Sunrise in PA

Sunrise in the hills of Northeastern PA

I walked along a country road this morning just after first light. It is my habit to take a little time most mornings to escape technology and connect with the beauty and quiet calm of the morning sunrise. 

This was a cool early Fall morning with a slight chill in the light breeze. I pulled on my old, soft, brown leather jacket and grabbed an old baseball cap as I walked out the door with a mug of hot coffee in my hand.

I walked alone along the lake road.  Only the sound of my footfalls on the hardpacked gravel disturbed the quiet hush of the morning.  The fresh, crisp air tickled my lungs, and I took a deep breath, slowly releasing it and enjoying the refreshing feeling.

I sipped my coffee as I walked, looking through the woods into the eastern sky.  There was an iridescent red backdrop to the tangled grove of pine trees and scrub brush growing from the road and up a small hill. The forest was dark, but the rising light in the sky silhouetted the trees and highlighted their tops with the crimson hue of predawn light.

It took me only a few minutes to walk to the main road and up the small hill, where I had an expansive view of the land. The sky had already changed character, but it was beautiful nonetheless. I stood on the crest of the hill, mesmerized by the spectacle of the morning sky, now a pastel pink, subtly morphing to blue with pale pink and bright white clouds. The horizon in the distance had the bright orange color of the rising sun beginning to crest the distant hills.

I stood quietly, a lone spectator of nature's opening act. The coffee mug warmed my hands, its steam mingling with my breath in the chilly air. The rich aroma of fresh-brewed coffee blended with the earthy scents of damp leaves and moist soil. As I gazed at the horizon, the wonder of this beauty settled upon me, a daily miracle often taken for granted.

I imagined the earliest inhabitants of this land witnessing the same sunrise, their lives tied closely to these rhythms of light and season. At that moment, I felt a connection across time, a shared awe at the grandeur of the natural world. But the ever-present pull of today's responsibilities and tasks stirred me from my reverie.

The cool breeze nipped at my reddened cheeks, and its chill began cutting through the warmth of my old leather jacket. It was time to move. As I walked back, I finished my coffee and felt a renewed appreciation for the quiet power of mornings like this, small moments that ground me in the beauty of nature, maybe the antidote for the craziness that has become modern life.

Antigo Morning

It is a remarkable fall morning. The air is cool and crisp, and the morning sun is bright in the cloudless blue sky.

These beautiful fall mornings always bring back memories of my grandmother's house in Antigo, Wisconsin. I don't know why that is. I don't recall ever being there in the fall as we would have been back to school in Detroit by September, but stepping out into the morning light, inhaling the fresh, clean air that chills my lungs while the sun simultaneously warms my face, always makes me think of Grandma Mac and her house in Antigo.   

Looking around, I see some leaves have fallen from many trees and covered the grass. There is work to do to clean up to prepare for winter, but the distinct earthy smell of fall excites me as I think of warm sweaters and cozy, breezy nights by the fire. I am also transported back in time to summer vacations in Wisconsin.

I love this regular reminder of my grandmother and her home in northern Wisconsin.   She was a woman of the earth, a gardener. She nurtured her rose garden, tended her blueberry bushes, and composted her raspberry bushes with great care. It was common for her to send us grandchildren out to the garden, each with our own bowl in hand, to collect a personally curated mix of fruit for breakfast. We would return with a bowl of blueberries, strawberries, and raspberries, and she would pour cream into the bowl, creating a white blanket over the multi-colored berries. There was no cereal, though a pot of freshly cooked oatmeal was often ready for those hungry grandsons as we got older and needed more substance to fill our bellies.  

Grandma's kitchen had a cedar closet near the dining room table. She called it her "Fiber McGee closet."  At the time, I had no idea why she called it that, but I heard years later that it had something to do with an old radio show. It was a large, at least to my memory, dark, walk-in closet that always, even in summer, smelled of cedar, wool coats, deer hunting, and the outdoor activities of men. When I was young, over my grandmother's half-hearted protests, I used to explore the closet, experience those scents, and feel the well-worn, plaid woolen work coats, denim coveralls and faded camouflage hunting jackets once worn by my grandfather or uncles, perhaps even my dad. Hats were hung about here and there, along with mittens and scarves. I could be transported back in time, like through the wardrobe of a CS Lewis novel, and imagine my Grandpa, whom I never knew, grabbing a jacket and leaving for work in his overalls and workboots that still sit in the closet's dark corners. I could sense my uncles returning home after a successful hunting excursion and hanging the hats and scarves on hooks deep in the closet. That may be why the earthy smell of fall reminds me so much of her house. It was perpetually fall in the Fibber-McGee closet.

