The layover between flights was a little over two hours. It was a busy time in my life. Actually, most every time in my life was a busy time, save the beginning and end. In hindsight, there was no overriding reason for it to be quite so busy, I just made it that way, or allowed it to be. I’m not complaining. I liked it. It paid the bills, accomplished interesting things, perhaps garnered some respect, which is a stronger motivating factor than most of us are willing to admit, and made friends along the way. The only problem was that it often totally stressed me out. It would have been good to realize that I actually had some measure of control over the matter. There was always more that I wanted to accomplish and sometimes I got greedy, something not only measured by money.
At the airport I was always surprised by how the vast majority of people would simply kill time while waiting for their flight. I was always in a mindset that there should never be any dead time. Whenever a slack moment would arise, I would start to devise schemes to fill it. I would search for some reasonably empty corridor in the airport. There almost always is one if you look for it. Usually it comes in the form of a walkway that people can use if the tram broke down. Once there, I would run for a couple of hours, getting the training that I needed in order to succeed in my racing, one of the many things that I strived to accomplish.
Now I find myself being squeezed from opposite ends. It’s natural to think that when one gets closer to the end they should be making the most of it. On the other hand, what I can physically do is getting amazingly small and I get exhausted, to the point of feeling bad, at just about anything. I find myself killing time.