Too busy for stress

Flying relaxes me. It always has, but it wasn’t until just the other day that I figured out why, and it’s so simple it made me laugh: Flying takes too much mental bandwidth to let stress in.

There are constant mental challenges in flying. Am I on course? Keep her at the right altitude, William. Check your oil pressure! What’s my cylinder head temp? Where would I put down if the engine crapped out right now? What’s the weather like ahead? How’s our fuel consumption? Keep her on course…

And there are the delightful attractions of seeing the globe from above. Look at that crazy field below! How on earth did they plow it like that?

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Plus the delightful attractions of being a citizen of the air. Check out that crazy cloud above! The sun above has lit up the ice crystals like neon southern lights!

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So partly, there’s just so much to do—even in a simple cockpit like mine—that the mind simply doesn’t have the capacity to latch onto all the little things that plague us in on the ground; and partly, when you’re in an airplane, you can’t do anything about most of the things that stress us out on the ground. Forgot to send the car payment in? Well, nothing you can do about that right now. Your mother needs her screen door fixed? Well, that ain’t happenin’ at 7,500 feet.

That blend of the high mental bandwidth required for flying, mixed with a location that limits what you can do anyway, nearly washes stress away completely. What little stress is left is drowned in the sea of confidence that taking a thousand pounds of metal and making it fly generates. Mastering any skill is good for the soul, but mastering something so humanly improbable as flight?

Tonic for the ego, for sure.

So that’s why flying relaxes me. It keeps me too busy to be stressed out.

Hot Property

For Sale: Five year old Air Race. Nice time of year. Mild climate. Good location at large airport. Held during major air event. Viewed by over 200,000 attendees. For more information, call Craig Payne at Sun ‘n Fun.

OK. So I totally made up that classified ad. But what it’s selling is totally real, and you can buy it tomorrow, if you want. The Sun 40 Sprint—an aircraft speed trial that actually launches out of, and finishes at, Sun ‘n Fun’s Lakeland Linder Regional Airport during the expo’s daily showcase—has been re-classified by the expo’s brass as a “sponsorable” event.

That means you can buy your very own air race. Which is not as crazy as it sounds.

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Let’s suppose you own a small company that has a great aviation product that you want to sell to pilots. You’ve got your website ready to go and your inventory is just begging to be shipped. Now all you have to do is get the word out. Sure, you have a Facebook page, but like us here at Plane Tales, you only have 32 “likes.” (And we love every one of you.) So you need to advertise.

The traditional approach would be to buy an ad in one of the aviation magazines, but this is not for the faint of pocketbook, and certainly not for the bootstrapper. For instance, a 1/6 page black and white ad in AOPA’s Pilot magazine costs $3,080—and everyone who knows anything about magazine advertising knows you need to be seen again, again, and again. For a two-color ad the rate jumps to nearly four thousand bucks. Want a color photo in your ad?

Cha-Ching. $4,840 at the cash register, please.

For one ad.

So what about a booth at one of the aviation expos instead?

Sun ‘n Fun would actually be a good place to start. It’s neither as expensive nor as overwhelming as AirVenture, but it’s a huge leg up over a local airshow or fly-in. The annual Florida event draws nearly a quarter million aviation enthusiasts from all over the country who are in a nice warm location following a cold winter back home, and they are ready to take to the skies again with their hearts and wallets.

How much would a booth at Sun ‘n Fun set you back? Looking at this year’s rates, the cheapest outdoor booths are $1,390. That price includes six exhibitor badges and one parking space. If you want to be indoors, the rate is $2,350. If you need internet, it will be more. Of course, larger booths and premium locations command yet higher rates.

Still, it sounds like a deal and a half, huh? Hell, it’s cheaper than the stupid magazine ad.

Or is it? Because that’s just the cost of the empty booth. You’ll still need signs, display materials, and tradeshow giveaways. And that’s just the beginning. The show runs the better part of a week. You’ll need to pay for hotel, rental car, and food. And unless you have amazing stamina, you’ll need help.

And you have to get there, too.

This is why some companies choose to have a remote presence instead. Ben Sclair, publisher of Sun ‘n Fun Today (the show’s daily newspaper) told me that some companies find it cheaper and just as effective to advertise in his paper to reach the attendees, rather than to take on all the costs of coming in person.

