Tuesday, April 10, 2012
Don’t even try to explain it
The airplane isn't all that hard to fly safely, but it's damn hard to fly and make look good on a continual basis. On average, most of us would rate one out of five of our landings as being good. The rest vary from being less than perfect to downright ugly, with the average leaning toward "not terrible." And this is an attractive trait to most of us. Why, I don't know, because it's a nonsensical reaction. It may be the challenge thing.
And then there's the way it flies! The way it gives absolutely complete three-dimensional freedom. It reduces gravity to a temporary inconvenience that you can pretty much ignore but never forget. It redefines up and down, inside and outside, because it really doesn't care whether it's right-side up or upside down. And if you want to go someplace, you just point the nose in that direction, and that's where you go. Still, trying to do every maneuver better than the last one eggs us on.
Maybe that promise of freedom is what draws us in. I've felt a similar psychological rush while blasting down the highway astraddle a healthy V-Twin. And while accelerating up a sweeping on-ramp in the dark, the uncapped headers on my roadster letting the world know I was there and all four tires moaning from the side loads.
It's moments like the above that keep us all coming back to those machines. It's as if they touch something deep within us and, as the saying goes, "complete us." They aren't inanimate objects. They're friends, soulmates, spirits that have joined with our own. And we don't expect everyone to understand any of this. Why should they? We don't understand it ourselves.
After 5,000 hours in the pattern at roughly eight landings an hour, I can honestly say that I can't imagine not doing it. Sometimes, I'll sneak out to the airport early in the morning and blast out to the practice area with everything against the firewall. I'll pull a few Gs, twist a few tails, then when I come back, make a half-dozen touch-and-goes, trying hard to make each one better and shorter than the last. Afterward, I always leave the airport with the silly grin on my face that's the mark of the satisfied addict. It's a high that can't be matched.
P.S. I hereby promise not to mention my little red airplane for six more months. Maybe. You do understand that you can't really trust a machine addict not to mention the object of his addiction, right?
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