“Have fun,” my brother-in-law’s wife said to him.
“It’s work. Serious work going on here,” he replied before they wrapped up their phone conversation.
Of course he was being his typical smart-@ss self, as we were down in Florida several years ago during Speedweeks. He was there to take professional quality photos. I was there to videotape in my pseudo-professional way. I suppose we were technically working. However, at the time of said phone call, it was late in the evening and we all had a beer in front of us. Obviously, he was trying to downplay the fun side of this adventure we all love—post-season racing. His wife was back in snowy Minnesota with their children. He was in Florida—home to Mickey Mouse and a lot of great winter racing.
Well, it’s getting to be that time of year again—when many make their plans to trek in that southern direction with the hopes of securing a major win at a signature event. I’m planning to head to the Snowball Derby in early December to watch another great event. I’m also hopeful that it will be a little warmer than in years past. Of course, I realize how whiney that sounded, but in all seriousness, I always end up packing winter and summer clothes for this trip. I’ve worn both of them down there. The Snowball Derby at Five Flags Speedway, and even Speedweeks in February at New Smyrna Speedway are a lot like Oktoberfest in La Crosse: A mixed bag of weather.
I’m hopeful that this year’s event brings good weather and is free of the post-race drama. You surely remember that tungsten-twister after Chase Elliott nabbed the checkers last year. The team had used a block of tungsten, instead of lead for weight in Elliott’s car. (Insert sad trombone here) Head technical inspector, Ricky Brooks disqualified Elliott for that infraction, and it turned the win over to Erik Jones.
I think I could match Chase Elliott’s woes of last year with what I had to endure—JUST TO GET TO THE TRACK!
I opted to avoid Atlanta—a hub that I’ve had nothing but bad luck with late flights—and instead route my trip to Florida via Dallas. BIG mistake. You might remember last December there was an epic ice storm that essentially shut down Dallas and much of the mid-south. It was one huge ice hole of doom; pure hell for travelers.
That said—I thought I’d share with you my adventures from last year—trying to get to Pensacola—in case you never had a beer with me after that series of unfortunate events and got to hear the whole you-can’t-make-this-stuff-up story.
I ALMOST made it out of Dallas that fateful afternoon, before all hell broke loose. The delay began with a flight attendant that didn’t show up, so we all had to wait for a backup attendant to show up, but by then the merry-go-round of delays had already begun. Long lines of planes, waiting to get de-iced prior to take off, stymied our forward progress. On the second attempt to leave, the push-car that moves the plane back away from the gate had a dead battery, so that caused another delay. Then the government got involved because the de-icing process had a lot of overspray that was landing on some new construction at the airport.
Yes, a government agency was also part of our delay. Actually, many of the delays for the planes to get out of Dallas. They halted the entire de-icing process for ALL planes, until they could figure out where to move the de-icing area for planes. As you might imagine, the government decision-makers didn’t exactly come to a quick resolution on that matter. Imagine that?
Bottom line is, after three separate boarding and deplaning efforts for this flight from Dallas to Pensacola, they ended up pulling the pin on the flight and canceling it shortly after 11pm—six hours past the original take-off time.
A call to the airline customer service department, as soon as I heard we were not going to make it to Pensacola, landed me on the next available flight the following day, with a scheduled departure in the early afternoon. Not exactly ideal, given the race festivities were already underway, but what could I do?
The adjoining hotel to the airport was plumb full. A call to various hotels in close proximity revealed they were full too. I decided to drop the hammer and go to get a rental car and just drive it. I was frustrated.
I waited for the car rental shuttle to come around for about 15 minutes in the icy cold. I ended up being the only passenger on the big shuttle bus and I was lost in my thoughts. Should I be trying to drive this potentially 10-hour trek at midnight, given that I had been up since 3:30am? The frustration of the situation was just spilling over and I was becoming convinced that I could do it, mostly just to get the hell out of Dallas.
It was then that I was jolted out of my thoughts—literally. The shuttle bus had been rear ended by another shuttle bus for a hotel. I can’t make this stuff up; the situation was spiraling out of control.