Or you could buy the air show. Even I gotta admit that the Plane Tales Sprint has a nice ring to it.

I’m sure the details are negotiable, but Payne tells me he’s looking to find someone to sponsor next year’s show for around three thousand dollars. Where would your money go? To trophies and food for the racers, and to help support the event and Sun ‘n Fun’s educational mission. What would you get for your money? Well, you’d get your name out in a big way. It would be in all the adverting, all the media coverage, and if you went to Sun ‘n Fun yourself, you’d hear your company’s name again and again during the hour-long event, which is covered live by an announcer just like a baseball game.

If I had something to sell other than words, I’d jump at this opportunity in a second. I think magazine ads are great. A booth at a trade show lets you interact one-on-one with potential customers. But both are expensive. Also, there’s virtually no limit to the number of magazine ads out there, and Sun ‘n Fun has hundreds of booths. In other words, you’re part of a crowd. It’s hard to stand out.

But there’s only one Sun 40 Sprint. It’s never been for sale before, and it could be all yours—all yours. That’s what I call a hot property.

 

Here’s Craig’s email: yakman285@gmail.co

 

Wicked jets, shark-mouthed warbirds, and… a pink race plane?

The gull-winged Vaught F4U-4 Corsair of Black Sheep Squadron fame, arguably one of the most beautiful war planes of all time, is painted a deep glossy blue—nearly black. She sits near the hangar door, wings mimicking praying hands, folded upward towards the heavens.

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The man who taught me my commercial, instrument, and mountain skills—Gil Harris—flew one of these as a Marine pilot in the Pacific during World War II. Every time I see one of the iconic fighter planes I think of him.

But now, with the spinner high above my head, I’m struck once again by just how damn big the thing is, especially for a one-man fighter. It’s over 33 feet long from nose to tail. Unfolded, the wings stretch to 41 feet. But most impressively, the top of the engine stands nearly 15 feet off the ground. This one, with her wings reaching upward literally towers over me.

And it bears my Race Number: 53.

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Funny the way the aviation world is so full of connections. But it’s chilly inside the massive 64,000 square-foot-hangar, so I cut short my communion with the past and its links to the present, and move on to the next exhibit, a rare two-seat P-51 D Mustang named Friendly Ghost. Next on the flight line is a shark-mouthed P-40 Warhawk, the same type the Flying Tigers flew, but this one is in Army Air Force colors.

On the tail of the plane, a cowboy is urinating on the Rising Sun.

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I admire the moxie, but I sure wouldn’t want that on my tail if the Japanese shot me down.

I turn, and in the shadow of a gleaming black twin-engine, twin-tailed P-38 Lightning is another old friend. Painted bright, cheerful yellow, a tiny Piper Cub manages to hold it’s own among the massive warbirds. A sign in the windshield says that it’s a 1937 model, and that it’s the oldest flyable Piper airplane in the world.

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And that’s what makes this museum special. The War Eagles Air Museum prides its self on keeping its collection aloft. Under nearly every one of the thirty-seven planes in their main hangar sits an oil pan. That’s not something you see in most air museums, where former denizens of the air are often shown as “static” displays, permanently grounded, shot and stuffed birds in a natural history diorama.

Airplanes are born to fly. I like museums that keep them flying, which is no easy thing to do. It’s much cheaper to park a plane and dust it off once a month than to keep it airworthy. It takes extra dedication to keep a collection aloft.

Next to the Cub, on a stand, is a cub engine. A 40-horse Continental A40-4. Ridiculously improbable as an aircraft engine, it’s small and simple. It looks like it belongs in a lawn mower rather than in an airplane. I have a vision of being able to tuck it under my arm and carry it to my mechanic for maintenance (although according to the internet, it weighs 150 pounds, and I’m not that strong).

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Looking down the isle, it’s airplanes as far as I can see.

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This world-class museum is in the unlikely location of Santa Teresa, New Mexico, population: 4,258. The village sits 30 miles west of El Paso, Texas, and six miles north of the Mexican border. Santa Teresa is Spanish for Saint Teresa, one of the patron saints of pilots.

Like I said, the universe is full of connections.

