A Lesson Before Flying: Part Two

Also available here.

When we last saw our intrepid reporter--me--he had just pulled back on the yoke of the Cessna 172 and taken to the sky. I am on an introductory flight lesson; we have already covered the plane in theory, now we're putting it through its paces.

I am flying with Regal Air, a flight school out of Paine Field in Everett. My instructor is Matthew Jolley. A long-time lover of flying, Jolley maintains a steady roster of students and often compliments his teaching with charter flying. He is calm and easy-going, the perfect combination for instilling confidence in his students, or in this case, me.

In the email detailing my flight lesson, I'm told that I may receive a call to reschedule if the weather is at all questionable. As a student pilot, I am not allowed to fly if I can't see where I'm going; only pilots with an instrument rating--i.e. the ability to read and understand all the dials in the airplane's dash--can take to the skies during inclement weather. Luckily, I awoke to an azure sky, cloudless in all directions. A perfect day to learn to fly.

Now we are heading West, traveling at 3,000 feet over islands and inlets, towards the ocean and quickly away from the runway that sent us into the air.

The headphones we wear are tight and relatively sound-proof; the lack of noise makes the experience even more wondrous, stripping the mechanical elements away and leaving only the elated feeling of flight. Jolley's voice crackles in my ear.

"Make a medium-grade bank here, and head towards Mt. Baker," Jolley instructs me. We check over, under, and around the plane for possible obstacles--following visual flight rules--and seeing none, I initiate the turn. The plane shifts easily into its new heading, and I feel like I might have what it takes to be a pilot.

Of course, getting one's license is hardly as easy as making banking turns. In addition to all the other requisite skills--taking off and landing, for instance--students must also complete at least 40 hours flying time, with at least 10 of those done solo.

Prospective pilots must also pass a physical, an FAA knowledge test, and a 90 minute flight test. Then, and only then, will you be issued a license.

In case you were curious, the FAA does issue plastic licenses similar to the ones you receive at the D.O.V. Currently, they are multi-colored, understated, with the pilot's information and rating printed over a picture of the Wright Brothers.

When flying, the pilot is required to carry his license along with the plane's title and certification of airworthiness. Should a pilot get ramp-checked, the FAA's version of a police pullover, penalties could be enforced if they weren't carrying their papers, much like you would if you were caught driving without your license, insurance, or title.

"We've only had that happen once here at Paine Field and the pilot asked for it," says Jolley. "Our resident FAA inspector was explaining ramp checks, and this gentleman wanted to know how likely it was to occur. The inspector asked if he'd like to be ramp-checked, and he did, so they went out and did it. It really only comes up if you're behaving strangely, recklessly, or illegally."

We are behaving like none of these things. I follow Jolley's instructions, completing another set of turns back towards Paine Field. Jolley thankfully takes over this part of our flight, explaining his actions as we continue to descend, steadily losing both speed and altitude.

Finally we land, none the worse for wear, and once again, I weave us back and forth across the center lane, the toe brakes still a mystery, as we return to our parking spot. The plane is secured, and my first flight lesson comes to a close.

It was an amazing experience, one I would recommend to anyone without reservation. Should you want to continue on after the introductory lesson, you can earn a Private pilot license with as few as $3,000 in costs and 40 hours of training and practice flying. Even a more typical 50-70 hours in the air can cost as little as $4,000 - $7,000 depending on your needs and the school you attend.

Better still is that a Private Pilot certificate is good for life and purchasing an airplane is optional. More than half of all pilots rent planes, for as little as $89 per hour including fuel.

What you do after you earn your license is up to you; you can make local sightseeing flights or learn to fly aerobatics for competition or even work your way up the licensing ladder until you're qualified to fly commercial commuter jets.

Your choices are as open as the skies. Come fly them anytime.

...

If you'd like to learn to how to fly, or just want to know more about becoming a pilot, then visit the Project Pilot website at www.projectpilot.org or visit Regal Air's website at www.regalair.com

Definitions: Rafters

Rafters - rAff-TERSE - noun:

1. Lofty goals, dreams, aspirations, ideas, etc. "Miranda, don't even mess with that man. His rafters ain't half as high as yours."

