For an extreme workout, hike an airport terminal

I am an un-frequent flyer, and once a year is frequent enough for me. Unfortunately, as time passes, I forget the last plane flight, and those exhausting treks from limo drop-off to boarding gate. Airport transversal is probably one of the cruelest punishments inflicted on man today, up there with rap music and oral surgery. To travel by plane requires weeks of preparation, as if you're planning to run a marathon.

Our recent flight to Florida reminded me of the need for athletic readiness. But once my partner Donald and I arrived at our hotel west of Tampa, and settled into our room with a Gulf view, we quickly forgot about airport aggravation. We had landed in a tropical Paradise, and a few drinks at the beach Tiki bar soothed our bodies and frazzled nerves. Four days later however, we would be challenged again. We had to fly home.

At the Tampa airport, we had to drop off our rental car from that company that vows "to pick you up." But when you return the car, they don't drop you off where you need to be. We relinquished the car, Donald unloaded our luggage, and I suspiciously asked the attendant: "Where's the terminal?"

"It's right ahead," he said. I looked in the distance and saw only rows of rental cars.

"I don't see anything," I muttered.

" Just keep walking straight. You'll run right into it."

"Run" was a word I didn't want to hear. I could barely walk as I pulled my roller bag, with a heavy carry-on piled on top. Donald fought heroically with a bulky garment bag.

Reluctantly, we started off. Like dehydrated hikers, we walked until we spotted the welcoming oasis, The Terminal. Already exhausted, we trudged over to check-in, and then headed off on another long trek to Security. There we loaded our stuff into plastic bins and filed through X-ray, me in front, Donald right behind. As I unloaded my bins and put my shoes back on, I glanced back, and there was no sign of Donald. "Where did he go?" Had he been sucked into X-ray? Abducted by the TSA? Passed out from exhaustion? Then I spotted him off to the side with his arms in the air, being patted down by a no-nonsense security guard. Donald, my angelic looking Swede, and hardly a candidate for profiling, had been singled out. I assumed wrongly that we'd soon be on our way.

"Not so fast," the guard snarled. "We're not through with you yet." Then his hands were coated with a spray solution, and he was asked to place them into an explosive-detecting device. He was cleared, and now we were faced with the next leg of our epic march to boarding Gate 15. Why didn't our plane depart from Gate 1? Again we marshaled our resources and toted our luggage down more no-end-in-sight corridors to the gate where we could rest until departure.

An hour later we were on the plane back to JFK but not prepared for the triathlon that lay ahead. We haven't landed at JFK in a long time, and had forgotten the rigorous terrain. This airport had "hills," those two-story escalators that challenge you on the way to ground transportation. I looked for an elevator and saw a sign that pointed off into an undeclared distance. I chose the escalator, and jostled my luggage onto a microscopic, fast-moving step. At the bottom, we faced another two-story escalator, this one going up. Again we hustled on with our bags. At the top we were confronted by a third escalator, this one going down. We'd just come up. Nearly weeping, I barely made it on, my suitcase hanging precariously between two steps. I hung on, and miraculously we arrived at ground transport.

Marathons run, mountains climbed, we wondered why airport design is so user unfriendly. And since no one seemed to have any reasonable answer, we vowed that next time we'd either check our luggage, or maybe we'd just drive.

Barbara L. Smith is a published, produced playwright and corporate speechwriter. She welcomes comments at blsmith283@aol.com.