Grandma Mac's house also had a canning room to the right of the bottom of the basement stairs. It had shelves lined with canned fruits and sauces, empty glass canning jars, and long wooden work benches. I only recall a small window near the ceiling that let a little sun during certain times of the day. It, too, had a damp, musty, earthy smell. The canned fruit on the wooden shelves, cardboard boxes of empty jars, and sacks of potatoes on the floor gave the room dark accents against the white concrete walls, much like the color of the brown leaves on the green grass this morning. The colors may also be a trigger for my memories.

The air in Antigo always seemed clean and crisp. Coming from Detroit, noticeably improved air quality was a low bar, evident even to a youngster like myself. This Northern Wisconsin town was far from any urban population and was mostly farmland. Grandma's house was surrounded by a large potato farm on two sides. Unless we arrived when the farms fertilized the fields with manure, which Dad seemed to appreciate far more than we did, the air always seemed fresh. We also did a lot more running and playing outdoors with our cousins than we might typically do back home, so the sheer quantity of fresh air moving through our little lungs was much higher, and our bodies burned the clean fuel like a Formula One race car. 

For whatever reason, when I experience a fall morning like this, finding myself in the confluence of fresh, crisp air, bright sunlight, and the warm, earthy smell of leaves needing to be raked. I will allow my excitement to rise a little and revel in my memories of Grandma Mac, my cousins, and our summer vacations in Antigo.

Quiet writing time

This is one of those times when I have a half-dozen essays started, and I intended to take this time to work on one of them, but I am struck by the beauty of the moment and feel compelled to try to describe it.

I worked hard this morning.  I did an hour at the gym, then came out to the lake to mow the grass.  The weather has been wet and warm, so the grass was long and shaggy, like my hair in the 1970s.  It was so thick in some places that the lawn tractor struggled.  I got through it, though.  It made a second pass over the lawn with the push mower to clean up the clippings, so I got my steps in, too. Now it is time to relax. 

I decided to grab an Adirondack chair and sit out on the dock.  The temperature is cool, and a light hoodie strikes a reasonable balance between cozy and a little warm. A light breeze blows across the lake, just a note of coolness, like opening the refrigerator on a hot afternoon. The air is clear, fresh, and light.  There is no humidity to weigh it down.

The sky is mostly overcast, with thicker, darker clouds accenting the blue-grey canvas. Every so often, there is a momentary break where the sun peeks through and brightens the landscape, but just a moment later, it retreats behind the blanket of clouds.

Some days, the lake is like glass, reflecting the trees and shoreline like a mirror.  Today, it has a different texture, dimpled like the surface of a golf ball.  It seems to be in constant motion, yet not going anywhere.  If there were more sunshine, it would shimmer off the surface.  Without it, the movement of the water is more sensed than seen.

It is very quiet here.   The most notable noise is the lapping of the water as it is blown by the breeze against the rocks on the shoreline. The birds are calling to one another.  The songs are familiar, but I can't connect them to any particular species.   The musical notes are beautiful nonetheless.

I am surrounded by peace, my mind is quiet and calm.  My soul is still.  I am content.

 

Thoughts on Retirement

At the end of August 2024, I will retire after a 40-year career, 27 at iA and 13 years before that at IBM/Loral/Lockheed.  It is a time of retrospection and introspection.  As I processed the emotions associated with the significance of this event, I decided to write down some of my thoughts.  The exercise unintentionally turned into a retirement speech, though it is pretty unlikely I will say any of this out loud, let alone to an audience.  It was a worthwhile activity for me to sort out some things, so I will put it here and invite anyone to read it if they are interested.  I hope these thoughts resonate with some of my colleagues. Perhaps these thoughts may even, if you will indulge my pretentiousness for a moment, inspire others who may be interested in a glimpse of the roads we’ve traveled through the eyes of one of the travelers.  Feel free to comment if you care to.  Let me be clear that these are my personal thoughts and may not reflect iA’s position on any particular topic (...the Compliance Officer in me has not left the building quite yet 😉) 

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Farewell to my Colleagues

Most retirement speeches have a common theme of “...missing the people most”. For me, this rings true in many ways. I will undoubtedly miss the incredible individuals I’ve had the privilege to know and respect. I have spent countless hours with some of you, maybe more than you’ve spent with your children in some cases. We have worked hard together, and I am grateful for the depth of friendship forged through common dedication and commitment. I count you among my dearest friends. I will cherish these relationships and wish each of you happiness and success in whatever form and measure you find meaningful.

