Chuck Schneekloth, Jr.

Running Down Destiny

Lap One

He was going to be late?again.

With tremendous anxiety, he began to employ a highly effective teaching strategy that many fellow male teacher-coaches on his wing believed in and exercised regularly. This was, namely: standing out in the hallway looking for people to talk to while the students were, hopefully, doing something related to English.

However, unlike the others, Chuck didn't actually plan this in his lesson plans (that is assuming, of course, those other guys actually had lesson plans). He was waiting for the school metal teacher who agreed to cover the last 45 minutes of his last period class. For the sake on anonymity, we'll call him John (but really, his name is Jeff Corliss). Chuck had a flight leaving for Reno at 4:30 that day, as he was entered in a big track race the following. John's tardiness greatly jeopardized Chuck's chances of catching his flight.

Applying all the knowledge and critical thinking skills he garnered from graduate school, Chuck chose a man to help him out whose most challenging responsibility over the course of the school day was to not get lost when traveling between the "metal shop" and the "teacher's lounge" for lunch. But this was no matter, as after 20 minutes of highly valuable educational time of "hallway management," John finally came, making the astute observation upon arrival, "I'm here!" Shaking his head, Chuck quickly gathered his track bags, reminded students Mike and Josh (how many times did he have to repeat himself!?!) that only pencils, not crayons, will stick to the ceiling, and left. Finally.

While driving to the airport, Chuck made some vague yet useful calculations: he had approximately 75 minutes to make a 90 minute drive. Upon this realization, he did the only sensible, responsible thing a 24 year old budding professional would do: put on his sunglasses, turn up the rap music, and blow past the old lady in front of him merely going 80. Yes, this will get interesting, he thought.

Lap Two

60 miles later, things were not looking good. Stranded in "Rush Hour Traffic," he could only think one thing: why call it rush hour traffic if no one goes anywhere? Why not, "Slow Hour Traffic" or, "This Radio Station Sucks Hour Traffic?" Meanwhile, lost in such meaningless thoughts, time was running out.

While on Highway 26 in a large suburb of Portland, Chuck unfortunately realized three things, almost spontaneously: 1. Due to heavy hydration all day, his bladder was truly about to explode, 2. Due to poor planning, his gas needle was literally quivering on "E," and, 3. Due to heavy traffic, he was 20 miles from Portland Airport, with his plane leaving in close to fifteen minutes. There was only one answer in which to solve these three problems?a solution he learned from his many years in New Jersey, namely: aggressive driving. Such a plan of attack involved many common, accepted rules of East Coast driving, such as: beeping for long, extended periods of time, driving frantically on grass, gravel, etc., blatantly and often violently cutting drivers off and then waving kindly to them out of the window, and utilizing the "shoulder" as a turning lane, or in this case, just another lane to drive in for, say, 10 miles.

Lap Three

Upon screeching into the airport parking lot, he was left with only one option: urinate between cars as inconspicuously as possible. While that pain slowly subsided, he soon felt sharp burning sensations in his hamstrings as he surged up the airport passenger drop-off ramp. Dodging cars everywhere with a seemingly 50 pound bag on his back, he finally entered the airport in a sweaty, flustered, suspicious-looking state.

Darting through the PDX Airport (motto: "Enjoy a Cold Eight Dollar Drink During Your 80 Minute Delay"), only one obstacle stood between him and the "Biggest Little City" of the world: the 65 year old guy who has never combed his hair before in his life who loves to carry nothing but metal objects in obscure pockets he cannot currently locate. Five long minutes and nine detector beeps later, Chuck passed through security and continued to sprint through the corridors, until he was frozen by a large rectangle that flashed, "4:38" in bright red color. The game, officially, was over, and painfully accepting defeat, his sprint evolved into a slow jog. He had no choice now but to begin thinking of a fictional, exaggerated sob-story to tell the check-in person in hopes of getting on another plane, despite Priceline.com's consumer-friendly policy that "If you miss it, you lose it, so tough crap."

Lap Four: The Bell Lap

Turning the corner, Chuck instantly thought he was back at Rutgers University, where help is only seven phone calls or a 55 minute line away. Appearing to snake into the western tip of Idaho, the line Chuck saw was from his terminal: his plane had not left yet! Looking at the board, the "delay sign" was certainly a much welcomed, and, of course, common sight. Sighing deeply, he plopped down his bag and took out a ten dollar bill. It had been a long day, he was extremely fatigued, and it was time to enjoy a cold beverage.

Author's note: Despite such pre-race efforts to get to the meet, Chuck was running in third place until getting knocked off the track with 300 meters left. Although greatly disappointed, he made it up hours later by winning 50 dollars at the blackjack table and meeting a cute girl named Destiny.