I’m late for a secret rendezvous. For a glass of wine with a lady I’ve been in love with for many years. I glance at my pilot’s watch with its E6B ring around the face. I’ll barely make my connection, much less our tryst. It will have to wait for another day.
I fight my heavy carryon bag up the stairs that lead from the commuter planes to the main concourse, and—suddenly—there she is. Waiting for me. I stop in my tracks and stare at her. Drinking her in. “Hi, Jenny,” I say.
She’s really not all that pretty, with a flat nose, sagging belly, and small rear end; but for some reason I can’t explain, I find her beautiful. And I’m not the only pilot to feel that way. There’s just something about the Curtiss JN-4 “Jenny” that we pilots can’t help but love.
Most times that I pass though Denver International I stop to have a glass of wine with this particular Jenny, which hangs from the ceiling on wires just outside of the CRÚ Wine Bar on concourse B. She’s painted dark green, and her roost is just high enough in the shadows of the ceiling that many airline passengers, their heads in their iPhones, don’t even see her as they scurry by beneath her fabric-covered wings. That’s a pity, because she’s hung low enough that you can nearly hear the roar of her engine, echoing from the distant past, as she buzzes right over your head.
Every time I see her, I want to reach up and touch her. To stroke her skin. To connect with all that history in her wooden bones. To share something with the first generation of pilots.
But she’s hung just out of reach.
I slowly walk under her, tilting my head back, my eyes upwards, drinking in every detail. The naked wood and twine of her landing gear. The bicycle-like wheels. The leather surrounding the two open cockpits. The maze of wires holding her two wings together. Even though her flying days are over, it makes me smile that she’s still in the air, where airplanes belong. And I can’t help but fantasize about climbing into her rear cockpit, firing up that old liquid-cooled V-8 engine, and flying her away. But from all accounts, not only is she not much to look at, but she’s not even that great in the air, either.
Another glance at my watch. Crap! Gotta go, Jenny. I’ll see you next time. And I jog off down the concourse to catch my next flight.