The collection of planes, like that of many airplane museums, is heavy on both military aircraft and World War II aircraft; but there is a handful of biplanes, two helicopters, a number of early fighter jets from the 50s, and a lovely DC-3. The museum is comfortably crowded, unlike the Mid-American Air Museum in Liberal, Kansas, which is uncomfortably crowded. War Eagles also has an interesting array of aviation artifacts—mementos, photos, uniforms, models, and more.

For car lovers, the museum includes a collection automobiles. In fact, they have more autos than airplanes, with more than fifty cars ranging from a 1908 Overland to a 1984 Jaguar, along with a great collection of antique gas pumps.

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Rounding a corner under the wing of a twin-engine Douglas A-26 light bomber, an unusual airplane catches my eye. Suspended from the ceiling in one corner is a Cessna 140.

And it’s Mary Kay pink.

I stop and rub my eyes, then look again. Yep. A lovely shade of pastel pink. Not normally a color you see an airplane painted. Her nose and wheel pants are painted a darker pink, as are her wing tips. She’s also sporting a Race Number: 22.

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Tickled pink, and I couldn’t wait to learn more about this unusual airplane.

Briefly, this is the story of Race 22, a.k.a. the “Cotton Clipper Cutie:” The small Cesena was the First Place winner of the 1954 all-women’s air race. Variously called the Women’s Air Derby, the All-Women’s Transcontinental Air Race, and today known as the Air Race Classic; the press at one time dubbed the long-running women’s cross country air race as the “Powder Puff Derby,” a moniker that different generations of women pilots have alternately either embraced or shunned.

The pink plane was piloted by Ruth Deerman and Ruby Hays of El Paso, now both sadly deceased. They were no strangers to the arduous race. They competed in the 1950, 1951, 1953 races without scoring a major victory, but their luck changed in 1954.

Flying from Long Beach, CA to Knoxville, TN, with nine intermediate stops, the women covered the nearly 2,000 mile route in five days, clocking an official speed of 123.9 miles an hour for the course, taking the first place slot in the 8th running of the race, and beating out fifty competitors.

The Women’s Race is a “handicapped” race, a system that places all the planes in the race on an equal footing. The winner isn’t the plane with the biggest engine; the winner is the plane with the best crew. Winning speed comes from precision flying, smart planning, finding and taking advantage of winds, and apparently, being fast on the ground, too.

According to the display, Hays, the copilot/navigator, related that—wearing a dress, nylons, a hat and gloves—she dashed from the plane at one of the checkpoints to get their log stamped and “took a spill” on some loose gravel, sliding right under the table!

She called it ignominious. But they won.

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The ladies donated the historic race plane and their trophy to the museum in 1994, along with a collection of memorabilia that includes a great photo of the two women lying on the ground waxing the belly of the plane with Wonder Earth glass wax.

So did Race 22 win the derby wearing pink? Sadly, no. She was painted pink in later years. A faded period B&W photo shows the polished silver plane as she looked crossing the finish line.

But now in the pink, she’s quite the eye catcher.

 

Doing the Wright thing

The view is lovely, but I’m bored to death. Rio is flying and I’m sitting on my hands with my mouth zipped shut, at his request. His mastery of the plane in flight is absolute. His turns are liquidly smooth, the nose nailed to the horizon. Damn, that kid can really fly.

But land?

Well, that’s another problem, and it’s really all my fault. I should have taught him how to land long ago, but I rationalized that I wasn’t an instructor, and that I didn’t know how to go about it. It was something a pro should do.

But I’ve come to realize that I was just making excuses.

The real reason I haven’t taught Rio to land is that I love flying—most especially the takeoffs and landings—too much to share the plane as much as I should. That makes me a Certified Bad Parent, so I’m working on that negative aspect of my personality, and trying to change it. And as a first step, this day is dedicated solely to takeoff and landing practice for Rio.

I’m just along for the ride.

Rio guides us through the traffic pattern and slowly slides the throttle back abeam the numbers. As the plane descends, I’m once again struck by his innate sense of power management: When to cut back a bit, when to bring in a bit more power. But as he turns to final, the problems begin. We’re too high; he’s turned too early. As we close in on the runway, we’re waaaaay off to the right. Rio continues the descent, seemingly unaware that we’ll end up landing in the grass. Very near the security fence. I slide my left hand out from under my leg so that I can get to the yoke quickly if I need to, and attempt to beam ESP-style messages through my son’s headset and into his brain.

It doesn’t work.