The Heart of iA

Logo circa 1997

If I’m being honest, what I’ll miss even more is the sense of purpose I’ve had at iA. This personal commitment to a common cause, to developing valuable products in an honorable industry, has been deeply fulfilling. For me, it has been much more than a job. Executing our mission to create products that empower pharmacy staff to deliver medications to more patients has not only improved efficiency but also prevented mistakes, and that has saved lives. In the early days, I remember reviewing the system logs with our resident pharmacist.  We would look at the errors our software prevented, and he would tell me which were trivial and which could have resulted in serious harm. This gave me a concrete understanding of the importance of what we developed.  Our early customers found as much value in the safety and accountability protocols our products enforced as in the additional efficiency they gained. My favorite comment to hear from a customer was, “...I can sleep at night knowing the system is double-checking everything.” Supporting this mission for 27 years has been an honor and a privilege.

Growing with iA

If you understand the culture at iA, then you already know that developing our products here is a little like raising children.  We care a lot, and we never stop caring, even when it is hard or inconvenient.  When I arrived, we only had a few products, which were small and simple compared to what we have today. I fully bought into becoming part of the team that would nurture these products. From guiding the software through its early, shaky steps to some sleepless nights working through the challenges that came with our first big systems, I’ve always cared deeply and done whatever I could to give our products life in the market and help to constantly improve them in important ways. It was hard work with long hours, and while in the midst of it, I didn’t realize how fortunate I was, but looking back, I see it clearly. 

Logo circa 2005

I was one of many caretakers and guardians who helped this company along its way, and I am somewhat envious of those who will continue the quest. I’m confident that our amazing team will continue to build upon the foundation and culture established in those early days.  Today, I feel like I did while dancing with my daughter at her wedding. I was thrilled as I considered her future with her new husband, but I also felt a little melancholy knowing my role in her future had changed.

The Road Ahead

Harry Boyer, our founder, often spoke of his vision for iA: creating jobs to do meaningful and rewarding work with significant impact. We were a small team back then, and today, I can see we’ve achieved so much. I’m proud of our growth and that iA has provided a rare opportunity for people to be part of a flourishing manufacturing business. The opportunity to participate in launching this business and the chance to make a difference in our communities is a gift.  It was my good fortune that it was offered to me, and I was able to take advantage of it.  I am grateful.  The opportunities for the future are now in your hands, a gift to you from Harry.  It is like a small sapling from an oak tree.  Tend to it and nurture this opportunity because as it grows, it will naturally produce more for others.  We intend to plant a forest.  

My career has taken me along some twisty and bumpy roads. Let’s keep it real, I know the road ahead does not get any easier.  There will be challenges and problems, setbacks and disasters.  Some of these will frighten you and keep you awake at night, like when our first system was pulled out of the store or when the manufacturing plant was under eight feet of water. But you can be assured that the sun will rise the next day, and you will work through the issues.  Inspiration will come, opportunities will open up, and things will get back on track.  It won’t be easy, but it will be exciting, and it will be worth it.

Helping to grow this business has been one of the most significant endeavors of my life. I hope it will be for you.  I encourage you to take the time to reflect on what our continued success will mean for our customers, our community, and our employees. Understand your connection to our work and its importance. Work together and respect each other for what we each can contribute.  Embrace the challenges, as frightening as they might be, and take bold action.  Harry often said, “A faint heart never won a fair lady.”

A Challenge for the Future

I love a good football analogy, so I’ll leave you with this: hold the ball high and tight and keep driving it down the field. Our opponents are formidable, but with dedication and teamwork, you’ll score. One score won’t win this game, though: it requires consistent effort and winning on every down. Build more and build it better, invent more and faster, be creative, focus on understanding and solving the real problems, and above all, keep the patients safe.  Be a team on the field and in the locker room.  That is how you’ll win. That is how this company will thrive.  