2. Something, usually a piece of anatomy, that is abnormally tall or foreboding. "You see her forehead? She's got rafters, man."

3. To be chemically altered. "Jesus, Steve, the room is spinning. I'm so fucking raftered."

Died crying like a bitch

I don't cry often. I used to tell people that I was born without tear ducts, which was true, but then I got the surgery to repair and replace them. The first few days after I got back from the hospital, I cried at most everything. Steak for dinner? Tears. Time to go to work? Unstoppable weeping. Spooning my girlfriend? Broken sobs and sniffles.

Then, after about a week, it stopped. Finally comfortable with my new-found ability to cry, I no longer needed to. Since then, I haven't really indulged. So I was probably just as surprised as the overly touchy man in sweats sitting next to me on the bus when my eyes began welling and I felt that familiar clot in my throat.

And what brought me back into the land of emotion and feeling? Aaron fuckin' Sorkin.

A genius writer, Sorkin is best known for his screenplays (American President, A Few Good Men), his drug use (cocaine, mushrooms) and his television shows (Sports Night, West Wing). Of those six things, I've always been partial to West Wing.

West Wing was a weekly one-hour drama with a subtle undercurrent of snark and empathy that dealt with the President of the United States, his advisors, and his trials and tribulations. For four seasons, Sorkin wrote the majority of the episodes and occasionally directed a few.

During this period, the show was untouchable. Snappy banter, political discussions, and weekly plots that not only resolved in an hour, but often advanced the story arc of one or more characters. That's an impressive, nearly impossible feat to accomplish, and although it's completely unfair, you can't help but wonder how much of Sorkin's success depended on his drug use.

See, Sorkin had an affinity for narcotics that not only bested him, but eventually costed him his involvement on the show. Wikipedia puts it politely:

Sorkin was arrested on April 15, 2001 after guards at a security checkpoint at the Burbank Airport found hallucinogenic mushrooms, marijuana and crack cocaine in his carry-on bag. He was later ordered to a drug-diversion program.

During The West Wing's fourth season, major shake ups occurred. Some fans believed the show had lost its way, an opinion that was not helped when series star Rob Lowe—initially slated to be the central character but given less and less screen time as the show went on—chose to leave the series. Soon after, Sorkin and fellow executive producer Thomas Schlamme left the show in a dispute with the network.

It was inevitable that as soon as the driving creative force left the show, the spark would follow. And it did. And I stopped watching regularly, often catching up on missed shows via Bravo's marathon West Wing Mondays. But even at my most lax, the show still meant something to me.

Detractors of the West Wing often call it liberal porn, prime mastubatory fodder for Democrats in both its intent and execution. I disagree. What I saw the show constantly aspire to be was hopeful. It was about a group of people who cared, cared deeply, and worked hard to make the right choices for the right reasons. And as our actual governing body led us further and further into bleakness, the show eventually became a beacon indicating how far afield we had traveled.

I'm probably not alone in thinking this, especially if you're one of the few who have bothered to read this far, but the characters on the West Wing were not just people I empathized with, but people I wanted in charge. They were the epitome of an idealized government, and I think that's where the "liberal porn" label came from.

But we seek idealization in most aspects of our lives, from role models to art, so why should politics be exempt? It's the same reason I dislike people razzing celebrities for their opinions. To be sure, they are coming to the table from a unique vantage point, but that shouldn't immediately negate their concerns nor should it taint their actions (Sean Penn's douchebaggery aside). If they want to speak, let 'em speak; we're a democracy, it's free speech, and last I checked there weren't limits on it (with obvious exceptions).

So here was a show that showed how it could be, and I respected and loved it for that. Then I moved to Seattle and decided against cable. I knew the show was ending--it had been in its last throes for a while--but I wasn't there to watch it go.

Thankfully, there's a little website called Television Without Pity (TWOP). Offering snarky recaps of popular tv shows, it's a great place to catch up on back episodes, which is how I ended up crying at my desk at two in the morning.

