I'm the Han Solo of Burbank airport runs
We’re wheels up at six in the morning, bound for Burbank airport.
We take the 118 east to the 5 south, bear left where the 170 splits off from the 5. Keep on cruising, then get off at Hollywood Way.
Smooth sailing until the offramp, where the shit hits the fan.
“Oh shit,” Christina says. “I forgot my ID.”
Despite the early hour, I have the good sense not to point out that we’re two minutes from the airport, thirty minutes from home, and fifty minutes from takeoff. Instead of making a right, I hang a left. We swing around under the freeway overpass, then boogie back onto the 5 north.
Christina says traffic is backing up in the other direction.
“I don’t think we’ll make it.”
“We’ll make it,” I say.
Christina doesn’t believe me. She checks her phone.
“Shit, the next flight is sold out. There isn’t anything until tomorrow afternoon.”
“We’ll make it,” I say.
My tone is confident, bordering on cocky. I sound like Han Solo bragging on his famous Kessel Run. That kind of intergalactic confidence should be reassuring, but we’re not up against a fictional fascist Empire, or even a real fascist empire. We’re up against the ultimate motherfucker life can throw at you: Los Angeles traffic.
“I can’t believe what a dodo I am,” Christina says.
My wife isn’t a dodo, far from it. Does she forget things? Sure. All the time, actually. She’s human. And like all humans, Christina sometimes beats herself up when she makes a mistake. But I’m human too, and when one human loves another human who is beating themselves up because they fucked up, the human who loves that human will try to unfuck the situation. That’s human nature.
“Fuck, I’m gonna miss this meeting,” Christina says.
What goes unsaid is that the meeting in Los Gatos is one of those two-day meetings with a half-dozen people coming in from Singapore and Amsterdam. It took months to get this meeting on the books. I don’t think the world will end, or the company will go bankrupt if the meeting doesn’t happen, but I know that the last thing Christina wants to do is explain to her colleagues who flew in from Amsterdam and Singapore that she fucked up the hop from Southern California to Northern California.
“What kind of an idiot forgets their ID?” Christina asks.
I let that question go unanswered. I need to focus. I need to haul ass. It would be easier if I could fly, like Han Solo, but he had the Millennium Falcon, and all I have is a Prius we named after a Star Wars deep cut: Shuttle Tydirium.
“I have an idea,” I say. “Something that will help us make up some time.”
“What?”
“Give Me Some Lovin’,” I say.
“Are you out of your mind? I’m already super-late!”
“No, no. Not that. Play Give Me Some Lovin’ by The Spencer Davis Group.”
Christina isn’t exactly picking up what I’m putting down. But she opens up the Spotify app on her phone, connects to Shuttle Tydirium’s stereo via Bluetooth, and plays the ultimate driving montage soundtrack: Give Me Some Lovin’ by The Spencer Davis Group.
There’s traffic on the 5 north, but with Han Solo’s confidence in my head and The Spencer Davis Group in my ears, a little traffic is no match for Shuttle Tydirium’s maneuvers.
The 118 West is wide open, but that figures, because traffic goes in the other direction at this hour. Time to make up some time, as they say. I put the pedal to metal and cross my fingers that there aren’t Storm Trooper California Highway Patrol speed traps waiting for me.
We exit at Porter Ranch Drive, take Rinaldi to Mason. It’s an easy shot, but the lights are against us. Thankfully, we’ve got Give Me Some Lovin’ on repeat.
“I’m a hot mess this morning,” Christina says.
She’s half right.
We reach our house. Christina jumps out to grab her ID. I check the clock. Time is against us, but Han Solo and The Spencer Davis Group don’t know the meaning of the word quit, and neither do I.
“Airport run, take two,” I say as we pull out of the driveway. Then I shout “yeehaw” because that’s what cocky motherfuckers do when they’re in a tough spot.
The HOV lane on the 118 east looks like a godsend. But does it connect to the 5 south, or do we need to exit the HOV lane to make the transition? I ask our droid, R2D2, about the HOV lane transition, but then I remember that we got the basic Prius, which doesn’t come with a droid.
I decide play it safe. No HOV lane for us. We lose a few minutes, but as we approach the 5, I see that I made the right call.
Unfortunately, there’s trouble ahead. The southbound transition from the 118 to the 5 is a sluggish three-lane merge. Give Me Some Lovin’ by The Spencer Davis Group is no help here. Actually, the driving montage music taunts me as we inch along, surrounded by a galaxy of morons who can’t seem to figure out the art of merging.
“If only I had my blaster,” I say.
“Huh?”
“Nothing.”
Silently, I curse the morons in front of me. But eventually, the merge onto the 5 is complete. I hit the left turn signal and ride the blinker across five lanes of stop-and-go traffic to enter the 5’s HOV lane.
This HOV lane is the HOV lane I’m looking for because I know I can exit in time for the airport. Still, the HOV lane on the 118 was fast and roomy. The HOV lane on the 5 is tight, like a trench leading to the Death Star’s exhaust port. It’s also slow. Really slow.
“Why are the other cars moving faster than us?” Christina asks.
That’s the eternal question all Los Angeles motorists ask themselves. Usually, it just feels like the other lanes are moving faster. But as a line of trucks, followed by a school bus, pass us on the right, I can’t help but take it personally.
“Han Solo didn’t have to put up with this BS on the Kessel Run,” I say.
I check the clock. Seven minutes to seven. If Christina is curbside by 7 a.m., she’ll have a chance, thanks to the charms of a regional airport and the imperial efficiency of TSA prescreen. But at the speed we’re traveling, the possibility of a 7 a.m. drop off seems remote.
