Taxi!

BERLIN (AFP) — Michael Schumacher may well be the fastest taxi driver in Germany after the seven-times world champion shocked a cab driver by taking over the wheel in order to be on time for a flight.Schumacher, 38, flew into the aerodrome at the Bavarian town of Coburg on Saturday and took a taxi to the village of Gehuelz, 30 kilometres away, to pick up a new puppy - an Australian Shepherd dog called "Ed". But when the former Formula One ace, plus his wife and two children, caught a taxi back to the airport they were short on time and,after a polite request, cab driver Tuncer Yilmaz watched in wonder as Schumacher took the wheel.

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I’m afraid I’ve never had the pleasure of riding in a taxi being driven by Mr. Schumacher, or any other Formula 1 ace. However, I suspect I’ve been transported by someone who could drive with the best of them.

Several years ago, I found myself in Atlanta on a business trip. In those days I was a Corporate Trainer and spent a good portion of my life sitting on planes, winging my way around the country, spreading enlightenment to the masses. Or at least, to my company’s clients. Don’t make the mistake of thinking this was in any way glamorous. I usually just flew in, worked, slept, worked some more and flew out again; rarely having the time to see any of the places I visited.

Even if I had, the offices at which I was working were usually situated somewhere out in the ‘burbs, in a business park or beside a faceless highway and I was too low on the company food chain to rate a rental car, so there was little to see anyway. And, thanks to America’s headlong rush towards homogenization, one suburban highway tends to look pretty much like another so there was little to distinguishes this week’s trip from the last. Even today, I’m prone to gaze in wonder as I walk through America’s airports thinking “Wait a minute...I’ve been here before; I never knew I’d been here!”

For no particular reason, Atlanta seemed to be a common destination for my business trips, and I’d estimate I’ve been there about 15-20 times, although I’ve yet to see the city center. On the day of this tale, I was heading home after my second visit that month and had a third trip planned a couple of weeks later. I had plenty of time before my flight as I waited for the airport shuttle outside the hotel. The sun was shining and despite it being a Saturday morning (and hence, un-salaried time) all was well with the world. More for something to do than anything else, I pulled out my plane ticket and glanced at the details.

It was then I discovered that the 11:30 flight I was planning to catch was actually for my next trip. For this trip, I was flying at 10am. Exactly 50 minutes from now. And I was 45 minutes from the airport. It was clear; the yet-to-arrive shuttle wasn’t going to get the job done.

Grabbing my bag, I raced across the street, hopped a concrete barrier, and waved down a passing cab.

“I need to be at the airport 10 minutes ago – can you help me?” I asked desperately. The middle-eastern driver shrugged.
“If there are no police, I can help, if there are police...” the sentence required no completion. He was moving before my second leg was in the door.
“Thanks for doing this” I said.
“Don’t talk!” he replied. Obviously, he wanted to concentrate.

Atlanta’s rush-hour gridlock is rightfully famous and having sat in it many times myself, I’m well aware this trip would have been out of the question on a weekday. But today was Saturday and traffic was light. Light, but not non-existent.

Remember those video games at the penny arcades where you sit in a padded seat and pretend to race around a track displayed on the screen? This was kind of like that. Slow moving vehicles appeared in the distance and in seconds would fill the windshield while my boy deftly weaved his way around them. On the left, on the right, on the shoulder, flashing his lights to move others out of the way. If he’d had a siren he’d have been using it. The speedometer registered zero the entire way, but I’d estimate that we rarely dropped below 100mph, and at times must have been well, well above that. The engine roared, the suspension bounced and I don’t think my driver even once touched his brakes.

Me? I just held onto the door handle and tried not to look at my watch.

In what seemed like moments, we were pulling up outside Atlanta Airport and after thrusting an inordinately large tip into his hand with a word of thanks, I was running through the concourse.

The rest of the tale could go on and on and on. How I barged my way to the front of the security line while yelling my apologies (this was pre-9/11) and had to restrain myself from physically pushing the wee train along its tracks. How I took a wrong at the far end and ran 10 gates the wrong way. How the correct gate was naturally, at the furthest end of the concourse. And how the sweat was bouncing off me like a geyser as I panted up the last few yards. But despite the airline staff attempting to close the door in my face, I made the flight.

The connection was of course, delayed and I would have had no problem if I’d left Atlanta on the next plane, but I didn’t know that at the time. I made my flight and that was what counted.

But I wouldn’t have made it without the help of my nameless friend, who drove me across an entire city faster than I’ve ever been driven in my life. And there were no police.

So Michael Shumaker; you may be the greatest Formula 1 driver in history, and apparently you’re pretty sharp behind the wheel of a cab. But if you’re ever in Atlanta, I happen to know there’s a middle-eastern guy there who will give you a run for your money.