In twelve hours, my world will be rocked.

At that appointed hour, I will be stepping onto a charter flight to attend Air Force ROTC Field Training at Ellsworth AFB, South Dakota. Field Training is designed to “evaluate military leadership and discipline, determine your potential for entry into the cadet officer corps, and stratify you among your peers.” Translated, that means 29 days of 4:30 AM awakening, abundant physical training, marching, standing, inspecting, shooting, testing, dorm cleaning, lightning-fast eating, parading, obstacle coursing, shoe shining, shirt folding, ironing, bed making, camping, memorizing, and much more. In short, a grand time.

Overall, I’m pretty pumped to begin this experience. Granted, there’s a healthy fear of the unknown and perpetual pondering if all the preparation I’ve done will be enough, but I think those doubts are all part of the process. I don’t expect it to be a pleasant experience, but I am planning on it being a fulfilling one. Perhaps my attitude is best described in the words of a friend who articulated his own feelings in the run-up to ROTC each and every Friday: “You hate the anticipation of Thursday night, you love the challenge of Friday afternoon.”

As I won’t be permitted to touch a phone or computer, mail would be most welcome:

Cadet Deniston, John, D.
AFROTC FTU 1, FLT L
1650 Luke Street
Ellsworth AFB, SD 57706-4609

The only mail restrictions: no food, no mail sent after 11 June, and please, nothing with an Army or Navy logo on it. I can only do so many push-ups.

More than your postal parcels, though, I’d covet your prayers. This experience is bigger than me.

That said, I hope to talk to you in a month. A brief aside: I received word yesterday that I’ve been hired for a job in Washington, D.C., which unfortunately means I won’t be seeing much of Colorado for the next two months. At least I’ll only be waking up before the sun for one of those months.

I’m diving in, I’m going deep in over my head, I want to be
Caught in the rush, lost in the flow, in over my head, I want to go
The river’s deep, the river’s wide, the river’s water is alive
So sink or swim, I’m diving in
[S.C. Chapman, Dive]

Clan Deniston is expanding.

Despite my repeated assurances that there’s no shame in the single life, my brother, Mike, last night took the plunge with Kayla, the year-long object of his piloting affection, and proposed marriage. Apparently, I was the only one surprised when she accepted (just kidding–but as the little brother, I retain the right to rib).

Indeed, this is a curious crossing of the stars. My brother went to pre-school with Kayla’s older sister, and, as our mother’s would have it, our families have been friends ever since. Some of my earliest memories include games of chase and hide-and-seek at Kayla’s family’s home and later annual dinners with both our families. It’ll be odd to slap the title “sister-in-law” on top of all those years.

The entire proposal episode was covertly documented by a family friend and is available online. Mike was certainly successful in achieving surprise, even if the backdrop was an airport gift shop. It’s a dubya for the Deniston.

Welcome aboard, Kayla.
Heck of a catch, Mike.

32 hours of being awake, 1100 miles of open road, and some hellish gas prices have yielded their promised result: I am home.

In our rubber and road culture, listing driving as a hobby is a bit peculiar… perhaps analogous to including other obvious and universal tasks like dinner and dental cleanings. Odd as it may be, though, I truly love the road trip.

The serenity of our empty Westward frontier–complemented by an occasional soundtrack of the driver’s choice–is incredible. The freedom of cramming one’s Earthly possessions into a four-wheeled voyager and aiming at the discretion of the driver–though a cheap substitute for the true explorers of generations past–is liberating. And the requirement to do nothing but watch and enjoy is intoxicating.

My roommate for the past semester and caravan companion, Adam, joined me for the miles to Colorado en route to his New York home. We stopped for the requisite Vegas-dinner at the newly opened Wynn Las Vegas. While Las Vegas’ newest $2.3 billion addition is impressive–heck, the place has it’s own Ferrari dealership–the sights of our brief self-guided tour didn’t strike me as any more brilliant than the other occupants of The Strip.

My own involvement in this exercise of American absurdity did catch my eye, though: the ridiculous wait encountered in the buffet entry line would have generated damning comment cards had the joint been Country Buffet and the price, equivalent to a tank of gas, was to serve yourself! Then again, bragging rights to eating in a billion-dollar establishment are included free of charge.

The other major excitement on the journey occurred in the miles leading to Green River, Utah. For those uninitiated to this particularly barren section of I-70, some important background: the 40 miles encompassing the eastward charge to Green River are absolutely desolate: some ranch exits, a bit of wildlife, and the descent out of the Rockies. Adam and I were both planning on a fuel stop in Green River and, mutually counting a quarter-tank remaining at the last chance for gas, believed we’d be fine. Not quite.

Apparently, the fuel economy of my fully loaded Accord had degraded more than my math allowed. Expecting to make it to 400 miles and beyond on this tank, I was a little startled when the fuel light came on at 350 miles consumed. Realizing we were still 20 miles from a fill-up, I called my ten-mile-ahead driving partner and casually asked, “You haven’t seen any gas stations, have you?” He replied what we both knew: no gas until Green River. He indicated that he, too, was running quite low, but had reason to believe the station was well within reach.

My next call began, “Adam, someday we’ll laugh about this.” If nothing else, the episode was a marvelous physics object lesson: a fully loaded Accord can coast down a mountain pass at 75 MPH for a solid 8 minutes. The added bonus is that running out of gas means vehicle power-off: no power brakes, no power steering, no more down-shifting. Thankfully dawn was breaking, and though beginning hour 24 of being awake, I was instantly rejuvenated (read: scared spitless) by the steering and braking challenge.

The conclusion of the story is far less riveting than the question of wondering how far I could maintain the speed to coast while withstanding the physics to make the winding turns. The answer, thankfully, was sputtering out for good on a straight-away in cell coverage at the base of the pass. Adam was kind enough to take the mishap with a chuckle and bring me a few precious gallons of gas. Just enough to make it to the station and smartly remark to the attendant, “I think you’ve got a great business opportunity for a station about 10 miles west of here.” 12 hours and some generous and regular fill-ups later, I was home.

Thanks to all who have put up with my scarce updates to this space during the latter weeks of the semester. I look forward to some more regular updates in the next two weeks I’ll enjoy at home… prior to departing for another grand adventure courtesy of the US Air Force.