Harry’s vision was for iA to follow in the footsteps of IBM, Endicott-Johnson, Link, and others that had their start in the Binghamton area.  You have the foundation, the tools, and the team to achieve that and even more.

For me, it’s time to focus on other important relationships and tasks that have long been second priorities in a world of crisis management. I leave iA satisfied and proud of what we’ve accomplished. Vince Lombardi once said, “Any man’s finest hour is that moment when he has worked his heart out in a good cause and lies exhausted on the field of battle—victorious.” My finest hour is behind me, but I leave knowing I’ve been part of a good cause, something significant.

As I move on, I challenge each of you... I dare each of you to commit to taking iA to the next level, regardless of the bends and bumps in the road.  Do it knowing it will require courage, creativity, focus, and an unwavering belief in achieving success. Do it knowing that it matters. I’ll be watching, rooting, and praying for your success. I will miss contributing but will rejoice in your achievements from the sidelines.

Best of luck to all of you.

- Tim

Eclipse 2024

Air B&B for Eclipse Weekend 4/8/24

 The word I will not miss after this year is "totality."

A total lunar eclipse viewable in a swath of the northeast occurred on Monday, April 8th, Barb's birthday.  Almost a year prior, in preparation, she booked an Air B&B in Kent, NY, on the shore of Lake Ontario.  Even a year ahead, there were few choices. Still, Barb found a wonderful little cottage right in the middle of the eclipse's path of totality.  

We arrived Saturday morning.  Jen came out from Buffalo, Nicole (known as Nikki until recently) came up from Brockport, and Cheryl and Kyle came in from Syracuse. Eric, Eileen (6mo pregnant with the child we now know as Joan), and my grandson Alfie came up from New Jersey (the day after their earthquake).  So, on Saturday evening, we had the whole gang together.  I cherish the times when I have everyone under one roof.   We sat together on the large front porch into the evening, talking and laughing.  It reminded me a little of the stories my grandmother used to tell me of when all the kids would come home with their spouses or significant others.  My great-grandmother would wheel the piano onto the front porch, and great-grandpa Gremminger would pull out the fiddle, and there would be dancing into the twilight hours. 

Eventually, it began to get late, and Jen wanted to head back to Buffalo (an hour's drive), and Nikki wanted to head back to campus (20 minutes away). Everyone wanted to get into place before the big event on Monday. The cautions from news reports on the potential for terrible traffic on Sunday and particularly on Mondy had everyone a little spooked. By Saturday night, without incident, everyone was settled into place.

Sunday was a beautiful day, uneventful and relaxing, if a little cool.  It was a sunny day, though the prospects for Monday were looking cloudy, perhaps overcast. The discussion about the relative advantages of being in "totality" in a cloudy place versus seeing something short of "totality" on a clear day continued most of the day. We came to the conclusion that all anyone knows is that being in the "totality" is way cooler than not, regardless of the cloud cover.

Sunrise on Eclipse Day

As I began to write the outline for this essay on Monday morning of Eclipse Day, I found it interesting to think about the celestial bodies, huge things, things I have little knowledge about, barreling through space at over 2,000 miles an hour aligning for about 4 minutes (a measurement that itself is derived from their movement) and continuing their predictable path not to line up the same way again in my lifetime.  I had no expectations of the event.  I heard stories of the last eclipse, but they didn't stir my curiosity. 

Monday morning was cold, cloudy, and breezy. It even started to drizzle slightly. Since it was not conducive to picnicking, I was hopeful that there would be fewer potential crowds.

Early in the day, people were milling around, but not as many as I expected. Some cars were parked along the road, but no more than the previous day. This seemed to be enough of an out-of-the-way place to reduce the number of people.

I sat on the front porch and relaxed. After a while, I noticed more vehicles begin to arrive.   A parking lot for the boat launch was a short block away, and it started filling up, but not as quickly as I expected.   From the parking lot, there was a clear view of the horizon and a small park, so I expected a crowd.  It was chilly, and a damp breeze blew over the lake onto the shore.  Since we could walk to the parking lot, we took our time getting ready to walk over to our best vantage point.   Since it was cold, hats, gloves, and heavy jackets were the uniform of the day. Ten or twenty people were hanging around by the time we walked over, but it was nothing like the crowd I expected.

