Going all CMG: Our 2019 fails and recoveries

DEAN: The Spanish airport

I sat down in the waiting area of the British Airways gate at Toronto Pearson Airport, helmet in hand and Alpinestars jacket in the seat next to me. It was January, but in two days’ time I’d be zipping along the coastal highways and into the mountains of Gran Canaria on Ducati’s newest Hypermotard.

I hadn’t travelled much in the last 10 years, and I’d heard many times how tedious it is for those who have to travel often for work, but right now it seemed this would be a walk in the park. “Bah!” I thought. “This is a breeze.”

Two airports and about 10 hours later, in Madrid, I was standing in front of a woman who barely spoke English, telling me the check-in counter was already closed for my connecting flight to the Canary Islands. I hadn’t realized that you must virtually exit the astonishingly long airport terminal and come back in to retrieve your luggage before checking in to the connecting flight. At the closed counter, the ticket agents didn’t seem too concerned with helping me try to make my plane. My Sesame Street Spanish didn’t help. Finally, I convinced one of them that I might have a fighting chance, and they directed me to a another ticket counter around the corner.

The agents at the second counter seemed equally indifferent to my plight. “That check-in counter is closed already”, they said. Some more convincing, an attempt to look desperate (okay, I really was desperate), and they finally checked me in, then waved casually in the general direction of the security area.

I jogged to the nearest set of X-ray machines, which were in a small security area reserved for pilots and flight attendants, not regular passengers. Luckily, the folks here were more sympathetic to my predicament and agreed to check me through, although not before confiscating my Leatherman tool and some moisturizer that would have been fine in my checked luggage, but since I missed my check-in, I was carrying everything with me.

At this point, I was very close to missing my flight, so I began to run as best I could in riding boots, riding jacket, and carrying a helmet, suitcase and backpack. In my haste, I went in the opposite direction of my gate for about 200 metres, before figuring out my mistake and heading back in the correct direction.

The Madrid terminal is almost a kilometre long, and I think I ran about two-thirds of it to get to my gate. The very last passengers to board were still in the jetway. Relieved and quite sweaty, I left my suitcase with the polite attendant at the end of the jetway, then begged the first steward I saw for a cup of water. He graciously offered his own as we stood there in the galley, waiting for the passengers in front, and I hope he realized how thankful I was for those few gulps of agua (thanks, Sesame Street!).

By the time I deplaned at Gran Canaria, I was fully awakened to the rigours of travelling for work, and no longer dismissive of the complaints of those poor folks who have to do this week in, week out. I would do it again in a heartbeat, of course, but not before brushing up on my Spanish.

Click Page 4 to find out what Dustin did with the Harley key