The 40 minute pedal jumper flight carrying a pilot and three passengers from Burning Man to Reno Airport made me ill. With the exception of a handful of bumps, it was very smooth–even the landing, but I must’ve looked green the whole way as I leaned my head against my right fist. I kept looking at the ETA on the Garmin dash as a front seat passenger. Second by second. If the flight was any longer I would have vomited.
“There’s a bathroom inside the lounge as soon as we land.”
I smiled. I feared opening my mouth would induce yakking.
“Everyone has to go to the bathroom after they land.”
He was right. I headed straight to the JetWest lounge, settled into the toilet, and dumped out a pretzel-like pile of pooh. I ate crap in the desert: salty pita chips, oreo cookies, spicy bloodies, pecan sandies, mango margaritas, homemade cinnamon graham crackers from Canada, pepperoni, otter pops, salted almonds, spinach dip, pringles, chocolate chip cookies, pasta salad, many iced chais. I worked a lot, I drank a lot, I did a lot. And with all the crapping–a metabolism that kicked into ultra-high gear–I have a feeling I’m 75 pounds.
But the worst of it was the nauseating pedal jumper flight. I never recovered.
I continued on to Phoenix then Albuquerque, buying a total of six magazines along the way. Hyatt Place was booked so I found myself next door at a quaint Staybridge. The breakfast buffet was a treat with everything you would want for breakfast: eggs, omelettes, hot chocolate, oatmeal, yogurt, fruit, make-your-own waffles, lots of accoutrements for everything.
But I still feel ill and I have to make my way to Santa Fe.