The Great Reno Balloon Race Ruined My Sunday

When the alarm goes off like a bomb at 3:35 a.m. on Sunday morning after a restless four hours of light napping and half a bottle Kenwood Zinfandel on Saturday night, I find no awe in hot air balloons glowing and tipping precariously in the Reno predawn. I am tempted, in fact, to say that I hate this idiotic event that finds me groggy and disagreeable some 34 hours after the great balloons have been popped, or burned to black fragments of ripstop nylon now floating majestically across the Utah state line. Not that I wish any of the participants ill at all. Simply put, I am never going to awaken at an hour that is best suited for deep, coma-like sleep, ever, ever again.

With three semi-conscious kids and our neighbors in their minivan following behind, we lumbered off on deserted roads past other homes darkened by sweet sleep and waking times several hours, or maybe even days, away. It's been the same idiocy every year: load up the kids' wagon, hoist it into the back of the car, find somewhere to park in the same county, and then pull the fully loaded beast some fifty miles to the field where the balloons are being dragged around by inexplicably cheery pilots and chase persons. The dust alone, created by perhaps forty-thousand spectators, nearly asphyxiated me. Ah, but I am complaining again. I did bring one refill of coffee after an initial eight cups, the lot of which proved innefective in waking me past the jittery cadaver phase of caffeine intoxication.

Oh, but then the glow show started! The spot in the rutted field we selected was relatively pleasant and afforded a nice view of the balloons lighting up and then going dark in various intervals, which I think is the entire point of getting up at such a stupid hour. Sitting in the wagon, swilling coffee and watching my kids thrash about restlessly on the ground, I sought some reason for me to be happy about any of this. Finding none, I just sat there like a refugee in a sea of weird people.

Finally, the mass ascension took place and we were free to leave. Having forgot my sunglasses, the rising sun seared my eyes and embittered me further. Lugging the wagon back over the dusty trail to the parking lot, I stumbled on rocks and curbs, wanting to be away as quickly as possible. With something like eight-thousand balloons careening across the sky, bumping into power lines and motorhomes, some crashing in slow motion into hillsides, we made our leave of the place while other balloon-watchers staggered around violently, falling in to bushes and ponds.

Mimi's Restaurant was our breakfast destination and I swilled my mimosa in hopes that I could induce sleep right there and just doze in a booth for the rest of the day. When we finally made it home at nearly 10:00 a.m., I was ready to set my house on fire and take the next flight to anywhere. I tried to nap until at least 2:00, but my rest was fitful and fraught with bellicose children yelling at lungtop for no apparent reason. My day utterly ruined and the lawns still needing to be mowed, I dutifully got up and did the work before night fell again and sleep never found me.

If this rambling nonsense is just that and my writing is unclear, uncohesive and pointless, I apologize to anyone who reads this. I hate the Great Reno Balloon Race and never want to go again. May I be forgiven for my thoughtless and sleep-deprived gibberish.