55+ category racers. "It's worse than when we were little," Lisa said. "Back then one or two other riders had a cheering section, now it's just you." There were other people watching the race. On the oppostie side of the road from my family, several large Amish families were gathered at the fence near the start-finish. The girls in dresses and boys in pants and with suspenders, all in bare feet, watched the race intently and, as my wife said after the race, stole more than a few glances at my African-American son Nigel standing between his blond-haired, blue-eyed mother and sister.