The Sun Bowl Trip

I'm back.

In honor of this being New Year's Eve, and since I already posted the story of the Rose Bowl trip, I thought I'd now post the story of the worst bowl trip ever: the 2002 Sun Bowl.  Enjoy, and happy New Year's!

(Note that I originally wrote this in 2006.  I've done some slight editing (mostly for clarity for non-HMB people), but almost all of the content is the same.  I thought the contrast to my current writing style might be interesting.)

-----------------------------

So, the infamous Sun Bowl Trip of 2002.  This probably should have been a sign to us that it was going to be our last bowl trip for a while.

It all started with us having to get to Dawghouse (band HQ) bright and early to catch our plane down to El Paso, where we'd then go to our practice facility to get some, y'know, practicing in.  So we're all standing around yawning, waiting to leave for Boeing Field, when word comes down that our flight is delayed until a little after noon.  Now, this is a charter flight, and there are generally few good reasons for charter flights to be delayed.  I never actually heard the official explanation, but the two main theories, as I recall, were that the pilot needed a mandatory rest period that kept us from leaving on time, and that the pilot needed a refresher course on the plane.  While the first is probably more likely, the second definitely fits what happened later better.  (Ed: Since writing this, I've also heard a third theory that the pilot was drunk.  This also fits.) 

I forget the exact order in which things happened next, but we a) got some free time to go get breakfast and stuff, and b) had the day's practice rescheduled to before the plane flight (I think the practice came first, since I seem to recall some bitching about practicing at 9 in the morning, but I could be mistaken there).  In and of itself, that doesn't sound ALL that bad, but recall what we normally travel in.  Yeah, so we practiced in the morning, before a plane flight, in official ToC (Ed: dress shoes, black slacks, and polyester purple polo).  Wasn't that fun.

So the plane finally arrives, and we depart for Boeing Field.  After unloading our bags and piling them at the bottom of the conveyor belt (yeah, no fancy people-to-deal-with-our-luggage for us... but at least we didn't have to actually put them in the plane ourselves), we get on the plane, and away we go.  The flight down is a little bumpy, as I recall, but uneventful, for the most part.  Until, that is, the landing.

During normal landings, the ideal angle between the wings and the ground is just about 0 degrees.  In this landing, it felt like that angle was about 30 degrees.  I'm sure it was less, but that's what it felt like.  Now, you're probably thinking that it would be difficult to get more than one set of wheels down in an attitude like that, and you'd be right to think that.  In fact, it's probably for the best, since a second set of wheels on the ground would almost certainly have to be the nose wheel, which would likely put the wingtip, the nose, or both, below ground level, which is not necessarily a tenable situation for a plane attempting to keep complete structural integrity.   On the other hand,  only one set of wheels on the ground isn't a particularly stable configuration, either.  So here we are, careening down the runway on one wheel.  And I use the verb "careen" advisedly, with consideration of the "weaving back and forth" part of the definition.  So another way to rephrase the previous sentence would be to say, "So here we are, weaving back and forth down the runway on one wheel".

If that sounds a bit nerve-racking, it was.

But obviously we didn't die, so we got off the plane, all wheels safely on the ground and stopped, and headed into the terminal, where a mariachi band put on a bit of a concert and dance for us, which was one of the about three bright spots on the trip.  After the band was finished, we headed out to the buses to go to dinner.  Suddenly, copious amounts of thick white smoke started pouring out from under our bus (and here, by "our", I mean the clarinets and sousas, as I will also mean in the future).  Naturally, the driver got off to assess this alarming situation, which necessitated opening the door, thereby letting some of the -very bad smelling, as it turned out- smoke onto the bus.  Apparently, the problem wasn't major, since he got back on and the smoke stopped, but this was still not a particularly encouraging development.  However, the bus made it just fine to our dinner location, which was an excellent steakhouse.  This steakhouse was the second bright spot on the trip, since not only was the food delicious, but they had karaoke, and the senior staff did a rendition of "Mustang Sally", with Chris Chapman, one of our grad assistant directors, on kickass lead vocals, once again confirming that he's just about the coolest person ever.  Plus, I understand there were buffalo wandering around.

After dinner, we were off to our hotel, which was the final bright point of the trip, because the rooms were pretty damn cool, too.  They were more apartments than hotel rooms, with a living room with a hide-a-bed, a kitchen (with a dishwasher!), a bedroom and bathroom downstairs, and a bedroom and bathroom upstairs (yes, there was an upstairs).  Our luggage and large instruments had been transported separately, so the lobby was entirely full of bags and cases.  And by entirely, I mean stacked up, and barely leaving walkways to the front desk for us to get our room keys.  It was quite amusing.