Sitting helpless on the shuttle bus, while we waited for the police and another shuttle to come and take me to the car rental office was my breaking point. I realized then that I was in absolutely NO condition to drive 10 hours to Pensacola, let alone through a monster ice storm that had engulfed the entire Dallas-Fort Worth area.
I was insane if I thought I could drive 10 hours to Pensacola after being awake for nearly 21 hours already. Upon reaching the car rental counter, I instead requested a phone number for a taxi. One of the slick guys behind said counter, hand wrote the number of his friend, who would “take good care of me.”
I’ll be honest here. That gave me the willies and not in a good way. Cold, tired and desperate, I dialed the number anyway.
“Hello?” he answered in his deep, thick-accented voice.
“Hi, I was given your name as a taxi driver to get a ride to…”
“I’m not working now,” and CLICK, he hung up on me!
All I could do at this point was to laugh like a maniacal idiot. Through the tears of insanity, rolling down my face, I spotted a taxi outside, as if it were waiting for me. I dashed out there to find a man and a woman, headed for a hotel. The two, who were strangers themselves, both on a plane bound for Oklahoma City, were in the middle of the same situation as me. Flight cancelled with few options. Only, they actually attempted to rent a car, but the person behind the counter said they could not take debit cards, only credit cards. And apparently, despite their debit card having the obvious logo of Visa on it—they were refused service. I felt for them. I shared my story of getting rear-ended on the shuttle bus and we all reveled in a kindred spirit of hatred toward the Dallas situation.
The cab ride was harrowing. When we finally arrived at the hotel, we found that it was perched on a steep incline, not suitable for navigating during an ice storm, but our cabbie was a real sport and gave it the “Dukes of Hazzard” try. By God, we made it up the driveway and slid to a stop in front of the entry way, where we piled out and tumbled into the hotel; our bodies about to give out on us.
The clock struck almost 1:15am when the hotel front desk man greeted us. He informed us that he only had one room left and it was the Jacuzzi suite. Lovely! He then announced that it would run us a whopping $109 for the “night.”
This was the point where I lost my marbles. I have no idea how I remained calm, but I did. I shared a euphemism about several things having been shoved sideways where they didn’t belong—repeatedly within the past 8 hours—and pretty much begged him to have mercy on three complete strangers who were willing to share a room—not for a night, but for a mere few hours, before we all had to hightail it back to the airport in the hopes of getting to our final destinations or fork out more money for a rental car that would cost far more than it should.
When I finished my little speech, he stood there slack-jawed and said, “I’ve never heard a situation described quite like that before. I’ll give you guys the room for $69.”
It was a small victory in a day that had quickly developed into the equivalent of any Minnesota Vikings’ football season.
I took a shower and put the same clothes back on, as that was all I had with me, because my husband took my suitcase with him in the race car hauler on Monday to Pensacola. (He also drove through a car wash with said suitcase in the open bed of his pickup, before leaving, but in the whole scheme of things, I guess that’s pretty minor now.)
I set up a text alert for my new flight to Pensacola before trying to sleep. Slumber was a fruitless effort. It is doubtful that I grabbed more than an hour and a half of actual sleep before I heard my cellphone vibrate with a text at 6am.
It was from American Airlines, letting me know that my new flight for Pensacola had also been cancelled. That was it. I needed to get to the car rental office and get driving NOW.
I asked the front desk if they were able to call a taxi for me. Nope, they don’t do that, but they did give me the phone number to call myself, which I tried. I was on hold for 15 minutes and then a couple and another man approached the front desk, and they too inquired about a cab.
I spoke up and asked if they were interested in sharing a cab, as I was in the process of getting one. They all brushed me off and while I’m not a racist, I certainly felt the disdain they directed at me, through their narrowed eyes set in their olive-colored faces.
Whatever. Hate on the white girl, just trying to be nice.
I gave up sitting on hold and called the taxi service back, noting the app they had, as being the “fastest way to get a taxi.” And they were right. I received a phone call to my cell about 2 minutes after booking it online.
The female taxi driver said she was about 10-minutes away from the hotel. I ventured outside and assessed the situation. I had forgotten about the steep hill access to the joint and I was wearing slick-soled, cowboy boots. Ugh. I ventured back inside and asked the front desk if I could have a garbage bag. They obliged.
