As I pound out these words, NASA's Upper Atmosphere Research Satellite (UARS) continues to orbit about 90 miles overhead, still hours away from scattering itself across the countryside like worn-out major appliances on a West Virginia hillside below a remote dirt road in the 1970s.
CHARLESTON, W.Va. -- As I pound out these words, NASA's Upper Atmosphere Research Satellite (UARS) continues to orbit about 90 miles overhead, still hours away from scattering itself across the countryside like worn-out major appliances on a West Virginia hillside below a remote dirt road in the 1970s.
I'm going to go out on a limb and assume that everyone within the Sunday Gazette-Mail's circulation area managed to escape injury during the satellite's re-entry into Earth's atmosphere.
According to the space agency, the odds of someone, somewhere in the world being struck by debris from the satellite were one in 3,200, while the chances you or I, out of 7 billion Earthlings, being hit by satellite trash were about one in 10 trillion. In other words, about the same as winning the Powerball drawing, getting struck by lightning, and backing Dennis Kucinich in a successful U.S. presidency bid all at the same time.
Given the lack of danger, I'm not sure why the incoming space junk raised such a media furor - and I'm a part of the media's bush league program.
But with 23,000 baseball-sized or larger pieces of space junk orbiting the Earth waiting for the chance to re-enter the atmosphere, I was a bit relieved to read that my homeowner's policy would almost certainly cover any damages done to the Compound by superheated satellite sprockets.
Especially since Russia has invested $2 billion to launch a nuclear-powered "space pod" by 2023 to kick all those chunks of junk out of orbit and into Earth's atmosphere, where most - but certainly not all - will disintegrate on re-entry.
By making the orbiting lanes safer for satellite travel, the Ruskies may be increasing the odds for another Lottie Williams incident.
Williams, the Jack Whittaker of space junk, is the only person in history to have been struck by falling space debris.
Williams was walking through a park in her hometown of Tulsa, Okla., with two friends on a predawn January morning in 1997 when they saw a huge fireball streak across the sky. The trio, thinking they had seen a shooting star, continued to walk. About 30 minutes after seeing the fireball, Williams felt a tap on her shoulder and heard something metallic hit the ground behind her.
CHARLESTON, W.Va. -- As I pound out these words, NASA's Upper Atmosphere Research Satellite (UARS) continues to orbit about 90 miles overhead, still hours away from scattering itself across the countryside like worn-out major appliances on a West Virginia hillside below a remote dirt road in the 1970s.
I'm going to go out on a limb and assume that everyone within the Sunday Gazette-Mail's circulation area managed to escape injury during the satellite's re-entry into Earth's atmosphere.
According to the space agency, the odds of someone, somewhere in the world being struck by debris from the satellite were one in 3,200, while the chances you or I, out of 7 billion Earthlings, being hit by satellite trash were about one in 10 trillion. In other words, about the same as winning the Powerball drawing, getting struck by lightning, and backing Dennis Kucinich in a successful U.S. presidency bid all at the same time.
Given the lack of danger, I'm not sure why the incoming space junk raised such a media furor - and I'm a part of the media's bush league program.
But with 23,000 baseball-sized or larger pieces of space junk orbiting the Earth waiting for the chance to re-enter the atmosphere, I was a bit relieved to read that my homeowner's policy would almost certainly cover any damages done to the Compound by superheated satellite sprockets.
Especially since Russia has invested $2 billion to launch a nuclear-powered "space pod" by 2023 to kick all those chunks of junk out of orbit and into Earth's atmosphere, where most - but certainly not all - will disintegrate on re-entry.
By making the orbiting lanes safer for satellite travel, the Ruskies may be increasing the odds for another Lottie Williams incident.
Williams, the Jack Whittaker of space junk, is the only person in history to have been struck by falling space debris.
Williams was walking through a park in her hometown of Tulsa, Okla., with two friends on a predawn January morning in 1997 when they saw a huge fireball streak across the sky. The trio, thinking they had seen a shooting star, continued to walk. About 30 minutes after seeing the fireball, Williams felt a tap on her shoulder and heard something metallic hit the ground behind her.
The fallen object, which Williams described as a chunk of blackened woven material weighing about the same as an empty soft drink can, turned out to be part of the fuel tank of a Delta II rocket that carried a U.S. Air Force satellite into orbit in 1996.
Now comes the strange part of the story.
In a National Public Radio interview last week, Williams said that being the only person in all of humanity ever to be hit by space debris "was one of the weirdest things that ever happened to me."
One of the weirdest things?
What kind of life has the Tulsa woman led?
Has she gone shoe shopping with Snooki?
Time-traveled to Nov. 23, 1968, to watch the future Dr. Phil, then a middle linebacker for the University of Tulsa, lose 100-6 to Houston?
If a chunk of UARS hits me, I plan to cash in on my notoriety.
If next Sunday's column deals with newfound superhuman powers, you'll know what happened.
