Sprinting through SeaTac

There have only been two instances in my life where I’ve sprinted through an airport.

The first time was when I was a kid and our family was traveling home from a vacation in Washington, D.C. Who knows why we were so late, but I remember this track meet being much more magical than my recent sprint. As a kid, consequences and grown-up logistics don’t really apply; it’s more an adventure and less a race against a large financial mistake.

My kid brain was providing commentary like:

“Wow, we get to run through a public space. What a special occasion.”

Or, “Wow, I’m much faster than my younger sister. Go me.”

Or, “Wouldn’t it be hilarious if I made the flight, but she didn’t. Lol.”

In the end, with our family arriving in staggered intervals (dad got gold; I got silver; mom got bronze; sister got a participation trophy), we barely made it to the gate with the plane still docked. Huzzah!

Unfortunately, the door was locked. The gate agent explained that this meant we could not board. We asked if they could unlock it, but they had lost the key—or at least that’s how my kid brain remembers it. Welp. Nice try, family. Better luck next Olympics. Kid me went for a snack. I’m sure the parents knew what to do next.

In the next scene, my family is leaving D.C. in a taxi and driving to Baltimore. The adventure continues! And wow, I can tell all my friends I’ve been to Baltimore. They’re an important city. They have an NFL team.

Recently, I sprinted through an airport for the second time in my life, and wow—it’s very different as an adult.

My adult brain huffed commentary like:

“Fuck. I have to make this flight.”

“My wife is on the other side with an 8-month-old, no luggage, an upcoming work week, grieving family, and funeral planning tasks.”

“Missing this flight is not an option.”

Or, “Shit. I do not want to re-buy a last-minute flight. I’ve got mouths to feed.”

Here’s how we got there.

It was a Sunday, and I was flying from Seattle to Denver. Easy enough. The flight left at 1:45 pm, and the Link light rail only took 40 minutes from the nearby station, so I had plenty of time. The plan was to leave at 10:30 am, giving me over three hours. Despite traveling with two suitcases, a stroller, and a backpack, I foresaw an easy commute.

The sky was gloomy with light rain as my friend arrived to pick me up. She was early, so we were ahead of schedule. An uneventful seven-minute drive got me to the station. I—now a pack mule—lugged my gear up the escalator, onto the train, and made camp for what should have been a peaceful 40 minutes.

With the free time (what a gift, not traveling with a baby), I decided to knock out some adulting admin. As an aside: 1,000 kudos points to my wife, who had made this journey a few days earlier with our son. It’s not the kind of strength that makes it into an action movie, but damn—that’s some real John McClane grit.

I don’t think it would do well at the box office, but I’m at a Progressive, young-homeowner-becoming-their-parents stage of life where I’d absolutely watch a dramatized movie about a single mother just trying to get through the week. I’ve seen enough to have the respect. Pass the popcorn.

Anyway. I had extra time, so I was being productive—specifically, coordinating a nanny for when Maddie and I are both back at work. We care more about our careers than our son, so the nanny seemed like a great option. (That was sarcasm. I’m flagging it.)

Here comes my second aside, because cohesive storytelling is not the aim of this dumb content. It bothers me when people ask Maddie if she’s going to stay at home, but don’t ask me the same question. It implies I couldn’t be nurturing or that Maddie couldn’t be a provider. She’s sacrificed a lot to be a business consultant—it’s not a fluff career, and it’s only relatable if you’ve done it yourself. It’s 2026, people. Let’s teach our kids equitable household labor, hard work, respect, emotional intelligence for men, and empathy.

Exit soapbox.

Back to the story.

I’m deeply distracted by my adulting when the train fills with protesters for some unknown cause. We live in angry times. Soon all the seats are taken and commuters fill the aisle. I shove my mountain of luggage into a corner and offer my seat to an elderly woman holding a protest sign. She eyes the heap skeptically, then hesitantly accepts. I’m too engrossed in the nanny search to convince her I’m not a creeper.

At the Capitol Hill station, nearly everyone exits. Must be the protest. Impressive turnout. But through context clues—namely, the loudspeaker announcing, “This is the last stop; everyone must exit the train”—I realize this is the last stop.

Apparently, the train was half protesters and half commuters. I shuffle out with my stuff, following the commuters.