The sun was somewhere in the sky, but was hidden by dreary gray, overcast clouds. There was not a sky in the clouds, as my mother would have said.  It was a disappointment, but all accounts I read suggested that experiencing totality under overcast conditions would be more fascinating than witnessing it in near totality on a clear day.  We noticed the sky begin to darken, and when we looked up to the clouds, we caught a quick glimpse of the early crescent, but the clouds quickly swallowed it up.

Alfie was not impressed

We stood on a little fishing deck at the water's edge in the harbor, trying to stay warm, wondering how this would play out.  Just a little before 3:20pm, the light began to fade quickly.  We didn't notice any difference in the temperature, as we were already cold.  The darkness descending in the area was unmistakable and eerie.  We could see the light on the horizon beyond the edge of the moon's shadow on the Earth.  Where we stood, it got dark, much more so than I had expected.  Suddenly, it was like night.  Even though the cloud cover mostly blocked the view of the moon and sun interacting, the darkness was remarkable.  A few minutes later, it was daylight again. 

One of the most surprising things to me was that I felt like I had pulled an all-nighter for the rest of the day.   My mind kept telling me that there had been a cycle of day to night to dawn, and I had not slept.  The fact that the "sunrise" was in a different place wasn't relevant to the equation.  I wasn't even that physically tired, but I had the same endorphin high that comes with dawn after working all night on a project or seeing the sunrise after being up all night with a sick child.  

Actual Sunset on April 8th, 2024

In the evening, the sky cleared, and we were treated to a beautiful sunset. 

 

It was certainly an experience. Jen and Nikki had different experiences that did not include the overcast sky, and I was happy for them. Everyone got home without too many traffic issues. Even Cheryl and Kyle, who left Monday evening, got home without much of an issue. Friends who went to Syracuse for the day told me that returning to Binghamton was a traffic nightmare.

Barb and I left Tuesday morning.   I really enjoyed the experience but mostly enjoyed having my family around.   

Morning Workout

CJ Indoor Track.

I wanted to write today, but I was struggling with a topic. When that happens, I turn to one constant in my life, running. The annual Binghamton Bridge Run Half Marathon (13.1 miles) race is on May 5th, 2024. I am less ready this year than in any of the previous twelve I've run. I have struggled with my training for several reasons, some perennial and some new. This year, I have struggled with a knee problem that seems to be resolving. Yes, just 30 days before the race.

I have resigned myself to the inevitable. This will likely be the slowest half-marathon I've run*. I'm okay with that. I still have two weeks to see what I can do to build endurance.  There is little I can realistically do to affect my speed at this point. If I work diligently and carefully, I may make some progress. If I press too hard, I'll re-injure myself. In any training plan, the first goal is to get to the start line healthy. The second goal is to cross the finish line. I haven't established a time goal yet, but I'll be satisfied to finish around 2:10. I once ran this race in1:40:48 (averaging 8:27/mile). That is far out of reach this year. Maybe next year. Even a 2:10 will depend on many variables I cannot control. The weather is chief among them. It is not uncommon to have a rainy Bridge Run, and the temperature can be very unpredictable.

Setting all of that aside is challenging but essential. I need to focus on the workout time I have before me. One workout I have tried to reintroduce to my routine now that my knee is more or less cooperating is the 6x800 at race pace (which will be in the neighborhood of 9:10/mile). This should be easy, and it may be. I've opted to run them inside on the indoor track at the Court Jester Athletic Club (the gym I belong to) because the weather outside is rainy, and it is dark at 5:30am. This morning, I decided that the challenges of the indoor track are more acceptable than those associated with being outside or on a treadmill.

The fundamental challenge with the indoor track at CJ is that it is 16 laps to a mile. There is a banked, 180-degree turn at each end of the track. So you run, hard-turn, run, hard-turn... ~8 times to do an ~800-meter (roughly a half-mile) distance. That is a lot of circles, and by the time you get a good stride along the straight part, you are almost into the turn, even at my expected, relatively slow, 9:10 pace. 

In the center of the track is an area for free-weight lifting. On the outside, there are two workout rooms and a drinking fountain. The combination results in foot traffic crossing the track at both ends on the corners.  This is another challenge with the indoor track. It is essential to pay attention to avoid collisions, which sometimes messes with your pace (both the avoidance and occurrence). Everyone tries to be aware of the potential for collision, so it usually isn't a problem, but it still requires mindful observation.

