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Today I took my friend Keith from Scotland up for a quick trip to Sedona, Arizona. Sedona has red plateaus and crazy rocks sculpted by the wind. Its the kind of place you only see on postcards and sci-fi movies.

It was the perfect day for a road trip. We opened the sunroof and rolled the windows down. Keith plays music for his Life Teen parish back in Scotland where my friend Fr. Neil is the pastor. We talked about God and listened to David Crowder, Chris Tomlin, and Matt Maher. We had to be two of the happiest guys on earth.

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Tonight after Mass Candyce and I sat in our church’s garden and prayed for Keith and Fr. Neil. It was a beautiful way to end the day.

This afternoon I flew an airplane glider, 7000 feet above the Arizona desert. My copilot was Fr. Mike Nagle from Martha’s Vineyard, Massachusetts. He started skydiving when he was 25, and soon he became a pilot. He’s been flying for longer than I’ve been alive. Whenever he’s out in Arizona, he takes a few days to fly a glider, the plane with no engine.

It’s a thrill to fly with no engine. Part of you is scared to death because you have no power and no parachute. But after ten minutes in the air, you are flying with the birds, safe and happy.

Our first flight was wild. Earlier this year, I signed three waivers to ride a horse up and down a hill. But today they just strapped me into the front seat of a 400 pound plane. I guess they figured if I wrecked, I wouldn’t live long enough to sue them. They roped our plane to a crop-duster, which is a small and power propeller plane.

He towed us up to 8500 feet before we let go of the rope. He faded to the left, and we went right. Without the engine, all you can hear is the wind and the creaking of the plane. I had a panoramic view of the desert and the mountains. I could see hundreds of miles in every direction. It was beautiful.

I felt so privileged to be in the sky. Beneath me were ordinary people doing ordinary things. Normally I am one of them, but today, I was chosen to be up here. Thank you God!

While we were crossing over the Estrella Mountains, I asked Fr. Nagle if I could go to confession. It seemed like the right thing to do. In my 25 years of being a Catholic, I never imagined I’ve never been to confession in an airplane. (Although I imagine it happens often.) I felt closer to God.

Our landing was as exciting as the flight itself.; Less than a foot under my seat is the wheel, which is no bigger than a wheel-barrel wheel. Underneath each wing and the tail was a wheel fit for a scooter. We barreled to the left and quickly dropped 3000 feet. We hit the dirt runway going 75 mph. It felt like I was in a bathtub, getting dragged across the desert at the speed of death. We came to a stop, one wing resting on the ground, and the other pointed up towards the sky. I swung open the glass and gave a shout of victory.

By the third flight, I had been the pilot for a good ten minutes, although not on purpose. Fr. Nagle showed me how to steer, and I did. A few minutes later, he said, “Matt, you’re doing great.” I didn’t know how to tell him that I thought he’d been flying the past five minutes.

Our final fight was the best. We found a strong lift to carry us back up 2000 feet. There are surges of heat from the desert floor that funnel up to the sky. It’s hypnotic to circle around and up closer to heaven.

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On my drive home, I pulled over to explore a junkyard I spotted from the sky. They have 85 rows of classic cars, all preserved in the dry desert heat. I found two ‘54 Chevys like my own. I crawled inside to see if I could find anything I could use on my own car. A desert lizard sprinted out of the car and down a broken piece of molding. It was fun to pass by each row, imagining the story behind each car.

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Now I am back here at my house, sitting in my unfinished kitchen. It seems so silly to spend time and money on making a pretty kitchen when I could be soaring through the sky with the birds. Most people are too busy making a pretty nest and forget that we were meant to fly.

It’s only on the ground that you feel mortal.

This was my first Friday in town; since I bought my 1954 Chevy Business Coupe. I got home early so I could go cruising around town before the sunset. Normally stop-and-go traffic around town is no fun. But when you are in a cool car, that’s part of the show.