Down we come. 100 feet… 75 feet… 50 feet… 25 feet…

Rio flicks the mike button and transmits, “Santa Rosa Route 66 traffic, seven-six hotel, landing abort.” Then over the intercom adds, “Crap!” He throttles up, holding the nose level. The descent stops and Tessie builds speed. He holds her low until we flash over the southern security fence, then he gently pitches the plane up and climbs back up to the pattern altitude.

Again, the fluid turn, more ballet than airmanship. He reduces the power and lines the plane up parallel to the runway. I offer to run the throttle or the radio, but he says, quite rightly, that he needs to learn to do it all, and on this cold sunny morning it suddenly strikes me that he’s more stubborn than his mother and I combined.

And that’s a lot of stubborn.

He flicks the microphone. “Santa Rosa Route 66 traffic.” His voice is confident and smooth, pitched a bit deeper than his normal speaking voice. “Erco three-niner-seven-six hotel, left downwind, runway one-niner, full stop landing.” Then he adds over the intercom, in his normal voice, “Hopefully.”

We end up doing two more aborted landings. Rio’s face getting more strained with each. His jaw is set tight, his eyes narrowed. I can tell he’s pissed. Mad at himself. Upset that he can’t do it perfectly the first time, every time. He’s his own harshest critic. From my side of the plane I can see that each landing set-up is better than the one before. He’s learning from his mistakes and incorporating the lessons progressively into each attempt. But he doesn’t want to hear it from me.

Now we’re coming down, down, down again. We’re to the right of the centerline, but at least we’re over the pavement. We’re a bit high and a bit fast, but we’ve got runway to burn. I’m not worried. It’s not textbook, but it’ll be safe. But at the last second the flare gets away from him. He doesn’t pull the nose up quite far enough, quite soon enough, and the rapidly descending plane slams onto the runway with a bone-jarring shudder, and then springs right back into the air. We return to earth, but bounce right off the runway into the air a second time. Then a third.

Bounce, bounce, bounce; down the runway we go. More a rabbit hopping down the runway than a proper airplane landing.

Video of the actual landing(s) by Lisa F. Bentson

The third time being the charm, and our excess energy dispersed, Tess stays on the runway and we do a clean, smooth rollout.

“Well, that was the worst landing since the Wright brothers,” muttered Rio, clearly disgusted with himself.

“Which one of the three did you think was so bad?” I asked Rio, and in spite of himself, he’s able to manage a laugh.

“Come on,” I urge, “let’s go do it again.”

And so we taxi back around to the scene of the crime and take off again. A takeoff better than his first. And I sit on my hands, zip up my mouth. I look up through the canopy at the deep blue sky, painted with high altitude cirrus clouds. Below, pinion and juniper. Yellow rock and red soil.

Then I turn to study Rio in the seat beside me. Fourteen going on forty. Quiet. Serious. Focused. More man than boy now, with sideburns to his jaw. In his hands the plane is a living thing, flying with the grace of an eagle.

And I’m no longer bored. I’m thrilled. Thrilled to be able to share this with him.

Thrilled to be able to teach him to fly. And to land.

 

 

Letting go

It’s not that I’m a control freak. I’m just accustomed to taking care of everything.

Oh. Wait.

Maybe I am a control freak.

At some point over the twisting course of my life my self-reliance morphed a bit into something different: I’m simply not in the habit of relying on others. And because I do “everything,” I like to do it as efficiently as possible. Nowadays, that means using the Internet late at night to make hangar, hotel, and ground transportation arrangements for cross-country flights, preferably without having to actually talk to another human being.

Come to think of it, this is not unlike my approach to choosing airports that we talked about recently. I guess that makes me an antisocial control freak. But something wonderful just happened that might change my whole approach to cross-country flights.

The trip in question didn’t end up happening—thanks to the stupid hurricane—but Rio and I had planned an epic two-week father-son jaunt around the country that would take us to two races. The flow of the trip had us putting down for the night in Oklahoma City at the end of the first day, where there are eight public-use airports to choose from.

So which to choose?

One thing we always do when traveling by air is to check out the local aviation museums. There are some really amazing collections in places you’d least expect it. For instance, in trying to get to Oshkosh the year before last, we put down near the Mississippi River to escape weather and found a rack card for a little museum in Greenfield, Iowa. It looked interesting, so on the way home we diverted to check it out.

