Dispatch from my living room couch: I impatiently email my mechanic: “Is the engine back on the airplane yet or is it still on the crane?”
The reply doesn’t come until the next day: “It is still on the crane as we mount sensors and things on the firewall.”
Clearly, I won’t be flying — much less racing — any time soon. It’s now been 48 days, 11 hours, 27 minutes, and six seconds since I last flew Race 53. [Read more…]
Dispatch from KSAF, Santa Fe, New Mexico…three weeks ago: Faces solemn, my mechanics each rest a hand on one of my shoulders. One on my left and one on my right, they gently guide me across the crowded hangar floor, around Race 53, and to the north wall. There — SMACK — they smash my head violently into the wall.
Before I can gasp for breath, they do it again.
And then a third time.
OK. It wasn’t really that dramatic. But the effect was the same.
Yeah, my wrench-turners hosted an intervention over my refusal to accept the reality about the condition of my engine. [Read more…]
Dispatch from M02, Dickson Municipal Airport, Dickson Tennessee: What has 26 propellers and 52 tails? A fleet of Ercoupes!
This summer marked the 41st annual gathering of the twin-tailed birds of the Ercoupe Owners Club (EOC). Its fly-in convention, which is hosted in a different location each year, touched down this year in central Tennessee west of Nashville. [Read more…]
Dispatch from KDMH, Carbondale, Illinois: The carefully arranged chairs in the giant hangar are in disarray, hurriedly pushed and pulled to either side, parted like the Red Sea to make room to bring Les Burrill’s wounded bird— Race 11 — in out of the baking sun.
A small cluster of racers gathers around the green and silver plane, pulling off the cowling a piece at a time.
At Turn Four over the Grand Tower Bridge on the Mighty Mississippi, the Midget Mustang’s alternator belt broke. Burrill saw smoke, aborted, and returned to race central. [Read more…]
Dispatch from KTRL, Terrell, Texas: I want to win. There. I said it. Yes, I know we’re here for charity. And, yes, I know this is supposed to be just for fun. But, damn it, I really, really want to win.
I know that sounds shallow and selfish, but in my defense, I spent the entire season in 2016 either tied with long-time champs Team Ely or nipping at their heels. And now I’m a quarter of the way through the 2017 season and I’ve either been tied with the Race 35 crew or nipping at their heels.
It would be nice to be in the lead. At least once. [Read more…]
Dispatch from the Texas/Oklahoma border: I’m jamming with Mick Jagger at 7,500 feet, “Gimme Shelter” streaming from my iPod into my Bluetooth headset. The sun is now high enough it’s out of my eyes, the ride is smooth, and a wicked tailwind is propelling me over the ground 50 miles per hour faster than I’m flying.
This day can’t get any better.
I’m off to Marion, Ohio, for the Midwest 150. I’m looking forward to the race. I’ve finally got a chance to get ahead of my nemesis because…
The yoke shudders in my hand.
A rhythmic pounding seizes Race 53. Thump. Thump. Thump. A drumbeat spinner to tail. Deep in her aluminum bones.
My buoyant mood vaporizes. [Read more…]
Dispatch from KABI, Abilene, Texas: I’m perched on the left wingwalk, leaning into the open cockpit. My shirttails keep coming untucked, and I’m praying that the waistline of my pants is high enough that I won’t be mistaken for a plumber, instead of an air racer.
I point to the instrument panel, “This one tells me how fast I’m going through the air, and this one tells me how fast I’m going up or down. This one here tells me what direction I’m going. This is the throttle, I use it to make the plane go faster or slower. Any questions?”
The 7-year-old boy looks up at me with big brown eyes and asks, “Where are the machine guns?”
No one’s ever asked that before. [Read more…]
Dispatch from KGYI, North Texas Regional Airport: Am I still gaining on them? The Cessna 152 is 200 feet above me, about half a mile ahead, and slightly off to the left.
I’m low over the lake, climbing slowly, a pillowy soft grey overcast above. My ground speed, frankly, sucks. I’m bucking a 22-knot headwind on the first leg of the 10th Annual Texoma 100 Air Race in the Sport Air Racing League.
For a short while, I was gaining on the other plane, but now it seems they are starting to pull away from me. [Read more…]
Dispatch from 2,500 feet above Georgia: I’m so bored I could puke. This is an air race, but watching paint dry would be more exciting. I’m about 150 miles into the Sunshine Express 400, a cross country “race” across South Carolina, Georgia, and down the Florida peninsula.
I hate cross country races. It’s all about precision navigation. A complete void in the fun department. [Read more…]
Dispatch from KSPA, Spartanburg, South Carolina: I pull the wicked-looking black helmet over my head and cinch the chinstrap down tight. Next comes the neck guard, a thick foam collar that encircles my neck below the helmet. I step down into the cockpit and settle in, pulling the dual shoulder straps across my chest and snapping them into the five-point harness.
The Pitt Boss signals me. I lower the helmet’s visor. All I hear is my own breathing.
Faster than I’d like it to be.
The green flag drops. I punch the throttle. The nine-horsepower lawnmower engine roars to life and I’m off. [Read more…]