The next morning, we were off to our practice facility, which turned out to be a high school stadium with dead grass and barely-visible lines and hashes.  If you're thinking that this doesn't sound conducive to a good practice, you'd be right once again.  Plus, there was a freezing cold wind which cut right through bibs (Ed: bright yellow vests worn while marching to enhance the director's visibility of the formations, with a big pocket on the front for music and charts.  They're so ugly that they're actually pretty awesome) and warm clothing, and it even started snowing.  I don't care that is was late December, we were in TEXAS.  It's not supposed to snow in TEXAS.  Really, this whole trip just is more proof that Texas sucks.

Anyways, by the end of practice, it had warmed up to about 70 degrees and sunny, so that was nice, at least, and meant that we wouldn't be completely miserable at the Battle of the Bands, which is where we were off to next.  Theoretically, at least.  About halfway to the Battle, our bus comes to a VERY abrupt stop with a loud bang, having just rear-ended the car in front of us.  And naturally, it can't exactly leave the scene of the accident, so we clarinets and sousas unload the entire bus and cram onto the two or three other buses that have stopped to wait for us.  Of course, our buses are usually pretty full, so most of us are either sitting on laps, or in the aisle.  It's terrific fun, really.

But we finally get to the Battle of the Bands.  And when we do, we find the Purdue band waiting for us, along with... not the rest of OUR band.  Which, given that they went speeding away after we had our little accident, is somewhat puzzling and just a bit concerning, since they should have arrived at the site well before us.  But we gamely pile off the buses and dance to cadences when it's our turn to play, since while we do have the percussion section, most of the brass are missing, and as much as we woodwinds hate to admit it, they are kinda necessary.  Fortunately, about halfway through our third cadence, the missing half of the band comes tearing out of the building we're performing next to, having run all the way from their buses parked on the far side through said building.  Therefore, we can finally get on with demolishing Purdue's band once again, which admittedly had gotten a bit better since the Rose Bowl, but was still a bit stiff.

Afterwards, and after a few hours free time, we're off to dinner at some Mexican place with the Purdue band, where the food is crappy and definitely NOT all-you-can-eat, as promised.  In general, the whole thing pretty much sucks.  But then, that is essentially in line with the whole trip...

Finally, it's Game Day.  We lose, which bites.  At least I don't have to want to murder Cody Pickett for being a coward this time. (Ed: At the Holiday Bowl, Cody Pickett, our QB, ran out of bounds on fourth down a yard from the first down marker to end our attempt at a comeback.  One yard.  Fourth down.  No, I'm not still bitter, why do you ask?)  We head back out to the buses for dinner, and while everyone ELSE can get in and change and eat, the clarinet/sousa bus remains stubbornly locked, with the driver nowhere to be found.  We are sad.  And sweaty, and hungry, and annoyed about losing.  This is not what we need.  But we finally get on, and fed, and changed, and we're off to the airport, where the idea is that we'll leave earlier than planned, which means getting home earlier than planned, which is always nice, especially since it's New Year's Eve.  

However, once we get to the airport, we discover that the President's Party, who we're flying with, is still going by the original schedule, and has gone back to their hotel to change and hang out for a while before going to the airport.  So we're stuck on the buses, at the airport, next to the airplane, for a good two hours.  At least that way we didn't need to worry too much about the equipment truck showing up late with all our luggage.

At long last, the President's Party arrives, and we're allowed to board the plane.  So we do.  And then we sit there.  After about 30 minutes of sitting there, the pilot announces that because we're a charter flight, we have lowest priority for fuel, so we're still waiting for the fuel truck to come.  Never mind that the plane was sitting there for HOURS, with us next to it, even.  And never mind that it's El Paso; how busy can the airport be?  Anyways, after about an hour waiting on the plane, we finally get fueled up, and off we go.

The return trip is mercifully uneventful, landing included.  But thanks to the delays in leaving, it reaches midnight while we're still unloading the plane (rembember the whole no-one-to-handle-the-luggage thing from our departure?).  So we get to watch the fireworks from the very top of the Space Needle over the hill as we're unloading our own luggage from the plane.  The sousas have a light-switch rave on one of the buses.  And then we finally go home.

So there you have it.  The epic story of the Sun Bowl trip.  What fun it was.