Among other things, they had the actual plane that was used in an early endurance record, kept aloft by one of the first uses of aerial refueling! Just how long was the flight? Are you sitting down? Seventeen days, 12 hours, and 17 minutes. And this was in 1929! Apparently it was “cut short” when one of the pilots developed some sort of painful dental issue.

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But I think I’ve drifted off course here. Let me get back on heading. A quick Google search showed that Oklahoma City has three aviation-themed museums. Of course, the city is HQ for the Ninety-Nines and their museum is at Wil Rogers World airport, the big Class C operation. At nearby Weatherford, the Stafford Air & Space Museum is literally right on the field. You can taxi up to it. And lastly, the Oklahoma Museum of Flying is in a hangar on the grounds of the Wiley Post airport. It has a small collection of planes including one of the Reno-racing P-51s and a World War I era Fokker Eindcker—a craft more scaffolding than airplane.

I was sold. Even though Wiley Post had a control tower, we’d spend the night there.

I decided that all I needed was a rental car and maybe a hangar for Tess. On my last several trips I’ve had good luck asking about hotel discounts at FBOs after landing, and I’ve gotton some really good deals. Besides, it’s not like we weren’t going to be able to find a hotel room in Oklahoma City.

I emailed the FBO, then went to the rental car hub at the Aircraft Owners and Pilots Association, or AOPA. If you fly and aren’t a member of AOPA you really need to join. They’re the AARP of aviation, keeping Washington off our backs and out of our cockpits. Oh, and there are direct member benefits, too, like their slick car rental site.

Well, normally slick.

Most times I just enter the airport identifier of where I want to pick up and drop off a car, and it’s done in seconds. This time I was told I needed to contact the FBO.

(((Groan)))

So I sent a second email to the FBO. Please add a rental car to that hangar request.

The next day I got an email back saying I needed to call them. (((Double groan))). If I had wanted to actually talk to someone, I wouldn’t have emailed.

Grudgingly, I picked up the phone and called. And I had the nicest two-minute conversation with a young lady who is a bigger control freak than I am. She took care of everything. She took down my name and tail number and said not to worry, she’d arrange overnight hangar, hotel, and a rental car. What type of car would I like?

I confessed to my fondness for muscle cars, but my unwillingness to pay for them. She thought she could get me an upgrade. She promised to email confirmations. Within an hour I had a single email, outlining everything.

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One brief phone call. And everything was done for me. Wow.

Maybe the best way to stay in control is to let someone else take care of everything.

 

A big, beautiful map

The map nearly covered the floor. There was barely room for me to stretch out on the carpet between its edge and the freshly painted wall. Antique hardbound copies of The Aeroplane Boys held the corners of the map flat, fighting the curl that several weeks in a shipping tube created.

“This is a thing of beauty,” I told Rio and Lisa, “I’ve wanted one since I was a teenager.” My eyes roamed over the gigantic flight-planning map—the eastern half of the country pale green, morphing to moss green on the western highlands of the great plains, then transitioning to khaki, muted yellow, tan, and finally deep brown over the Rockies as the altitude rose.

The map was beautifully printed on thick, heavy paper; and laminated so dry erase markers can be used for planning without marring. The graphics are sharp and bright. The terrain jumps out, nearly 3-D. Rivers, lakes, and mountains are clear. Small magenta circles show uncontrolled airports. Blue circles show the towered fields. Military operations areas litter the country. The Bravo airspace around the county’s largest airports creates blue cookie-cutters around the sunflower-yellow splotches signifying city sprawl. Thin black lines between cities show the interstate highway system.

Pale grey circles, every 200 miles, radiate outwards from our home base, the Route 66 Airport in Santa Rosa, New Mexico.

Yep, this map has been personalized just for us.

I chose 200 miles for the range rings as that’s how far we can fly, with two aboard and some cargo, before we need to alight for fuel.

Of course the map isn’t going to live on the floor. Once the curl is straightened out, and the new paint on the wall is dry, the map will take its place as the crowning jewel of our latest home improvement project: Our very own flight-planning room.

Understand that our house is small. Less than 1,500 square feet. It’s made up of two bedrooms, a combined kitchen and dining room, a living room, a small library and office with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, and the other room.

