People at 35,000 Feet

Today, I flew to Columbus, Ohio.

Not because I wanted to. Because it’s faster. That’s it. That’s the only reason I fly. If I could get one of my bikes across the country in a few hours, I’d never step foot on a plane again.

But for the purpose of this blog, we’re not talking about why I flew. We’re talking about people. Because holy shit… people.

Before I even get to my seat, the idiocy is already on full display.

How the fuck do grown adults not understand seat numbers? It’s a grid. Letters and numbers. We learned this in elementary school. And yet every single flight turns into a live-action puzzle where half the plane is confused about where their ass is supposed to go.

Are they confused? Or are they just hoping nobody notices while they try to steal a better seat? Because I paid extra for mine. I’m six-foot-one, all legs, and I need the room. Exit row or first class, those are my rules.

So when I see someone five-foot-nothing sprawled out in premium legroom like they’re on a fucking vacation resort?

Yeah. I judge.

Then comes the safety demonstration.

And look, I get why they have to do it. Somewhere, at some point, an adult human being didn’t understand how a seatbelt works, and a lawyer turned that into a paycheck.

So now we all sit there, watching someone demonstrate how to click two pieces of metal together like it’s a groundbreaking technological advancement.

If you don’t know how to fasten a seatbelt as an adult, I have serious questions about how you’ve survived this long.

The oxygen mask speech is even better.

“If cabin pressure drops, place your mask on first before assisting others.”

Let me translate that: If things go sideways at 35,000 feet, most of you are going to panic and become completely useless.

Because that’s the truth. A handful of people will keep their heads. The rest? Chaos.

But hey, at least the seat doubles as a flotation device… just in case we survive the impact with the ground or ocean, which, let’s be honest, is not exactly the most likely outcome.

Then there’s airplane mode. Ah yes. The magical setting that somehow protects the aircraft from catastrophic interference caused by your Instagram scroll.

Now, I’m not saying rules are bad. I get the need for control, safety, minimizing chaos. But let’s not pretend my phone is about to bring down a commercial airliner. I was an electronic technician on a nuclear submarine. I’ve seen what real interference looks like. This ain’t it.

Then we take off.

And people immediately forget how to be human.

Flight attendants are dragging heavy carts up and down a narrow aisle in a moving aircraft, and instead of making it easy, people turn it into a five-minute negotiation over snacks.

It’s pretzels.

It’s peanuts.

Pick one, say thank you, and move on with your life.

But no, some guy has to conduct a full-blown analysis like he’s choosing a wine pairing at a Michelin-star restaurant.

Meanwhile, the rest of us are just trying to exist.

My personal favorite? The guy who tried to sneak into the first-class bathroom.

Didn’t belong there. Knew he didn’t belong there. Tried anyway. Got stopped. Redirected to the back like a kid caught stealing cookies.

The look on his face, shock, betrayal, wounded pride, was incredible.

I laughed. Out loud. No shame.

And then… the trash bag incident.

Flight attendant comes down the aisle collecting small bits of trash. The woman in front of me hands her a full shopping bag.

Not a wrapper. Not a cup. A bag. Full. Of garbage. Like she’d been saving it up across multiple airports just waiting for this moment.

The flight attendant just smiled and said: “This is the glamorous part of the job.”

We both laughed. Because what else can you do?

Then we land.

Late.

My connection boards in five minutes, and I have to cross the entire Denver airport. There’s an announcement: “Please allow passengers with tight connections to deplane first.”

And what happens? Everyone stands up.

Immediately.

Because of course they do.

Because people don’t listen. They don’t care. They just want to be first in line for whatever meaningless next step they’ve convinced themselves is urgent.

Burger. Beer. Bathroom.

Whatever.

And that’s the moment it hit me. I would have been better off riding. A few extra days. Wind in my face. My own pace. My own space. Because out there, I don’t have to deal with this.

Not like this.

Sure, people still suck on the road. But that kind of selfishness? I’ve learned how to deal with that: Throttle, pipes, and, when necessary… a well-timed finger.

What the hell happened to people? Manners. Awareness. Basic decency.

Somewhere along the way, we traded all of that for convenience and entitlement. And now we’re crammed into a metal tube at 35,000 feet, pretending this is normal.

Next time? I’m fucking riding.