Today, Nancy and I are married and both work for the new United—me at the Continental subsidiary, Nancy for legacy United.

I wrote this on September 14, 2001, and put it in a file. This is the first time I’ve taken it out in many years.
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14 Sept 2001

I wonder if the collective images of the jets slamming into the World Trade Center and the massive towers crumbling to the ground really do carve out small pieces of my soul. Because it feels like it. I’m going to record what it was like to be a human being on 9.11.01. More specifically, an American, and more specific still, a member of the New York City community, the Washington, DC, community, the aviation community. It was absolute hell on earth—not the murky, nonspecific version of hell, but the hell on earth we all imagine, full of fire, acrid smoke, deafening noise—and wailing. Full of searching for loved ones—they could have been in the buildings or possibly in the air, maybe even flying the doomed planes before they were taken over. The blackest, most unimaginable day, fully realized.

The alarm went off at 4:30 am. Nance had to leave the house at 5 to get to National Airport by 6 to fly to Chicago at 7. I awoke for under a minute as she crawled from bed, and then I fell back asleep, pillow over my head.

Nance leaned over me and kissed me good-bye.

I woke again to the alarm at 6 a.m., ate some food, watched some TV, drank a lot of water. I opened up a box of pilot shirts that had been delivered a few days earlier. They were the wrong brand, and I was pissed (how petty this would seem later). I had to work in a few hours. I headed out the door to drive to the trail for a 12-mile training run. The New York City Marathon is just under two months away.

Stopped for batteries at WaWa. No batteries. No Discman today.

Started my run at 8:16 a.m. It was a beautiful day. Perfect, in fact. Blue sky. Clear. Birds singing. Not many people with me at first. Then a smattering of moms with baby carriages. Some bikers. Some runners. It’s pretty secluded on some sections of the Baltimore-Annapolis trail—definitely a removed place. I was in my own world anyway, concentrating on my body and the run. I felt good.

I passed an intersection near a drug store. I thought, “I could have gotten batteries here and could be listening to the Stones right now.” I noticed a sign outside that said it opened at 9. I looked at my watch. It was around 8:45. Oh, well, the silence wasn’t so bad. This is around the time the first jet was flown into the World Trade Center.

I ran to my halfway point, turning around at one of the more remote areas of the trail. I still felt good. I fueled up. It was getting hotter, and I was sweating pretty good.

At around the 10-mile mark of my run, a guy came from behind. He had a Walkman on. He looked at me as he passed and smiled and said, “How ya doin?” He sounded really enthusiastic. I said, “Good—almost done!” He continued past me, and I used him as a pacer.

I finished right behind him and went straight to the trail map posted there. I wanted to make sure I had done 12 miles. As I searched for my turnaround point, I heard a broadcast from a parked truck that was unloading in the lot adjacent to the trail. I heard some words—“possible second aircraft,” “South Tower,” "World Trade Center,” “Pentagon.” I squinted my eyes and strained to hear and said out loud, “WHAT?” My pacer said, “Yeah, I just heard on my radio—a plane crashed into the World Trade Center and the Pentagon is on fire.”

I ran to my car, a few hundred feet away. As I ran past the truck with the radio blaring, the driver happened to close the door, and I couldn’t hear it anymore. I ran faster. When I reached the car, I fumbled frantically for the keys. I knew something very, very wrong had happened. I could feel it then and there.

I climbed into the car, completely sweat-covered and slimy, and turned on the radio. It was a DJ for DC 101, a rock station. There was news reporting. I heard something about a hijacking. The DJ started shouting, “Get me the goddamn FEED! I don’t want the . . . I want the GODDAMN FEED!” I switched the station. Peter Jennings of ABC—a familiar voice. Just in time to hear a field reporter say something like, “THE ENTIRE SOUTH TOWER HAS COMPLETELY COLLAPSED—LIKE WHEN A BUILDING IS DEMOLISHED.” Jennings was watching. He said, “Dear God.” I could picture his mouth open. It sounded like his fingers were covering it. I started to cry, right there. I didn’t want to believe it was really the World Trade Center, but from what they were saying, it was. My mind created an image of the tower crumbling, and it was pretty much exactly the same image as the replay I saw later on TV.

I started the car and raced the streets to get to Nance’s house. The newspeople said it was an American Eagle commuter aircraft that was hijacked and crashed into the first tower (this was obviously inaccurate). I beat the steering wheel and yelled, “F#*&ers!” Then they said something about a Continental jet or commuter jet crashing into the Pentagon (also obviously inaccurate), which was on fire. The Pentagon was only 30 miles away. Nancy was flying. I needed a phone, and I needed a TV. I remember looking at other drivers through their windshields to see if they were as shocked as me, or crying. I couldn’t tell. More words from the newspeople—terrorism, Osama bin Laden. What’s going ON? Somewhere around this time, I heard of the second aircraft crashing into the other tower. It was leaning. It had all happened already, completely encompassed by my 12-mile run. And, of course, it would all be different afterward.

First Officer Michael Paredes, Continental