I actually heard people gasp.
It was the gasps more than anything that told me I was in trouble.
I saw people turn their heads and gasp as they got ready to watch me spreadeagle myself and my suitcase all over the floor of Istanbul Airport.
Check in for my already boarding flight was in Zone H and the ticket desk was in Zone A. Given the nature and scale of new airports this meant I was looking at a distance best described in multiples of football pitches to get to where I needed to be… In 12 minutes.
And so I ran. I ran with my ticket and passport in one hand and my suitcase wheeling behind me in the other.
In a Virgin Atlantic advert this would have been a giddily romantic and sexy moment realised with the support of a Glamazonian underwear model with a 28 inch waist and hair waving behind him as he elegantly propelled himself through the quasi futuristic terminal of steel and moulded glass and into the embrace of Penelope Cruz or Jake Gyllenhall.
Instead Istanbul Ataturk Airport had to witness me. 2 stones overweight, balding, red faced enough from having my wintry European complexion exposed to a Southern Hemisphere autumn, in a rugby shirt that I’d been wearing for 24 hours and who hadn’t run in a year, huffing and puffing his way through a reluctantly parting crowd trailing a suitcase.
And then a gap opened and I went for gold. But my PE teachers exhortations to work my arms as well as my legs were disastrous, for as I hit top speed, I pulled my suitcase onto my heel, tripping me up…
As I felt my arm pulled suddenly out to my side with the centrifugal force of the kick that had connected with my case I saw my suitcase overtaking me, pulling my arm all the way in front of me. The leg that had connected with the suitcase ricocheted into my other leg knocking me off stride too.
That’s when I heard the gasps and saw the turning heads.
But something in me snapped. I WAS NOT GOING DOWN! NOT HERE, NOT LIKE THIS!
And with the words ‘Just do it’ ringing for some reason through my mind and the word “fuck” exclaimed from my lips, I somehow managed to land a foot clean on the floor. As I did so I also recovered composure enough in my arm to lift my suitcase off the floor and used my momentum not to hit the deck, but instead to keep going forward still at full sprint speed. After three steps when I realised I was back in balance I even managed then to flip my suitcase back onto it’s wheels and got it back behind me.
If any security guards at Istanbul Airport have this on cctv footage please do release it onto youtube. I’d like to see how I managed it!
I expected applause. I think the regaining of my balance was probably met more with disappointment than anything else. Who doesn't find seeing someone fall over tro be hilarious?
I realised I had by now reached Check in Zone G. I could see my check in zone ahead of me. There seemed to be a queue for economy, so I kept running right up to First Class check in and thrust the ticket in the surprised lady’s face and tried to splutter out the word ‘Tirana’ as I caught my breath.
‘Tirana’. But of course sir. Do you have any luggage to check in? Determined as I am to go hand luggage only when I travel alone, I was glad to tell her that I did not.
I was told to go to Gate 12. Albania… Here I come. Plan J was go!
It was the gasps more than anything that told me I was in trouble.
I saw people turn their heads and gasp as they got ready to watch me spreadeagle myself and my suitcase all over the floor of Istanbul Airport.
Check in for my already boarding flight was in Zone H and the ticket desk was in Zone A. Given the nature and scale of new airports this meant I was looking at a distance best described in multiples of football pitches to get to where I needed to be… In 12 minutes.
And so I ran. I ran with my ticket and passport in one hand and my suitcase wheeling behind me in the other.
In a Virgin Atlantic advert this would have been a giddily romantic and sexy moment realised with the support of a Glamazonian underwear model with a 28 inch waist and hair waving behind him as he elegantly propelled himself through the quasi futuristic terminal of steel and moulded glass and into the embrace of Penelope Cruz or Jake Gyllenhall.
Instead Istanbul Ataturk Airport had to witness me. 2 stones overweight, balding, red faced enough from having my wintry European complexion exposed to a Southern Hemisphere autumn, in a rugby shirt that I’d been wearing for 24 hours and who hadn’t run in a year, huffing and puffing his way through a reluctantly parting crowd trailing a suitcase.
And then a gap opened and I went for gold. But my PE teachers exhortations to work my arms as well as my legs were disastrous, for as I hit top speed, I pulled my suitcase onto my heel, tripping me up…
As I felt my arm pulled suddenly out to my side with the centrifugal force of the kick that had connected with my case I saw my suitcase overtaking me, pulling my arm all the way in front of me. The leg that had connected with the suitcase ricocheted into my other leg knocking me off stride too.
That’s when I heard the gasps and saw the turning heads.
But something in me snapped. I WAS NOT GOING DOWN! NOT HERE, NOT LIKE THIS!
And with the words ‘Just do it’ ringing for some reason through my mind and the word “fuck” exclaimed from my lips, I somehow managed to land a foot clean on the floor. As I did so I also recovered composure enough in my arm to lift my suitcase off the floor and used my momentum not to hit the deck, but instead to keep going forward still at full sprint speed. After three steps when I realised I was back in balance I even managed then to flip my suitcase back onto it’s wheels and got it back behind me.
If any security guards at Istanbul Airport have this on cctv footage please do release it onto youtube. I’d like to see how I managed it!
I expected applause. I think the regaining of my balance was probably met more with disappointment than anything else. Who doesn't find seeing someone fall over tro be hilarious?
I realised I had by now reached Check in Zone G. I could see my check in zone ahead of me. There seemed to be a queue for economy, so I kept running right up to First Class check in and thrust the ticket in the surprised lady’s face and tried to splutter out the word ‘Tirana’ as I caught my breath.
‘Tirana’. But of course sir. Do you have any luggage to check in? Determined as I am to go hand luggage only when I travel alone, I was glad to tell her that I did not.
I was told to go to Gate 12. Albania… Here I come. Plan J was go!
I can hear the Chariots of Fire soundtrack in my head!!! Well done!
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