I rolled down Mill Avenue like a super hero. For three years I’ve watched cool cars cruise the strip, and today, it was my turn. I felt like a part of Americana. Soon I had passed over the bridge into an industrial part of Tempe. I glided into the turning lane–and my engine went silent.

I turned the key. Nothing.
I pumped; the gas and turned the key. Nothing.
I prayed, pumped the gas, and turned the key. Nothing.

It was dark out, and there were no other cars on the road. I was a dark black car in; the dark night stranded in the middle of the road. I didn’t know what to do. I prayed for help, and help came, eventually.

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Pink Floyd, The Cramps, and Cranked by an Angel

A Suburban pulled up behind me and waited patiently for me to turn left. I squeezed the key in between my fingers and turned it for the last time. Still nothing. I hopped out and walked up to their window. Their interior light flickered on, and I saw their were six adults leaning towards the window to hear what I had to say.

“Can you all help me push my car out of the way? It won’t start.”

A girl yelled from the back seat, “Oh my gosh, you are Matt from the Real World.”

“That’s me! Hi…good to see you.”

“I have to get your autograph! Somebody get me some paper.”

This had to have been the most inconvenient time to sign an autograph. I thanked them for being happy to see me, then begged them to help me push my car out of the way. I gestured to my black car sitting quietly in the middle of the road.

Two dudes hopped out and I was safely off to the side of the road near a construction site. The big guy told me they were on a way to a concert. “Do you like Pink Floyd?” I didn’t have the heart to tell the man that just saved me that I think his favorite band sucks, so I tried to be nice: “Not all the time.” He laughed, got back in their SUV, and went on his way.

Within a few minutes, Joel from Mesa pulled over to offer help. He’s an aging hipster on his way to get tickets to the Cramps concert. “Is this a ‘55 Merc? I have a ‘55 Merc.” We fiddled with the engine for twenty minutes while we talked about cars and rock ‘n’ roll. He is a graphic designer for Fender guitars now and just bought a bigger house close to downtown. It’s odd to talk to a stranger like that in the middle of the night. I don’t know if I’d recognize him if I saw him again.

In desperation, I asked him to try to start the car while I held my hand over the air filter to build up compression. I held the 80 pound hood in one hand, and pressed my palm onto the hot engine block. “Try it now!” He turned the key and floored the gas. He forgot to push in the clutch, and the car lunged forward, smashing the headlight into my crotch. Now my hand was burning and my nuts hurt. He apologized, and we tried again.

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The Screaming Gorilla

I called my buddy Kurt for help. I hung up my cell phone and stared out my window into the unfinished apartment complex in front of me. There were seven levels of dark windows staring down on me, like a big haunted house.

I unwrapped my rosary from my rear view mirror and started to pray for my friend’s dad in the hospital. While I was praying, I rummaged through the construction debris to look for a metal pipe, just in case I had to defend myself. I found a fist-sized rock that did the job. I continued praying the rosary with my left hand, and tossed the rock up and down in my right. I leaned against my car and tried to look like a pissed-off mobster.

I saw a silhouette of a man coming the distance, briefly passing underneath the streetlights before he disappeared back into the darkness. My car was stuck squarely in his path, so I knew would soon meet. As he got closer, I saw that he was carrying heavy shopping bags, with his arms hung low and strong, like a gorilla. He came close and methodically walked around the car, like he’d done it twice already today.; I said hello, and he said nothing. As he disappeared around the corner, he started yelling at himself, as if he was trying to scare himself into walking faster.

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Ghost Train and the Dirt Devil

After ten minutes of solitude, I heard a train coming from the other side of the lake. The clang and hiss got louder until eventually I could see the engine light pass beneath the Interstate on the far side of the construction site. The engineer decided to stop, so each wheel screamed like a banshee for two minutes. Finally it came to a halt, and everything was quiet again.;

I continued tossing my rock into the air, ready for the moment I’d have to hurl it at the car-jacking hobos. I heard a commotion in the distance, and out of nowhere, a fifty-foot tornado charged along side the stopped train, throwing gravel against the metal cars. Then it disappeared as quickly as it came. (Wow, that was cool.)