If you were a regular West Wing viewer, you can skip this paragraph. The virginal West Wing viewer, however, should continue on. Earlier this season, Toby, one of the president's senior advisors, divulged state secrets to a newspaper in order to help some astronauts who were stranded in space. Toby had a brother who was an astronaut, back before he killed himself rather than face cancer. Toby also has two young children, one of whom is named for a secret service agent who was killed while protecting the president's daughter. Santos is the incoming president, Jed Bartlet is the outgoing president, and Josh was a former advisor to the latter and current chief of staff to the former.

Confused? Sorry. That's about as good as it's going to get.

This is how TWOP recaps the last scenes of the last episode:

Jed tells Debbie that he's finished, and she asks him what he's doing with the final pardon warrant. Jed claims that there's still time, and she calmly tells him, "Not much." And that's so much less about the clock than it is about her sense of how much Jed is wrestling with himself over Toby's pardon. But he claims to have two hours and nineteen minutes, and she tells him he really has two hours and eighteen minutes.

C.J. enters, and is surprised to see that Jed has not already left for the Residence to get dressed. She's holding Mallory's present and she hands it to Jed, who expresses disappointment that Mallory didn't stop to see him. Debbie's getting frustrated, and tells Jed that he only has sixteen minutes to get ready. Jed: "I'm a fast dresser." Debbie: "Not that fast." She snatches the gift away from him and tells him that she'll see that it's waiting for him on the plane.

C.J. notes that Jed's note to Santos is on the desk, and you can tell that she sees Toby's warrant there, as well. But she restrains herself from saying anything about it, and I think that's a lot less to do with her sense that the President should make that decision than it is about the fact that she's wrestling with herself over Toby's pardon. After a bit, Jed tells her, "It's been a pleasure, Claudia Jean." C.J.: "The pleasure's been all mine, sir." Lord, she's beautiful. She walks out. Jed, looking like a scared old man, sits down, looks to the heavens, sighs, and signs Toby's pardon. And then he stands up and raps his hand sharply on the desk, almost like a judge marking the end of a hearing. He picks up the pardon and walks towards Debbie's office.

(...)

In the Oval Office, Santos thanks the Joint Chiefs for their input and tells him he'll speak with them tomorrow. The military types all leave, and Josh, Sam, and Bram enter. Santos tells them that the military wants ten thousand more troops in Kazakhstan. Sam and Santos talk about whether or not it is good idea. Josh slowly smiles at Santos. Santos asks what he's smiling about, and Josh tells him, "You look good back there." As though Santos hasn't heard Josh say that a million times before. And then Ronna steps in to bram Santos away to the Residence so that he can start getting ready for all of the balls. He's clearly feeling his power, because he tells Ronna to tell Helen that he'll be up in fifteen more minutes. Sam and Bram leave. Santos looks at Josh and asks, "What's next?" They both sit, and Josh starts briefing him on some other issue.

A flight attendant walks through the former Air Force One and knocks on a door. Jed tells her to enter. It was so nice of the government to let him keep the plane. She's there to tell him that they'll be landing in a while. Jed stands up, and we see that Abbey is in the room. Jed puts something in his briefcase and finds the package that Mallory left for him. He unwraps it and opens the box. It's the napkin on which Leo scrawled "Bartlet for America" on that day so many years ago. He takes the framed napkin, hands it to Abbey, and sits beside her. She asks him, "What are you thinking about?" He looks out the window and tells her, "Tomorrow." We cut to an exterior shot of the plane. Credits.

And then we cut back to me, tears welling up in my eyes as I read those last words over and over again. And I guess what moved me is a combination of factors:

1) It's the end. There will never be another episode, and all we know of these characters now is all we will ever know. Just like on any good long-running tv show, the characters became something more than fictional, more than creations. They became friends. Dependable, honorable, witty, these were people with whom I subconsciously wanted to know while consciously aware that it was impossible. By ending, the show forced a reconciliation between the desire and the knowledge, and the result was a palpable sense of loss.

2) It was a fairly shitty season. More attention was paid to the new characters than the old, and the storylines vascillated between retreads of previous episodes and hackneyed, cloying plots. But instead of bowing out shamefully, powered only on fumes, it really feels like John Wells (the executive producer) gathered the writers together and said: "Make it count." And then they did.