The track has two lanes. The inside lane is intended for walking, and the outside lane is intended for running. Presumably, the outside lane was used to calculate 16 laps/mile. The lanes are narrow and only two people can be accommodated abreast on the track. This can occasionally be problematic when you run and come up behind two people walking side by side or a slower runner passing a walker. Generally, people are considerate and try to stay out of each other's way, but because of the tight quarters, there is still a constant state of awareness required here that is not required on an outdoor track. Zoning out to music isn't a wise move here.

I stand looking at the track. I warmed up with a mile on the treadmill, getting my blood flowing, and the morning coffee's caffeine is sharpening my focus. My water bottle rests on the windowsill at the track's edge. A little old-time rock and roll is playing in my right earbud (I prefer to use just one when I'm indoors). My Garmin watch is set, ready to log my statistics and alert me if my pace moves off plan. All that's left is to press start. The hardest part of any intense workout is starting. I hesitate a moment longer and do a quick mental check-in with my knee; it seems sturdy enough. I plan to work hard, but the transition from the relative comfort of this moment to the stress of the workout is the part I dread the most. Once the body is committed, the mental focus takes over, and the doubt dissipates. I just need to get busy.

 I take a deep breath. A thousand rationalizations for aborting this workout flood through my mind. I'm accustomed to ignoring those inner demons, so I turn to look at the clock. The old adage "If you don't get started, you'll never finish" comes to mind, so I jog toward my starting point and press the start button on my Garmin watch as I cross it.

I start on the back straight part of the track. This first length of the track seems short. Gramin is already telling me that my pace is faster than planned. I feel energized; I feel fast. I know this won't last. I heed the electronic recommendation and ease up. There's no sense burning up in the first 1/16th of a mile. Starting too fast is a rookie error, one that I regularly make.

When I start, I'm the only one on the track. As I round the first of many 180 turns this morning, I cut the corner a little, dropping into the waking lane for a few steps. This eases the stress on my hips and then I can accelerate back to pace along the next straight section. This doesn't work well when others are on the track, so staying alert is key.

I accelerate again, noting that Gramin continues complaining that my pace is faster than the target. I make minor adjustments to my stride and pace as I look for the rhythm that keeps me at the target pace.  By the 6th lap, my adrenaline is under control, and I have settled into a cruising pace that is nearly on the mark, though there is a variance at the turns.  By lap 8, I'm out of breath, but feeling pretty good. I'm into it now. My knee feels sturdy. I walk for the first half of the 3-minute rest period, then move to an easy jog as I prepare for the start of the next interval.

The next interval goes well, and I dial in the pace more quickly, but also struggle to maintain it in the last couple of laps. This is where the work begins. There are now a few more people around: one or two on the track in the walking lane and a few crossing the track to move between rooms. I have to stay aware of where everyone is, and I hope they will do the same. It's time to get the work done.

*Author's note: I am finishing this essay well after finishing the race I was training for. My half-marathon time was 2:16:47. It is not my slowest, but it is close. I am publishing this just a few weeks before my 2025 race. That will be another story.

United We Fly

Early Morning at 35,000 feet

The flight from Syracuse to Chicago boarded well before sunrise.  While there were a handful of morning people who fully embraced the early hour as I do, the balance slogged along, anxious to catch a nap once we got airborne.   After the boarding ritual was completed, safety briefings given, and taxi/takeoff behind us, the plane became quiet as we ascended into the darkness of the morning sky with only the steady hum of the jet engines audible to the few passengers still awake. 

Morning flights have their own character.  It is dark in the cabin, with seatbelt signs and random cell phones glowing like night lights up and down the aisle. This morning the sun seems to be straining to rise, shedding just barely enough light to expose the thick, charcoal-gray cloud layer below us.  The deep rich color of the blanket reminds me of my favorite suit but the cloud deck also looks dense and cold. The flight crew is quiet and the cabin is calm and still.  I open my tablet and immerse myself in the latest Clancy novel, occasionally checking my watch and reminding myself that our destination is in a different time zone.

A slight change in the engine noise is the first indication that we'll soon be descending into the murky, cold, cloud layer.   I'm familiar with the routine.  This is the time for me to stow my tablet and take advantage of the opportunity for some quiet reflection. It is surreal when I consider that traveling at more than 300mph, 35,000 feet above the earth provides an opportunity for quiet reflection.