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It’s the Gas, Stupid

Soon Kurt came with his sons to diagnose the problem. It seems like I forgot to put gas in my car. He gave me a couple gallons and we were soon at the gas station to top off the tank. Candyce met us at the gas station for moral support. I was retelling my adventures of the evening when gas tank overflowed and spilled onto ground. Silly me.

This spilling went on for the next hour. It’s terrifying to have your new car sitting in a puddle of gasoline. I tried not to imagine someone tossing a cigarette as they walked by. Action adventure movies are fun because it’s not your car blowing up.

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Silence Falls

Now I am sitting in a lawn chair in my driveway, watching gasoline drip outside my tank onto a thick piece of cardboard. It’s been dripping for two hours now. I don’t know how many holes there are, but I’m going to sit here and make sure my car doesn’t blow up. (I could be sitting here for a while.) I guess this is part of the adventure too.

Today is the third anniversary of 9-11. I’m one of only fourteen people on this entire airplane. I know we aren’t going to get hijacked, but I am still scared. We are in some really rough air right now, and this plane is getting tossed around at 35,000 feet. Fear can spark wildfire that turns into panic.; I just have to close my eyes and pray. God, give me peace.

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My plane landed safely, thank God. It only took a minute or two for all fifteen of us to leave the plane and run into the airport. Just like the airport in Nashville, the Phoenix airport was absolutely empty. I’m used to seeing hundreds of people crowding the gate, and hundreds more charging through the terminal. But no, there was no one. It was haunting.

I met Candyce at the St. Tim’s chapel in Mesa. We prayed for the families of the victims of 9-11. It seemed like the best way to end the day.

I was packing for my trip this morning when I pulled out my flight plan to make sure I knew when I had to get to the airport. Just as I had remembered, my plane was set to leave tonight at 6:20. My eyes skipped up a couple lines to check the airline when I saw that this was for next month’s trip to Nashville.

Panic pulsed through my veins. This happened to me once when I was supposed to be in New York. This could be bad. My phone cell phone rang and I didn’t recognized the area code. Dear God, please don’t let that be the people Nashville waiting for me at the airport. I didn’t dare answer the phone. I called Kathleen and asked about my flight. She flipped through her files and my heart pounded. Her voice lifted with her Scottish accent, “Oh dear, you won’t be flying out till thlree this afternewn.” I fell back on my bed in relief.

Now it’s past four, and I’m flying east to Tennessee. I’m really excited about speaking at the rally tomorrow, but these airplanes are too cramped. Every weekend, at least two strangers get to feel my elbow for the afternoon.

(Holy shiznit! The guy sitting next to me must be a doctor. He’s watching a video of people doing surgery on someone’s knee. Whoa…now he’s eating cookies while he’s watching it. Oh gross. I can’t look over there anymore. Freak nasty!)

I forgot to explain who called me this morning. It was the trucking company, calling me to tell me they’re picking up my car, and it’ll be here in Phoenix on Sunday afternoon. It will be three weeks since I bought the car on eBay, but it seems like two months.

(Okay, the flight attendant just reprimanded a mommy for changing her baby’s diaper on the seat next to her. The conversation was awkward, so they chit-chatted for a couple minutes to make it seem like they were both considerate people. The mom is an interesting character. She talks in a loud bouncy voice to her baby. She tells her baby silly things that she really intends for us to hear: “I’m going to feed you are you’re going to go right into a quiet sleep.”)

I am trying to be light-hearted in this journal, because deep down I am scared. Tomorrow is September 11, and I’m going to be flying again. I know there’s a small chance of my plane getting hijacked, but I am haunted by the memories of hell from three years ago.