Authority figures in vests inform us that two Link stations are down for the weekend. We need to exit, go to street level, and transfer to a bus that will take us to the next operating station. A vest sees my two suitcases, stroller, and backpack and routes me to the elevator while everyone else piles onto the escalator.

The elevator drops me at an access point far from the escalator. Everyone has vanished.

I step out of Capitol Hill Station in a daze.

I’m now in a farmer’s market, a protest, and clear blue skies. All very disorienting, especially since I entered the train in the gloom. There are so many people. And why are they all so young? Moments like this remind you that you’re now a suburban dad and these are city folk. We’re not in Lynnwood anymore.

Welp. Onward.

I tap my white New Balance shoes together three times and set off.

I spot commuters and follow them toward the bus station, weaving through picketers, pedestrians, and produce—oh my. I do not stop for free samples. I do not stop for flyers. After three blocks, I realize I’ve made a critical error.

I followed the wrong group.

I’m in the heart of the protest. Everyone has signs. I’m the only one double-fisting suitcases. Immediate disconcertedness sets in. Do I even know what I’m protesting? What if someone I know sees me and this is a bad cause? My political career is over, all because of one wrong turn.

In hindsight, I should have been more observant. I was standing in the middle of a field. Leaving the sidewalk should’ve been my first clue this wasn’t the bus route. I turn around and trek back.

At the station, I meet another lost traveler—equally confused.

Me: “Do you know how to get to the southbound Link?”

Glasses: “No, I’m headed north.”

Me: “I just came from there. Do you know where the bus is?”

Glasses: “No, but stations are down. You need the bus. You said you came from the north—how do I get there?”

Me: “Are you prepared to join a protest? Do you support the cause?”

We realize we’re making this worse and each play the awkward silence card. Your move, stranger.

A Sound Transit vest appears like an NPC and points us in the correct direction. I should’ve gone left, not right. The bus stop was one block away. The NPC tells me that the bus will take me directly to the next Link station with service.

A bus arrives with a big “1” on it—correct for the One Line. As I board, I hastily heave my two suitcases and stroller into storage to avoid bottlenecking traffic. The effort winds me. I’m still wearing a winter coat and sweating through all three layers. I’m hauling close to 100 pounds.

The bus comes to a stop, but things look off. I know Seattle well enough to know: this stop does not have a nearby Link station. I realize that this bus is both a stopgap for the Link but also a normal route. I’m in the dark about which exit to take.

After a bit I decide to take a guess, but as a precaution, I ask the driver before getting off. He saves me from disaster. I want SODO, not Pioneer Square. A kind elderly woman with a cane overhears and offers to guide me—she’s headed to the Link too.

We get to chatting and I learn a lot about her life. She’s lived all over the U.S. because her husband was a DI football coach. The resume included Kansas, Colorado, Berkeley. She’s retired now, and lives in a multi-generational home with her grandchildren and son. The son is a librarian. She lists off her recent reads and some other book recommendations. 

I asked her about her Sunday plans and she lackadaisically answered “cleaning,” though she didn’t sound fully committed.

When we exit, she offers to roll one of my suitcases. I should have declined with the response, “No thank you. I’m a young man in my twenties. I can handle it. I also see you have a cane; I don’t want to inconvenience you.” But instead I said, “Sure, that would be great, thank you!”

In hindsight, not a great look, Jackson. The suitcase wasn’t heavy heavy - I mean, it didn’t surpass the airline weight limit - but it was awful of me to let an elderly lady take on a strength based task. Especially a lady with a cane.

After four blocks, the conversation becomes one-sided. I’m asking her about her life, but she is not reciprocating. The life lesson dawns on me: sometimes people offer help to be polite, and it’s on you, as an intelligent member of society, to decode that. Oofda.

We reach the station just in time to miss the train. Fifteen-minute wait. Grandma had been rolling my suitcase slowly. (Is that joke in bad taste?)

While waiting, we see an apartment complex on fire. Flames shooting out windows. Of course. What is this day?

Finally back on the train, I catch my breath. Up until now I’d travelled through two climates (rainy and sunny), travelled by car, travelled by train, travelled by bus, travelled by foot, went to the farmers market, joined a protest, made a friendenemy, and watched an apartment complex burn down. 

I looked at the time and it was 12:50 pm. My flight boarded at 1:00 pm. 