The other room has served a variety of purposes over the years. Originally it was a photographic darkroom. Later it was a guest bedroom. Then a nursery for the baby. Then it was a walk-in storage closet. In it’s most recent incarnation, it was a tiny residential suite for my ailing mother-in-law, who spent the last three years of her life with us. After she passed away the room initially sat empty, then began to collect “stuff.”

Several times I asked Debs what her plan for the space was, but she wasn’t ready to think about it, so I backed off.

Then we cooked up the “48 project” as our next big Tessie adventure. Recall that first we set a World Speed Record, then we did a season of racing, so we needed to top those somehow. To do that, we cooked up a plan to make a single cross-country flight that touches down in all of the lower 48 states.

Now this is a project that’s going to require some careful planning, and I didn’t want to be doing it all on an iPad mini at the kitchen table with a pile of sticky notes on the side. As I drew a first draft of the zig-zaggy flight course on a kindergarten map of the United States that I printed out from the web, I recalled the wall-filling flight planning charts of my student pilot days. Wonderful, sprawling floor-to-ceiling maps that back in the day were found in every terminal and FBO in the land. They’re no longer made, and you rarely see them nowadays, but on our travels this race season I’ve encountered a few of the originals, faded to pale yellow with age, still on the walls of empty terminals.

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These encounters inspired me to scour the internet in search or something similar, and that’s where I found Higher Plane maps, who make a modern descendent of the maps of my youth. The new maps range in size from five feet wide by three feet high, to over eleven feet wide and more than seven feet tall.

Sadly, our little house doesn’t have an eleven-foot by seven-foot wall in it. Anywhere. But some quick tape-measure work showed me we had wall space for the middle-of-the-road six by four footer.

In the other room.

I bookmarked the site, got up my courage, and popped the question to Debbie. No not marriage. We did that nearly 30 years ago. I asked her how she would feel about turning the other room into a flight planning center where we could plan our adventures, keep track of details, and store all our flight stuff that tends to get deposited throughout the house.

Much to my surprise, she said yes.

I went back to the computer, ordered the map, and started making plans.

The other room had at some point been painted in a tan and desert orange, colors my mother-in-law detested. I told her it was her “house” and she could choose any colors she wanted, and I’d re-paint it. She chose sky blue and deep well-water blue, I suspect because my wife didn’t like the idea of a blue room one little bit. I got the room about half repainted and then never finished the job. For the life of me, I can’t recall why. Probably it was because as her health declined I simply ran out of time for painting. She required more and more care.

Or maybe it was because I really hate painting.

Anyway, the two cans of blue paint remained in the corner, the room was half-painted, and blue is not an unreasonable color to paint a flight planning room. Deb hates painting more than I do, and I was already one victory up in getting her to let me have the room, so I needed to enlist someone else to help me and keep me motived.

Enter Lisa.

And I didn’t even have to pull the Tom Sawyer trick.

The room came out awesome. Even Debs loved the way the blues harmonized and said her Mom sure picked great colors.

The other room has come to life again.

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An extra 200 miles

We were driving home from the airport. Debs had rescued me after I ferried Tess home from maintenance in Santa Fe. “The bummer,” I was telling my wife as she exited Interstate 40, “is that we’ll only be 200 miles from the Atlantic, but we just don’t have the time to go see it.”

Debbie was silent for a moment, her dark eyes pondering the horizon. “But that’s only two hours at the speeds Tessie flies, right?” she asked. “Surely you can afford two hours.”

“Sure. If it were only two hours. But we have to get there. Then we have to get back, and that will take longer with the head winds. Plus we wouldn’t want to just take a glance and leave. We’d need to add a full day. And if we did that, we wouldn’t be back on time.”

Debbie drummed her fingers on the steering wheel. “I’d hate for Rio to miss the opportunity. Maybe you should just stay on the road. Don’t come home between the two races.”

The thought hadn’t occurred to me. “We’d be gone… like… two weeks,” I said.

“I won’t like it,” said Deb with a sigh, “but I’ll survive.”

“Rio will miss a ton of school,” I pointed out.

“You seriously think he’d learn more in school?”

No. I didn’t.

Our next race is the Southern Nationals, in Greenwood, South Carolina. As the crow flies—if it were flying a Great Circle route—it’s 1,276 miles away. That’s a long way from New Mexico by any mode of transportation, much less an airplane that is barely faster than a car. And of course, even with GPS, you can’t really fly from point to point over that kind of distance. There isn’t always a gas station where you need one. Sometimes tall mountains get in your way, as can restricted airspace, military reservations, or giant airports around our largest cities with the mind-numbing complex airspace restrictions.

