Wheels within Wheels and Wings

No matter what form of travel I choose, the wheelchair always poses problems. The problems seem insurmountable, but usually it’s only a matter of logic. Cars are awkward, airplanes are difficult, and buses are nigh unto impossible. Whatever way the misabled traveler chooses to travel will be fraught with humor for the outside observer.

Getting into the average automobile is a little like one of those puzzles, involving two twisted nails that must be separated and then linked back together….Actually, it’s a lot like that. In recent years, auto makers have been thoughtful enough to install a handle just above the door, to aid in this transfer, and it’s appreciated. Actually, I think the handle was intended to assist when Jack Spratt’s wife is being poured into the passenger window, but….

Finding a place to put the chair during transit–what with luggage, snacks, bottled water, reading material, electronic entertainment devices and various family members–is a task that requires a degree in physics. Since I am usually waiting calmly in the passenger seat for the travelogue to begin, I don’t really care. It just happens.

This process is repeated each time the itinerary calls for food stops, potty breaks or over-nighters. The one that puts a burr under my decubitus cushion is a periodic stop we make and refer to as “scratching our legs.”

Airplanes present a different problem. Wheelchairs are usually at least 25 inches wide. Airplane aisles are usually 22 inches wide. The airlines have solved this problem with what they call an aisle-chair . This is simply a narrow furniture dolly with a seat.

I transfer from the wheelchair to the aisle-chair, then the fun begins. They strap me to the dolly with two straps that run diagonally across my chest in opposite directions, and a standard seat belt. I asked once why the two diagonals were necessary. The flight attendant explained that they were required by FAA regulations. I can only guess that these are restraints in case I become violent before reaching my seat. Either that or we’re expecting a side impact from the beverage cart.

Once at my seat, it’s no great difficulty to transfer into the seat I’ve been assigned for the duration of the flight, but this seat poses another problem. The new problem involves the fact that handicapped people are almost always given aisle seats. Sure, the aisle seat is an easier transfer, but now I’m holding the people in the center and window seats as virtual hostages. If one or both need to leave their seats for a moment, they must first climb over me. And now that I’m mortared into place by my immobility, the restroom comes to mind.

The airlines are thoughtful and usually seat the handicapped near the restrooms. The problem remains that my legs just don’t work at all. A flight attendant once reasoned with me that the restroom was just across the aisle. Five steps might as well be 500 steps where my legs are concerned.

Getting off the plane is a simple reverse of getting on, but all bets are off when you discover that they’ve broken your wheelchair in cargo.

The only buses I’ve ridden on were the cross-town city variety. This is a nightmare that H.P. Lovecraft would have enjoyed writing about. Once past the complicated machinery of the wheelchair lift, they have regulations about securing the chair to the bus floor. They seem to be worried that the bus might suddenly achieve weightlessness. The complicated set of straps, hooks and latches they use for this purpose never actually work.

At almost all costs, you want to avoid most bus travel anyway. The reason being that buses, and the stations that spawn them, are incubators for the grotesque. These huddled masses yearn to breathe my free air. Some passengers appear to have spent most of a lifetime on the same bus, only changing seats whenever the bus tires are rotated.

The local bus systems are a guided tour to purgatory, and I’m always afraid that my wheelchair is strapped down for the main purpose of keeping me still when the vehicle begins its descent into the underworld. I wait for the bus driver to get on the intercom and introduced himself as Charon.

If I can’t roll there in my chair or drive there in my own car, I no longer really want to go.