“We’re not going to make it,” Christina says.
Traffic opens up as we pass the turnoff to the 170. I take the first exit out of the HOV lane, and let The Spencer Davis Group work their driving montage music magic.
When I see the sign for the Hollywood Way exit and Burbank airport, I know we’re almost there. That’s the good news. But the bad news is that the exit is backed up. It’s three minutes to 7 a.m.
“Shit!” Christina says.
The traffic jam at the exit is a function of the street lights on Hollywood Way. Actually, the traffic is a function of a car culture run amok, but that’s a different story. Whatever the cause, I know that these traffic jams can take anywhere from two minutes to a lifetime to resolve.
We’ve got two minutes.
But we’ve also The Spencer Davis Group.
And a pretty convincing Han Solo impression.
And maybe we have something else going for us too. Because the traffic jam on the freeway offramp resolves itself in about sixty seconds.
Was it a miracle? The Force?
“I’ve driven from one side of Los Angeles County to the other, I’ve seen a lot of strange stuff, but I’ve never seen anything to make me believe there’s one all-powerful force controlling everything. There’s no mystical energy field that controls my destiny!”
“Who are you talking to, babe, and why are you quoting Han Solo?” Christina asks.
I bang a right on Hollywood Way. The airport is in sight.
Inside the airport, the road is two lanes. The right lane isn’t moving. I take the left lane.
A few yards ahead, I see the problem with the right lane. There’s a Pepsi truck unloading curbside. The truck is bad news for everyone stuck in the right lane, but it’s good news for a Han Solo wannabe rocking out to The Spencer Davis Group.
I use the Pepsi truck like a blocker. As soon as I pass the Pepsi truck, I cut right, and come to a screeching halt at the curb, right in front of the Southwest gate. I check the clock: 7 a.m.
“Bag and purse,” I say. “ID.”
“Check, check, check,” Christina says. “I love you.”
Christina shuts the door, runs to the gate. I put Shuttle Tydirium in drive.
It takes me another minute to complete the loop around Burbank airport. At the exit, I turn right and head for a neighboring strip mall with a Starbucks.
I ease Shuttle Tydirium into a parking spot, get out, and lock the car. Inside the Starbucks, I order a latte.
Before my order is ready, I get a text from Christina.
“Made it! On the plane!”
The time is 7:07 a.m.
I am the Han Solo of Burbank airport runs. Or, maybe I’m just a loving husband with an overactive imagination. Because sometimes life imitates art, and sometimes that art is a mashup of Star Wars and the “The Californians” sketch from Saturday Night Live, featuring a soundtrack from The Spencer Davis Group.
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Writer’s note
I wrote this story in 2018. Back then, Christina had a job that required her to travel to Los Gatos a few times a month, so I spent a lot of time thinking about airport runs. I was reminded of this piece a few weeks ago when Christina tried to fly to Cleveland to visit a friend. I dropped Christina off at Burbank airport in the morning. She made it to Chicago, but her connecting flight was canceled. The airline offered to rebook Christina on another flight the following day, but since her trip was only two days, that felt pointless. So Christina flew back to Los Angeles the same day. I picked her up at LAX around midnight. “I spent the day flying to Chicago and back,” Christina said, “and all I got was a shitty taco.”
Stick around and chat!
You know the drill. I’ve got questions, you’ve got answers.
Does your life ever imitate art? Tell us everything.
Do have an airport run story? Dish!
What’s your ideal driving montage song? Bonus points if it’s The Distance by Cake.
Were there too many Star Wars references in this piece, or is the Force wrong with you?
Why is merging always such a clusterfuck? No wrong answer here.
According to Christina, the airport tacos in Chicago suck. Is the Chicago taco scene hopeless? What should Christina have ordered?
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Burbank can be hit and miss for sure. I once had a meeting in Woodland Hills and gave myself two hours to get to the airport and check in. TWO Hours. About an hour in and I'm not even to the 405, I start to sweat. I finally get to the airport 20 minutes until wheels up. They're already boarding. But I have a rental car and the the rental hub is a half-mile long path of people movers. I get out of the car in suit and tie. I grab my suitcase and start toward the airport. I channeled my inner OJ (70s Hertz rental OJ, not double murderer OJ) and dodged strollers, sidestepped the elderly and hurdled abandoned suitcases, but I was the last one to board the plane before doors closed. As I sat, my face dripping with sweat and my lungs processing the Southern California air through a series of coughs (only mild side-eye. This was before COVID), I resolved not to underestimate SoCal traffic again... Thanks for the story and the spark to recount my Burbank Airport experience.
This reminds me of one of my favorite Seinfeld episodes where Elaine just plugs into the psychic field while driving (I think to an airport.) God bless the internet bc I found the quote!!
Elaine: “I never knew I could drive like that. I was going faster than I've ever gone before, and yet, it all seemed to be happening in slow motion. I was seeing three and four moves ahead, weaving in and out of lanes like an Olympic skier on a gold medal run. I knew I was challenging the very laws of physics. At Queens Boulevard, I took the shoulder. At Jewel Avenue, I used the median. I had it. I was there. And then, I hit the Van Wyck. They say no one's ever beaten the Van Wyck, but gentlemen, I tell you this... I came as close as anyone ever has. And if it hadn't been for that five-car pile-up on Rockaway Boulevard, that numbskull would be on a plane for Seattle right now instead of looking for a parking space downstairs.”
That’s how I pictured you, LA style.