autopilot and cruise control

Fri Jul-29th-2005 // Filed under: Random Crap

Take me back to airport city
where the glass is clean, girls fresh, real pretty
Giant Robot, “Airport City”

Copenhagen again. It’s a layover. It’s a state of mind. Wireless net connection/sitting down/people milling about — I’m here/not here/busy/doing nothing.

It’s a layover. It’s a chunk of my life in limbo.

Yesterday:

The offroad Honda Pilot looks vaguely flimsy. It looks like a rollcage on wheels. I’m strapped in, the four-point harness tight and restrictive, my hands tied to the wheel to keep them from flailing out in case I fuck up and roll; the helmet cuts out my peripheral vision, visor stained with sweat and yellow paint. Everything sounds far away, except my own breath.

At the touch of the gas, it moves. Acceleration slams me into the seat. The wheels dig up chunks of grass, but there’s traction — they told me it stops on a dime if I hit both the front and rear breaks, and I almost believe it — peripheral vision/dirty visor becomes non-issue — I move. When I hit the tight curve, I need to twist the wheel hard — no power steering here — the wheels try for the path of least resistance. I shoot out of the bushes into the open. I hear a couple of distant impacts from paintballs — the previous guy got a salvo right into his helmet — but I don’t really have time to worry about it because I clear the fire zone in a second, or so it feels. Another turn; I clear the bump and feel the front suspension take the impact, hit the breaks and turn, feel the Gs tearing at me as the rear end whips around and then finds traction again, and then the Pilot shoots forward again and I’m still not sure if I’m really using everything the engine’s got…

I don’t even have a driver’s license.

They must be breaking some kind of a rule here — these events are supposed to be awkward and mutually embarrassing, full of corporate fun based on vague feelings of humiliation and dressing up like idiots in some inane scenario that leaves everyone hoping that it’ll end soon and people can get started with the real business of getting so drunk that they can forget what just happened, at least for a short while.

Not here. This is stupid, but it’s fun. It’s fucking awesome.

Today:

It’s Copenhagen. Tired. Empty. There are things I could do, but nothing worthwhile. I sit and I wait.

Five more hours. Unless the plane is late.

It’s a layover. It’s a chunk of my life in limbo.

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