Number 17 - The Ultimate Runner's High

Having run every day for over 35 years, I’ve had the opportunity—or perhaps I should say the misfortune of running in some of the most unimaginable and/or unhospitable places possible.  I’ve run in Death Valley, in the mountains of Sarajevo, on a cruise ship on both the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans and at a rest stop in where-in-hell-am-I, Georgia.  I’ve run on the shoulder of busy highways, in a Wal-Mart parking lot (where I found a handful a bucket worth of loose change), through a cow pasture (paying careful attention not to step on any cow patties) and around the perimeter of a dumpster.

But until today, I’ve never run at altitude.  Not up-in-the-mountains altitude, but honest to goodness up-in-the-air altitude.  How does 35,000 feet above sea level sound?  Yes, today is the day I can truly say I ran at altitude.  Today is the day I ran…on an airplane.

You’re probably wondering: ‘In a world of terrorism and TSA agents, how in the world did you get away with running on an airplane?’  I’ll just give you the basic ingredients: Proper planning, an international flight at night, good timing and the cloak of darkness.

Here’s how I pulled it off:

I booked an evening flight to (European country redacted; my last name may clue you in, however) with an arrival time of 8:00 a.m.  That meant I would be flying through the night, a time when most of the passengers would be catching a few Z’s.  Translation: Fewer eyes observing what was going on in the cabin.  Like a strange man running up and down the center aisle for 30 minutes in the middle of the night, for example.

It only took a few hours (the flight lasted eight hours) to determine the ebb and flow of the flight attendants as they worked their way up and down the aisle serving beverages and snacks and pointing out to one particularly annoying man that he was pushing the ‘call’ button although he kept insisting he was pressing the button to turn on the overhead light.  The flight attendants’ activity dropped off dramatically around 3:00 a.m.  The only movement I could detect was the attractive young couple sitting two rows in front of me across the aisle hightailing it for the lavatory every 75 minutes or so.  I felt sorry for them as I couldn’t think of anything worse than being held captive on an airplane for over eight hours and having stomach problems requiring the use of the closets they call bathrooms to take care of some nasty personal business.  Adding insult to injury: They were on their honeymoon.

Around 3:30 a.m. the coast appeared to be clear: It was time for me to literally make a run for it.  I stood up, walked to the front of the aisle, looked around to see if any eyes were on me (there weren’t) and slowly took off running for the back of the plane.  It didn’t take long—maybe eight or nine seconds before I reached the back of the plane.  I knew the flight attendants were sitting behind the lavatory, so I was careful to turn around just shy of where I might possibly catch their attention. 

I was able to run—unnoticed and undetected for 30 minutes or more.  Not pressing my luck, I was satisfied to stop and credit myself with three slow and easy miles at 35,000 feet.  What the heck: Let’s call it an even 5K (five kilometers, or 3.1 miles).   

I wondered if I had been wearing a GPS how it would have recorded my distance—especially if I was running toward the back of the plane.  ‘If the plane is moving forward at 500 miles per hour and I’m running backwards at six miles per hour, does the GPS recognize this as moving at 494 miles per hour?’  (In hindsight I’m sorry I mentioned it. If thinking about this keeps you up at night, I apologize.)

About the time the pilot announced it was time to prepare for landing, a flight attendant leaned over my seat and pinned a pair of wings—the kind they give to small children the first time they fly on an airplane—on my collar.  She looked at me, smiled and said I gave new meaning to the phrase ‘Mile High Club.’  Apparently she had seen me earlier as I was wearing out the carpet of the center aisle while everyone else on the plane was asleep.

Well, almost everyone. 

As I stood up to exit the plane I noticed a pair of wings just like mine on the collars of both of the newlyweds when it suddenly dawned on me:

They weren’t having stomach problems.  They were becoming members of the Mile High Club the old fashioned way.

From what I saw of them throughout the night, it might be more appropriate to recognize them as ‘frequent flyers…’