We were doing the wave, eating nachos dripping with cheese and stomping so hard the entire football stadium shook. I was surrounded by college kids from Ohio, who were passing out condoms in pink packets that said, “Protect Yourself from John McCain.” Some wore buttons that said: “When Bush took office, gas was $1.46.”

It was the night of Obama’s acceptance speech in Denver, and it was thrilling to see, on stage, the son and daughter of Martin Luther King, Jr., Al Gore, Sheryl Crow and a dozen “ordinary Americans” whose stories brought us to tears. But the most thrilling thing, at first, was that we had made it to our seats.

I’d spent 9 hours the day before trying to figure out how to get to Invesco Stadium. I’d learned from a hodge podge of online sites that Invesco’s parking lot would be closed, along with the main highway into Denver and several major arteries. Shuttle buses would run from downtown to Invesco but they were stopping at 2 p.m., and Obama wasn’t speaking until 8. Light rail cars would run from Union station to the field, but there was no parking at Union Station. And after the event, trying to get on a shuttle with 80,000 others seemed a nightmare.There was no official source of information and lots of dis-information. We were warned you could not bring water or food into the stadium, which was true, and that no cell phones would be allowed, which was not true.

I called my local Boulder Obama headquarters, and was advised to take an RTD bus from Boulder to Denver and then the shuttle to the field. “But there’s no guarantee you’ll get a seat,” the volunteer said. “RTD is not putting on extra buses.” Why didn’t the Obama office charter one? I asked. “We didn’t have time.”

I tried to hire a student to drop us off and pick us up, but then I heard it would be impossible to get a car anywhere near the stadium. The surrounding neighborhood would be cordoned off.

Everyone who’d snagged a ticket - which had seemed more precious than gold - was now in a frenzy, surfing the net, printing maps, calling offices and each other with contradictory information. How the hell were we all supposed to get there?

My friend, Donna, imagined a cartoon of Obama huddled with aides, working his pda, trying to map out how to get to Invesco. At the final hour, two friends and I had a plan: We would drive from Boulder to Union Station in Denver, hoping there’d be no gridlock on the roads and a place to park somewhere near the station. We left town at 1:30 p.m. and the drive to Denver was… a breeze. We pulled up to Union station and there was a parking spot right in front! It was too easy - I thought we’d come too early.

We jumped on the light rail and heard an announcement: The Invesco station was closed. We’d be taken to the next stop. Oy.

When we got off, we could see the stadium but were herded in the opposite direction. Following the crowd, we climbed onto an overpass and walked for more than an hour in the broiling sun with no water because it was forbidden. And here’s where it gets ugly. When we finally reached the stadium, our crowd was not moving inside but walking away from it again, walking as far as the eye could see, then zigzagging back. And the line was stalled; nobody was moving.

We were told it would take another 2 or 3 hours until we made it to the entrance. But we were right in front - we could almost touch the turnstiles. It was like reaching the top of a mountain and being told to go down and climb up the other side.

Every cell in me revolted. It was time for extreme measures. I started to ease into the crowd moving in the direction of the turnstiles, but one of my friends had moral qualms and started trudging toward the rear. But I couldn’t. I hadn’t been a reporter for more than 3 decades to stand in line for 5 hours and miss the story!

I was wearing a bloggers’ press pass around my neck, and with my other friend, Joan Borysenko, in tow, cut thru the crowd toward a tent that said “press.” Joan had no credential, but she’s small, I’m tall. I engaged the guards in lively talk while she quietly slipped by.

We were in! Our other friend didn’t make it till 7 p.m., but she was happy with her decision. I was comfortable with mine, and if you think I did wrong, I accept your reprobation.

We took seats among a group of 19-year-olds from Ohio, who’d come to Denver for the College Democrats of America convention. A young woman I’ll call Rory (she couldn’t give her name to the press) told me Ohio is split almost evenly. “Everyone’s made up their mind and every other person is for McCain or Obama.” She said that’s why it’s urgent to register young voters.

To me, the most moving speeches all night were from those selected to be “Voices of America.” The standout was Barney Smith, from Marion, Indiana, who said he’d been a “proud Republican” all his life. He’d worked at an R.C.A. plant for 31 years, then the factory closed, leaving him unemployed with no prospects and his family without health insurance. “A foreign worker now does my job,” he said. “Republicans talk about putting country first, but tell that to Marion, Indiana. We need a president who will put Barney Smith ahead of Smith Barney!”

The crowd roared: Bar-ney! Bar-ney!

When Obama took the stage, I felt it was almost anti-climactic. I’d already understood the theme of the night: This is the party of hard-working Americans, who are hurting through no fault of their own. And this is the party of those who may not be hurting as much but want everyone to have a shot at a good education, health care, a clean environment and a job that pays a living wage.

Joan and I ducked out the minute Obama finished speaking and fireworks exploded. The happiest surprise was: getting home was a piece of cake. We rode the light rail to our car and were in Boulder in less than an hour. As we sat in my kitchen, decompressing, we still were reeling from the energy and collective sense of mission and joy. We wouldn’t have missed a minute of it.

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