In 1997 I ventured north, to Brainerd Minnesota for their big-show NHRA event. Ten years prior, John Hughes directed the film classic Planes Trains and Automobiles (John Candy, Steve Martin) and my trip to the land of 10,000 lakes mirrored the theme of that film, in terms of transport. A one car family, we were, and I could hardly take it to the drag races. Not very ‘Ward Cleaver’ of me, you know? (“Hey Honey, if one of the kids falls and splits his skull open, spit on it and rub some dirt in it, be back Monday, LUV-YA!”) Travel accommodations included, in no particular order, two Greyhound buses, a flight on Northwest Airlines (more on this in a bit) a lift from some friends, and I believe a cab dropping me off at the Blue Ox Inn. (yes, there is such a place) The race was a great time, and all good things must come to an end. But while Chicago is definitely south of Minneapolis, south is where the trip abruptly turned, as I sat on the tarmac at the airport. When a plane has sat motionless for around twenty minutes, whatever follows an announcement starting with “Attention passengers” is never good. And in this case, we were being told that severe weather had set in, and we were returning to the terminal. Rhutt-Row. Cell phones of the era were not the exclusive domain of the rich, but we sure as heck didn’t have one. Back in the terminal, which now looks as peaceful as the deck of the Titanic, people are losing their minds. I crowd my way through a mosh-pit of people because I see a clerk waving tickets aloft. Cashing in on being six-four, I ‘Costanza’ my way to the front of the mess and snap one up. Juggling my cameras, which were carry-on (luggage will stay stranded in Northwests hands for about a week) I haul ass to the new gate. With minutes to spare, I hit a pay phone and with a dwindling amount of coins, try to call the wife. Try, and fail. Turns out, in the flurry of activity before I left the little woman (she took the kids with her to Grammas for the weekend) she jotted down the phone number incorrectly. Never mind that I am now on a United, going to O’Hare, even if I WAS on the Northwest heading to Midway, nobody will know I’m there! Did you ever see Twilight Zone: The Movie? Nightmare at 20,000 Feet? That is what the flight home looked like (there may have actually BEEN a demon on the wing, luckily I did not have a window seat) Bucking, weaving, non-stop lightning…we never even got to unbuckle, and suffice to say there was NO beverage cart (they’d have done a brisk business, TRUST ME) After an eternity of feeling like we were ‘James Bonds martinee’, shaken not stirred, we touched down at O’Hare, to a thunderous round of applause. Fearing ‘gang-homies’, or rats, or both, I climb atop a luggage carousel and wrapped my arms and legs around my cameras and await for sunrise. So, here’s the scene, I’m stranded at a place where “no one knows my name” ( a Boston bar would have been much better) with about two bucks in change in my pocket. Never mind being a big, grown up thirty-nine year old man, I’m screwed, so I swallow my pride and call on my oldest friend in the world for help. About ninety minutes later, Dad comes rolling up in his trusty Ford, a quizzical look on his face as my rumpled, smelly ass gets in the car. “What in the Hell happened to you?” he justifiably asks? ‘Dad, it’s a long story….’