I do the mental math. Twenty minutes left on the train. Quarter-mile walk into the airport. No boarding pass. No bag tags. Security. Gate A12—the furthest possible gate.

I wasn’t going to make it.

I started to breathe heavily. Missing this flight wasn’t an option. As I mentioned earlier, my wife was trapped on the other side with an 8-month-old, no luggage, an upcoming work week, grieving family, and funeral planning tasks. I was her support system and she needed me. 

Whatever it took, with everything that’s in my power, I AM going to make this flight.

At the second-to-last stop, I body-blocked the door, ready to make my move. Suitcase in each hand. Backpack stacked. Stroller on my back. Passport, wallet, phone secured strategically in coat pockets. I get into sprint stance.

Doors open. I run.

I weave between travelers. I cut people off. I don’t apologize. There isn’t time. The roar of my suitcases parts the crowd. Ahead: zig-zag gates meant to slow traffic.

I spread my arms like an eagle. One suitcase per gate. No loss of stride.

I book it with all of my energy. Yet, my body couldn’t keep up. With each stride, the stroller bounces awkwardly off my back. The suitcases get heavier. Sprint became a jog. Job becomes a walk. I’m gasping. Sweat was seeping through my shirt, through my sweatshirt, through my winter coat. The hallway stretches endlessly.

I took a deep breath and increased my pace to a speed-walk. I made it to the first bridge into the airport. Unfortunately, no, this wasn’t Delta. I staggered to bridge two, but again no, this wasn’t Delta. My speed and hope deflated. I slowly rounded the corner to bridge three.

Delta! Back to a jog. Across the bridge. Up the escalator. To the ticking kiosk.

I smash buttons like a panicked raccoon. Everything was in hieroglyphics, but I keyed the correct numbers nevertheless. Two bags. I rip the tags out of the machine as they are being printed. With my fangs, I shred the plastic off and lasso the bags. The ferocity of the ordeal left trash on the ground. No time for good citizenship.

Next, I dashed into the bag drop-off line. By God’s grace, the line was short. I reached the Delta agent and hoisted my bag onto the scale in one fluid motion. After displaying my ID and plane ticket, I dropped off the last bag and bolted before the agent had dismissed me. The time constraints meant that I was the one who needed to call the shots. I dismissed him.

Now, 80 pounds lighter (goodbye bags!), I could really pump on the gas. I shot towards the security checkpoint and into the TSA pre-check queue. Another miracle! There was only one person in the line. I reached my officer and unfisted my crumpled ticket. My hand was shaking. The entry photo showed a disheveled man who needed help.

Luckily, because I was TSA pre-check, I was able to get through security quickly. I kept my New Balance shoes on and kept my wife’s work laptop stowed. Things were looking bright until a TSA agent stopped me and said that I’d randomly been selected for a security screening.

My heart stopped. This is where it ends. I’d given it my all, only to be stopped by the TSA. It wasn’t fair and I was defeated. This wasn’t a random screening, but clearly a targeted attack. Of the sub-set of people running through the airport frantically like a mad man, I was the only one. Nothing random about it.

They directed me towards a more advanced screener. The one where you step into a cylinder and raise your arms. Hands to the heavens I started singing “Jesus take the wheel.” (Not really, but I think it would have been appropriate.)

They said the magical words, “All clear” and let me be on my way. I didn’t have time to take in this third miracle and instead quickly gathered most of my belongings and got on my way. In less than 5 minutes, I’d entered the airport, checked in, printed my boarding pass, dropped off two suitcases, cleared security, and been randomly screened. And mind you, this was at SeaTac — one of the US’s slowest airports — on a weekend. God was on my side.

Queue: “Chariots of Fire”.

I sprinted to gate A12. Midway through the sprint, I realized I’d forgotten my coat at security. With a heavy heart, I made a business decision and continued onward. I finally made it to the gate and the destination board read “Honolulu”.

Another heart stopping moment before I realized there was a gate “A12” and “A12a”. I was at the right place. The adjacent destination board read “Denver”. I made it. No drive to Baltimore this time.

Arriving mere minutes before boarding, I skidded to the gate agent to get my seat assignment. I took a knee while they entered my info. Hazzah! While zones 1 through 7 boarded, I collapsed on the ground in the corner.

The moral of the story is that you should never let an elderly woman with a cane wheel your suitcase. She may slow you down.