3) It ended on a hopeful note. An elder statesman exits stage left, another steps in stage right, and although that's all we see, we know that--in this version of reality, at least--someone is going to keep on trying doing the right thing. And goddamn if that doesn't make me balance some hope against the sadness on the ending measurement.

All I have now are the show's words, which is what I'll leave this with:

Leo McGarry: This guy's walking down the street when he falls in a hole. The walls are so steep he can't get out. A doctor passes by, and the guy shouts up, "Hey, you, can you help me out?" The doctor writes a prescription, throws it down in the hole and moves on. Then a priest comes along, and the guy shouts up, "Father, I'm down in this hole. Can you help me out?" The priest writes a prayer, throws it down in the hole and moves on. Then a friend walks by. "Hey, Joe, it's me. Can you help me Out" And the friend jumps in the hole. Our guy says, "Are you nuts? Now we're both down here." The friend says, "Yeah, but I've been down here before - and I know the way out."

President Josiah Bartlet: "We hold these truths to be self-evident," they said, "that all men are created equal." Strange as it may seem, that was the first time in history that anyone had ever bothered to write that down. Decisions are made by those who show up.

President Josiah Bartlet: Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful committed citizens can change the world. Do you know why?
Will Bailey: Because it's the only thing that ever has.

Flying: The Official Report

Also available here


A Lesson Before Flying


We--the flight instructor, my photographer, and I--are nearly half-way down the runway before I realize we're about to take off. The four seat Cessna in which I'm sitting hums in response to the controls; I pull back on the yoke and we become airborne, easy, like a rigid mylar balloon let loose into the sky.

Below us now are islands, at our right is Mount Baker, and off in the distance, only slightly obscured by haze, is Seattle. We hold steady at 3,000 feet, the world serene. And you could be next.

Since 1997, the number of licensed pilots in the U.S. has increased by about 6 percent, and from 2003 to 2004 the number of student pilots rose 1%. In addition, the Federal Aviation Administration predicts a dramatic increase in both student pilots and licensed pilots in the next 10 years.

But if you're anything like me, you'll probably have never considered a pilot's license, thinking it difficult to obtain due to money, opportunity, availability, or even ability. As someone who needs corrective glasses, I assumed that I wouldn't even be able to pass the physical. In truth, a pilot's license, while harder to get than your driver's license, can be earned faster than a college degree and cheaper.

Project Pilot--the company that set up my lesson--is an umbrella organization that contracts with flight schools across the nation, connecting students to schools while providing information and resources for anyone interested in learning to fly. Among them are tips for finding a flight school and instructor, as well as their database of more than 3,500 flight training facilities in the U.S.

When I check, there are nearly 30 schools within 30 miles of my location. The choices are daunting; not knowing one from another, I decide on Regal Air, based out of Paine Field in Everett.

Thankfully, it turns out that Regal Air is a well-established school with a fleet of airplanes available for rental and lessons, from a Piper Seneca I to Cessna 152s. The plane I will fly is a Cessna 172, under the watchful eye of instructor Matt Jolley.

In the email detailing my lesson, I'm told that I may receive a call to reschedule if the weather is at all questionable. As a student pilot, I am not allowed to fly if I can't see where I'm going; only pilots with an instrument rating--i.e. the ability to read and understand all the dials in the airplane's dash--can take to the skies during inclement weather. Luckily, I awoke to an azure sky, cloudless in all directions. A perfect day to learn to fly.

Since 1985, Regal Air has taught students all the necessary skills to pilot an aircraft. They employ 14 full-time flight instructors, each with an extensive knowledge of planes, craft, and safety.

Matthew Jolley has taught here since 2001, after returning to his childhood love some ten years prior. The son of a Navy man, Jolley often saw the comings and goings of military air traffic, and it stuck with him. He pursued other opportunities before deciding to follow the air.

We meet Jolley inside Regal Air's offices; he is of medium build with an easy smile that he flashes quickly as we shake hands. The lesson begins not inside the plane, but under fluorescent lights.

