The Tire That Needed a Zoom Meeting

Observations made from a day at an airport.

Here I was, at Denver International Airport, actually having to wait in line for TSA PreCheck. In the four and a half years that I’ve been flying around America, I had never seen the PreCheck line move this slowly. It felt as if the service had become increasingly unreliable, especially over the past year.

The reason I was in Denver was simple. Living in Chadron, Denver is the best airport option, even though Rapid City is technically closer. Rapid City mostly sends you to Denver or Chicago. Denver, meanwhile, can get me to Philadelphia without requiring a small expedition across the continental United States.

While I currently live in Nebraska, I still work in Delaware. Up until a year ago, my wife and I lived there. I could probably write an entire series about Delaware, but then again, I could probably do that for every place I’ve lived. Places are like colors. No color is objectively better than another. Everyone simply has their favorite. Delaware may not be everyone’s favorite color, but it remains one of mine.

After getting past the ID check, I noticed something unusual. If I had to estimate, nearly 70 percent of the bags going through the scanners were being flagged for additional inspection. I had never seen anything like it. Someone nearby mentioned that TSA was using AI, which made me wonder whether I was witnessing the future of airport security or simply the consequences of hundreds of people forgetting that water bottles are still not allowed through security.

Given my experiences with AI, I wasn’t entirely sure which explanation was more comforting. Some AI companies are certainly better than others. Microsoft’s Copilot, in my experience, is about as useful as sticking a fork into a light socket. The only difference is that the light socket occasionally accomplishes something.

Fortunately, I had brought film with me and requested a hand inspection. Because I made the request before the TSA agents began pulling aside what felt like every bag in Colorado, my film canisters ended up first in line. Behind me stood a growing collection of travelers desperately watching the clock as their luggage sat in inspection purgatory. Then the TSA agent slowly reached for a pair of gloves. Very slowly. Each finger appeared to receive its own individual onboarding process. Instantly, I was reminded of the sloth working at the DMV in Zootopia. The people waiting for their bags watched in silent horror as my film inspection became the highest-priority project in the terminal.

To be fair, I don’t blame TSA agents. I’ve had film hand-checked in Philadelphia, Lincoln, New Orleans, and Rapid City recently. Most inspections are quick and professional. This one was professional too. Just... deliberate. TSA agents receive more criticism than appreciation. The reality is that most of what frustrates travelers today exists because of what happened on September 11.

I was sitting in a classroom in Hastings, Nebraska when those attacks occurred. I was nowhere near New York, Washington, or Pennsylvania, but like most Americans who were alive at the time, I remember exactly where I was. Flying changed after that. People became nervous. Security became stricter. Some people unfortunately became suspicious of anyone who looked different from them. None of that was particularly admirable, but much of it was real. Whenever someone complains about TSA, I sometimes wonder if they remember how people felt during those first few years after 9/11. Given the choice between longer security lines and repeating that experience, I’ll take the longer security line every time.

Eventually, I escaped Denver and headed toward Saint Louis. I don’t believe I’ve ever been through Saint Louis’s airport before. My first impression was that whoever designed the seating areas must have assumed flights would only operate at half capacity. Every seat was occupied. Every gate was crowded. Even the gates without flights seemed to be hosting conventions. Finding an empty chair became more competitive than finding a parking spot at Costco on a Saturday afternoon.

I also noticed what appeared to be a large number of international travelers. Then I remembered that the United States is preparing to host the World Cup. Years ago, that would have excited me. I used to love the World Cup. I would rearrange my schedule around it. These days, however, my enthusiasm for FIFA has faded considerably. Corruption has a remarkable ability to drain the joy from almost anything. So, for the first time in my life, I’ll be skipping the tournament. I wish Team USA well, but my television and I will be pursuing separate interests.

Eventually, I boarded my flight to Philadelphia. That was when my next observation occurred. Airlines really need to decide what they want to do about overhead bin space. Either reserve a specific amount of space for each passenger or charge for it directly. Right now, overhead bins operate like a highly competitive free-market experiment where the reward is storing a backpack. Airlines spent years unbundling ticket prices because customers wanted cheaper fares. Then customers became upset when they discovered that all the things previously included with tickets now cost extra. In fairness, both sides have a point.

The larger issue, however, was sitting directly beside me. The passenger in the middle seat occupied considerably more than one seat’s worth of space. For more than three hours, the dividing line between our seats became less of a border and more of a diplomatic suggestion. I don’t blame the passenger. I blame the seats. Airlines have spent decades shrinking them. At some point, the average American and the average airline seat began moving in opposite directions. Unfortunately, I had plenty of time to contemplate this issue because our flight remained parked at the gate for nearly ninety minutes.

During the safety inspection, a mechanic discovered unusual wear on one of the tires. This announcement is never encouraging. In my experience, airline maintenance updates usually means the start of looking for a hotel. The mechanic first consulted the manual. Then headquarters. Then measured the tire. Then apparently consulted headquarters again. Then there was a Zoom call. At that point, I became convinced that we were witnessing the world’s most bureaucratic tire evaluation. Normally, when a tire discussion reaches the Zoom stage, the outcome is not promising.

Since it was already after 10:30 p.m. on a Sunday, I began mentally preparing for the announcement that we would all be spending the night in Saint Louis. Miraculously, however, the tire survived the meeting. The flight was approved. We departed. I still wonder whether replacing the tire would have taken less time than debating it.

In the end, despite the long security lines, crowded airports, delayed flights, shrinking seats, and tire conferences, I still prefer flying. It remains the fastest and safest way to cross this country. Would I love a high-speed rail system? Absolutely. Do I expect one anytime soon? Not particularly. So for now, I’ll continue making the journey from Chadron to Newark the old-fashioned way. By spending an entire day in airports while accumulating enough observations to annoy readers with another Substack post.