The flight plan Rio and I laid out takes us from our home base at the Route 66 Airport to Panhandle-Carson County, northeast of Amarillo, for fuel, then on to Oklahoma City to visit a pair of aviation museums and spend the night. Day two has us gassing up in Poteau, Oklahoma and then touching down for the night near Little Rock to visit a friend. Day three is a long haul with two fuel stops: Booneville Mississippi (presumably pronounced Boon-ville, not Boonie-ville), and Calhoun, Georgia before arriving in Greenwood—hopefully in time for the SARL “Low Country Boil with shrimp” the night before the race.

Quite an undertaking, in an Ercoupe, no less. But things get more complicated, as you’ll see.

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The next race after Southern is the Ghost Run Air Race in Jasper, Texas, 675 miles away for our crow. Ghost is the weekend following Southern, so even though it’s quite a bit farther south, it just didn’t make sense to me to fly “right” past it on the way home, and then turn around a few days later and fly back out to it. It also didn’t make sense to cool my heels for three or four days in southeast Texas.

In the end we cooked up an overly complex scheme. After the race in South Carolina, Rio and I would fly to Shreveport, Louisiana, hangar Tess, and hop a commercial flight home. Three days later, I’d hop another commercial flight back out, ferry Tess the hundred-ish miles from Shreveport to Jasper, fly the race, then go home. The plan saved a lot of wear-and-tear on the plane and kept Rio from missing too much school.

But now the Atlantic Ocean is beckoning. And as Debs pointed out, he’ll lean more walking an Atlantic beach himself than reading about it in a textbook.

Plus it seemed such a waste to be that close and not go the extra mile

Well… 200 miles.

 

Extra! Extra! Read all about it! Race 53 makes the big time!!!

Breaking news:

OK, I was keeping this under wraps until it really happened–because I had to keep pinching myself to believe it was true–but official Race 53 merchandise is now available at a Website near you!!! (Well, I guess they all are huh?)

During AirVenture this year the folks at Preferred Altitude pulled me aside to talk to me about creating Race 53 licensed merchandise. Naturally, I thought all the Avgas fumes had finally done in my brain.

But they were serious, and today they launched the first T-shirt. Available in three colors, I’m told.

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It’s a waaaaaaay cool logo and a great way to show your love of Ercoupes and your support for Race 53 and the gang!

Plus, I’d love it if a certain competitor of mine walked into her home airport and found a bunch of people wearing them! He-He-He-He-He….

Oh, right, the URL. Get your shirt here!

Back again

The gust came out of nowhere. With a loud clatter the sign toppled over. Race 53 pens scattered across the asphalt. Preferred Altitude business cards swirled about my legs like a school of angry Piranhas.

But the wind wasn’t done with me yet.

As I lifted the display easel off of the tarmac, a second gust of wind snatched the three-foot by two-foot sheet of foam core, tearing it off the easel and sending it sailing through the air. To my horror it flew, dagger-like, straight toward a half-built GlaStar parked near by. The pilot-owner had spent the last two years drilling holes for rivets and I sure as hell didn’t want my sign scratching his paint the first time he displayed the plane. As I dashed after the sign I heard a second crash and glanced over my shoulder to see our other easel resting on Tessie’s tail.

One second before striking the GlaStar, the wind slackened and dropped the sign to the deck under the plane’s left wing. I ducked under the wing and stomped on the sign to pin it to the ground. Shouts behind me. I turned and saw the sun canopy for the Angel Flight booth, a giant blue pyramid with four skinny aluminum poles at each corner, rising from the ground, slowly spinning as it lifted into the sky above the airport parking lot. It reminded me of the lunar lander with its spider-like landing gear. The canopy reached an altitude of about 30 feet, then the dust devil released it, and the canopy slowly drifted back down, now a parachute.