Then my Christian heart turned to black. I spotted one of the rude taxi-seekers in the lobby, on the phone, trying to get through to get a ride. I considered inviting him to share my cab, but that consideration really only lasted approximately three seconds, as I dashed out the front door, leaving him to twist in his own frustration.
I called the cab lady back and discovered she was minutes away, so I told her to wait for me at the foot of the hotel driveway, as it was steep and completely covered in ice. I would come to her.
As I saw her approach, I folded the garbage bag into a big square. I placed it on the ice, sat down and put my backpack on my lap, before shoving off, sliding down the icy hill to the road.
When I climbed into the cab, my driver was laughing so hard, she could hardly speak. She said she had never witnessed anything like that before and it made her day. Because of that, she was only going to charge me a flat $20 for the ride, as we started toward the airport.
Within a matter of minutes, her in-car service device pinged, letting her know someone else was in need of a ride… from the same hotel. I knew immediately who it was. I asked her if we had to turn around to get the person. She informed me that there was no way she going to do that, after the effort I put forth to get to the rental car place! My smile was far too-pleased as we continued to crawl toward the airport, knowing that Mr. Rude was going to have to sit there and wait for at least another half hour. I gave my cabbie a $10 tip, trying to make up for my horrible thoughts regarding the other fare she was headed back to get.
It took 45 minutes to get my rental car. Mostly because I was tired of feeling completely screwed over by businesses who wanted to capitalize on all of the displaced travelers. I had a discount code for 15% that I had used when I booked my original reservation for a car in Pensacola. They couldn’t just “give me” the discount, as I had to book it myself online to take advantage of it.
So, there I stood at the counter, working on my cellphone, trying to book the rental with the discount. After repeated attempts with failing cell service, I finally just called their corporate offices. It took some serious cajoling and selling on my part, but I convinced the guy to help me book it over the phone, so I could get the discount. Going one-way with a rental car is a losing proposition for any traveler, so I was already getting boned on the deal. No sense adding insult to injury, right?
Finally, by 9:30am, I was prying the ice-clad rental vehicle open to begin the 10 hour drive. It was the last compact car in their fleet. There were only a handful of vehicles remaining for all of the car rental places from what I saw.
As I handed the lady at the gate my paperwork, she issued a huge warning to me to reconsider driving to Pensacola. I wanted to tell her to shut her pie hole, and that I was from Wisconsin–this is NOTHING, but instead I just smiled sweetly and said, “Bless your heart.”
And away I crept–45 miles-per-hour through the city, which resembled a graveyard of smashed vehicles along the road, askew in ditches. All makes and models, including three heavy duty trucks–a Ford, a Dodge and a Chevy. Perhaps NASCAR would’ve been pleased to see there was parity on the roadside.
One of the trucks had a ripped up front end, due to impact from the guardrail. I said a little prayer that whoever was involved was OK. There were several other cars along the road, spun out and abandoned and even a couple of semi trucks too. I continued to crawl along, praying to get to Pensacola in one piece. It felt like I was in some Hollywood zombie apocalypse movie. I was the ONLY person driving amongst the wreckage along the roads.
It took a total of three hours of driving to get out of the freezing rain. I cheered every time the outside temperature gauge read another degree over 32, as that meant a safer trek. God Bless Texas. They have a speed limit of 75 on the open highway, which was a beautiful thing, once the freezing rain was no longer an issue!
It rained almost the entire trip. I hate driving in the rain, but I hate driving in relentless hours of it worse. Time seemed to fly and surprisingly, despite not having enjoyed much sleep for nearly 48 hours, I was not tired, as I piloted the Toyota to Florida. It had been estimated to be a bit over ten hours for the drive, but I pulled into Five Flags Speedway in Pensacola just around nine and half hours; and that included two stops for fuel!
This year, I did not book my own travel for Pensacola. My good friend Nancy did. I’ll be flying down there with her and another friend, Laura. Three women, all planning to have cocktails on the flight down to Pensacola… that combination ALONE should make the prospects of travel MUCH better than my solo disastrous trip from last year!
Originally published in the Midwest Racing Connection
