The Travelogue: December 2007 Archives

Comfort, Enemy of Progress

When folks find out I sleep in truck stops and live out of my suitcase during college basketball season, I can't blame them if they're not impressed. If my life was a Richard Dawson survey-says, the number one reaction would be horror, followed closely on points by the kind of sympathy that prompts people to offer five bucks, you know, "for something to eat." That's fine, I'm not offended, but keep the cash.

When folks find out about the elaborate survival system I've developed over three-plus years on the hoop highway -- either by direct conversation, hearsay, or this website -- they're usually a little bit impressed, at least enough to wonder what kind of a moron I am. Some are even curious about the origins of the system, how I came up with this particular brand of madness. Here goes.

Beatrice and Sandy

Ever since faces launched ships, men have been giving inanimate objects women's names. Who knows why, really. It might be a subconcious effort to tap into the whole earth-mother provider thing, or it might just be an excuse to think about sex more often. Whatever the reason, it's something deeply ingrained.

In modern Western times, we have even more opportunities to do so. We may not have ships or bomber planes, but a high percentage of American males have given at least one of their automobiles a female name (I've tended to name mine in honor of Playboy Playmates from my college days). And then there are all these new electronic items, many of which ask to be named right out of the box.

Food

Ask any assistant coach in college basketball, they'll tell you that one of the toughest challenges with away games is food. Carefully prepared team meals are usually the rule at home, but the road is an endless and glowing ribbon of McDonald's, Burger King, convenience stores and casual dining. Chain restaurants might align themselves with sports by way of official sponsorships and such, but the reality is that what they sell makes you fat.

Same goes for travelling journalists, too. I have my own offseason workouts -- eight-mile runs in the park back in Pawtucket, two-a-day hourlong stationary bike sessions of 17 miles each, all with the goal of maintaining some level of fitness during the five-month grind. By late November, though, I find myself sweating and short of breath on long flights of stairs, and the one-two punch of Thanksgiving and Christmas makes my shirts and pants start getting uncomfortably tight by the time the calendar turns. With all the sitting around in chairs and car seats that covering athletics requires, I get my Freshman 15 once a year, every year.

North Carolina

When I'm covering a game, I always dress in a crisp shirt and a solid-color tie, usually a coat as well... just like the coaches do. It's important to look nice. (That's something I picked up from Andy Katz.)

Those coaches, and sometimes other media members, will occasionally engage me in conversation about how far away from home I am. Sometimes they'll ask, "Where are you staying?"

In the past, I'd always reply with "Comfort Inn," which of course is a synonym for "rental car." I don't like lying or intentional misdirection when it's not explicitly required, so I've changed that. Now I say, "oh, you know, around," or "I'm not staying... I'm goin'."

Philadelphia

Lift up your downcast eyes, woman; there is a special place in heaven for you. O truck stop waitress, you sustainer of the long-distance voyageur, Cinderella of the service industry, underfoot guardian and caretaker of the linoleum empire... one day, when you finally fall from your weary stanchions, you will cast off your worn features and wrinkled skin, exchange your pleated polyester skirt for pillowy garments with thread counts in the millions.

This is not a place of cold revenge, mind you -- your ungrateful, grumbling low tippers and your minimum-wage tormentors will be far away, banished to that lower, hotter place. Yes, one day, you will leave behind your nametag and your happy-face flair and your aching joints for your final reward, a beautiful eternity of hourly foot massages and cloud-soft pillows upon which to rest your weary soul.