For all the stress, discomfort, and anxiety travel evokes in me, the one thing I almost always appreciate is the quiet darkness of an early morning flight.  There are no conversations, not even whispers that can be heard over the buzz of the engines. Most people seem to be taking advantage of this chance to rest for an hour or so before entering the pandemonium of a major hub airport on a Monday morning. 

It's getting a little chilly in the cabin, but reasonable I suppose when I consider what the frigid temperature must be outside the airplane. The plane is not full and several of us have the rare luxury of a two-seat row to ourselves.  In those cases, the sleeping passengers are huddled across both seats and covered with a jacket or sweater.

The claustrophobic nature of the modern commercial airplane is hidden by the darkness, and being out of sight doesn't contribute to my anxiety.  The armrest height, however, is just wrong enough to cause stress in my shoulders, neck, and back. I roll my shoulders back and forth and extend my neck left and right, feeling the pleasant stretch. I work at stretching until I feel the familiar crack and get a moment of relief before my anatomy retakes its more natural form and the muscle ache returns.

The captain breaks the silence, making the first announcement, almost in a whisper, informing those awake that our anticipated arrival is 20 minutes or so.  This coincides with the ding for seatbelts, and some bumps and jostling as the plane encounters the initial wisps of moisture at the top of the cloud layer.  All hints of the sunrise disappear as we begin to descend into the overcast winter sky above Chicago.  The sun will stay above thick clouds and our destination is below.

My ears, natural altimeters, begin to ache.  I know this means we are changing altitude.  The flight attendant's announcement that we are on final approach to O'Hare confirms my physical prognostication of the event.  I know that the pressure will build until a few minutes after we land. At some point (usually during the taxi to the gate) the pressure suddenly equalizes, and feels almost as if my ears sigh with relief in thankfulness of being back on the ground. For now, I manage the situation with short swallows and yawns, releasing just enough pressure to keep the discomfort tolerable. 

The airplane slowly tilts to the left, then a little right, and again back left.  Now it settles back into a level decent.  This sequence repeats a couple of times and I imagine the pilots simultaneously lining up with the runway and reducing latitude.  The control surfaces deploy with the sound of a power drill and I hear the unmistakable, reassuring whooshing sound of landing gear entering into the slipstream.  When I hear the small metallic thump as they lock into place I release the breath I wasn't even aware I was holding.  Landing a plane has got to be a complicated job.  I miss the days when the airline made the conversations between the pilots and the ground control available as a channel on the plane's entertainment systems.  The professional, routine interactions always put me at ease.

After a few minutes the aircraft, weighing tens of thousands of pounds,  moving at over 100 miles per hour meets the solid surface of the runway.  The result is an anticlimatic bump and a little jostling as we reengage with Terra-firma. The physics of that meeting always amazes me because nothing breaks as often as it seems it should. I guess it's due to that independence of vertical and horizontal momentum I vaguely recall from my high school physics class.  The sudden roar of the engines in reverse thrust grabs my attention and I wonder how long a runaway is exactly.  The engines' return to near idle signals success in arresting the horizontal momentum and we begin to move along at a speed that might be typical of a car driving down a neighborhood street.

Taxing to the gate seems to take as long as the flight.  I look at the grey morning out the starboard side window.  It looks so cold.  There are white layers of snow between the gray salt-stained taxiways.  We ride through a sea of construction sites each with its own heavy equipment, some lighted and surrounded by men dressed to spend the day in the cold, while others sit dormant and abandoned.  Large drainage cylinders are scattered everywhere, looking like giant children's playthings scattered around its giant backyard.

Eventually, we make our way to the gate and are marshaled into the parking spot.  The energy in the cabin and anxiety go from 0 to 60 when the final ding of the flight sounds and the seatbelt light goes out, signaling the start of the rat race.  At the sound of the bell, almost all aisle seat passengers pop out of their seats in a choreographed motion, opening overhead bins, and donning heavy winter coats, jostling for position and space in the already crowded aisle.  

The jetbridge operator makes the obligatory two-knock signal, the boarding door is opened and fresh, cool air fills the cabin.  Each row of passengers takes their place in the line to file off the plane and head to the next leg of their journey. 

This is my only flight today.   My business is in Chicago.  I walk up into the terminal building and head toward the blueline train to make my way to the Loop and a rendezvous with the team to begin our meetings.  In a few days, I will repeat this in reverse.