It was the strangest flight I’ve ever seen. And a bizarre end to another awesome day at Double Eagle II Airport on the northwest side of Albuquerque. Like last year, we’d been invited to be one of the show’s static displays—airplanes front and center for visitors to get up close and personal with. Also, like last year, we started the event by flying into the “big” airport, the Albuquerque International Sunport, the day before, and visiting with both Cutter Aviation and Bode Aero for a makeover. They spent all day washing and waxing and buffing Tessie until she looked like she just rolled off the assembly line. Then, before the sun rose, Rio and I lifted off of the 150 foot wide, 13,793-foot long Runway 08 (between airliners), and headed across the sleeping city for the Fly-In.

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It was a grand day. Not too hot, not too cold. Just enough of a breeze to keep the air fresh, but not enough (until the end) to cause our giant signs—one about last year’s world speed record, and one about this year’s air racing—to escape from their water jug-weighted easels.

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A good-sized crowd turned out again this year and our plane was first on the line as people came in the gates.

Our whole gang was on hand. Grandma Jean sat in her official Air Racer folding chair under an umbrella and chatted with passers-by. Rio cruised the trade show and watched a 3-D printer making airplane parts and EAA key chains. Debbie alternately took in the sights and charmed visitors. Lisa snapped pictures and manned the Ninety-Nines booth in the exhibit hangar. I took the time to attend one of the three pilot seminars offered, but mainly I leaned on Tessie’s top cowl and chatted with the folks passing by.

Some had questions:

Is it true Ercoupes don’t have rudder pedals? Yep.

What do Ercoupes cost? Not much to buy, a lot to maintain.

How long have you owned her? I don’t, she’s my mother’s airplane.

Seriously? You race? How-frickin-cool! Indeed.

Others had stories to tell. An elderly World War II vet flew Hellcats off the Yorktown in the Pacific theater. After the war he owned an Ercoupe. At least he did until a problem forced him down in a wheat field. Plane and pilot were fine. But the wife wasn’t.

She made him sell the Coupe.

But the kids were the greatest. Kids automatically love airplanes and are full of questions about them. The bolder children I boosted up on the wing to look into Tessie’s cockpit. A few sat in the pilot’s seat to try her on for size. With the shyer ones, I sat cross-legged on the ground under her spinner—at kid altitude—to talk with them one-on-one about airplanes.

Again and again and again throughout the day I heard, “What a beautiful airplane.” And at the end of the day, we were awarded the coveted people’s choice award. Not a bad coup for a ‘Coupe, especially considering we were parked next to a cherry Stearman biplane.

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A fun day. Such fun that even the wind wanted to drop by for a visit.

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Photo by Larry Bell

 

Flying the anxious skies

Cleared by the tower, we pull onto Runway 20 for departure. I pull the checklist booklet from its pouch and flip it open to the proper page. Throttles forward, the engines shriek. The airframe shakes. We start to roll. To my right, my copilot leans slightly forward in her seat, crosses herself, and—in a low whisper—starts praying out loud.

As the engines spool up fully, her soft prayers are drowned out, but out of the corner of my eye, I can see her lips still moving. The G-forces start pushing me back in my seat. I cross my legs and return my attention to the checklist.

Canadian Club.

Dewar’s.

The nose pitches up sharply as the commuter jet rotates. Across the narrow aisle, a businessman in a dark suit coat is gripping his armrest so tightly his fingers are chalk-white. He stares dead ahead, jaw tight, mouth a thin, straight line.

Jack Daniel’s.

Jim Beam.

Lots of options for my inflight drink today.

Unlike my fellow passengers, I’m completely relaxed. Even though I’m not flying the plane. Even though the pimple-faced kid who is flying the plane doesn’t look old enough to drive, let alone pilot a plane full of people across the Rockies.

The Jack Daniels. Definitely. Mixed into a diet Coke.

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I’ve always found the inflight drink to be one of the great perks of not sitting in the very front seat of an airplane. If I have to leave the driving to someone else, I’m sure as heck going to enjoy the ride.

The jet starts to level out. The businessman releases his grip, massaging his left hand with his right. My seatmate finishes her prayer and settles back into her seat. The fasten seatbelt lights are still on, as are the perpetual no-smoking lights. I glance out the window. The ground seems impossibly far below.

Still, it’s beautiful. Nothing to be afraid of. But then, as I order my drink and hand my credit card to the Flight Attendant, it occurs to me: Maybe we’re all afraid to fly. Some passengers pray. Some use a death grip. Perhaps others turn to the bravado of alcohol.

Or maybe I just know how to have a good time on an airplane.