The first stop is the weather center, a big-sounding name for a computer pulling data from the internet. Drawing on feeds from both commercial and government sources, the weather center can show you a thunderstorm in Illinois or the FAA weather report for your airfield, a nearly incomprehensible assortment of letters and abbreviations.

"We don't usually need to use this here," says Jolley, looking at the report. "Paine Field is wonderful for that. I can walk outside and see fifteen miles in any direction. If it's cloudy in the East, we'll head West. If it's going to storm, I'll know."

The weather report is always the first stop for the student pilot.

"Students rely on VFR--Visual Flight Rules--when flying," says Jolley. "While they are in the air, they are constantly looking for other aircraft while making sure their flight path is clear."

Much like on the road, a good airplane pilot is a defensive, aware pilot.

We pass by the Frasca 131 Flight Simulator, where students can hone their instrument skills after their instructors pull up a single approach from the thousands they have available. The simulator can approximate any approach for any airport in the nation under any type of weather condition.

Jolley shows us the garage; it is brightly lit, clean, and currently home to a Cessna 152.

"Every 100 hours, our planes are brought inside, opened up and checked from top to bottom," says Jolley.

All of Regal Air's aircraft are maintained by FAA Certificated Airframe and Powerplant Mechanics and Inspectors employed by Regal Air. All maintenance is completed to approved FAA standards and regulations, which means it is performed in a timely manner by mechanics that are already intimately familiar with each airplane.

The plane currently undergoing maintenance has its cowl--the metal sheeting covering the engine--removed. Two mechanics are moving about efficiently, testing and double-checking for cracks, imperfections, and needed adjustments. It will take them about a day to completely check the craft and give it a clean bill of health.

Every inspection, flight, and change in instrument readings for every airplane is carefully logged inside its own little zippered black binder. The binder also contains the owner's manual for the plane--a well-thumbed, dog-eared book filled with charts, schematics, graphs, and more math than I've seen since high school--and a set of silver keys.

Jolley pulls the binder for the plane we'll be using and double checks the logs.

"Before we take-off, I want to make sure we won't overfly a required inspection by either date or flight hours," says Jolley. "That way we're safe and FAA compliant."

Our Cessna is fine, so we adjourn to the outdoors.

"We'll be taking [plane number] N5512E," says Jolley as we walk. He points to the plane, the lettering huge on the airplane's tail. "The numbers didn't always used to be that big. The FAA actually mandated the size increase. Now if you buzz the tower or land and immediately take-off again, the FAA will find you."

In case you were curious, the FAA does issue plastic licenses similar to the ones you receive at the D.O.V. Currently, they are multi-colored, understated, with the pilot's information and rating printed over a picture of the Wright Brothers.

When flying, the pilot is required to carry his license along with the plane's title and certification of airworthiness. Should a pilot get ramp-checked, the FAA's version of a police pullover, penalties could be enforced if they weren't carrying their papers, much like you would if you were caught driving without your license, insurance, or title.

"We've only had that happen once here at Paine Field and the pilot asked for it," says Jolley. "Our resident FAA inspector was explaining ramp checks, and this gentleman wanted to know how likely it was to occur. The inspector asked if he'd like to be ramp-checked, and he did, so they went out and did it. It really only comes up if you're behaving strangely, recklessly, or illegally."

Out at the plane, there is a comprehensive check list; we make sure all the flaps work, and are properly bolted and hinged; that the tires and brakes are operational; confirm the fuel tanks are full and the gas--100 octane, low lead--is free of sediment; and a dozen other things are as they should be before we even get inside the cockpit.

The check list continues inside. There is surprisingly little lingo to learn. There is the yoke in your hands and toe brakes at your feet, instruments in front of you and a voice-activated boom mike placed close to your lips. After priming the engine with fuel, I turn the ignition key four clicks to the right. The engine turns over and the propeller kicks on loudly.

While on the ground, the yoke does nothing. The propeller still pulls the plane forward but you steer with your feet, braking on the side towards which you would like to turn. It's an unusual skill to master. Jolley directs me to taxi out to the runway and I feel immediately inept.

"Follow the yellow line," Jolley says in my headset. "It's not like on the road. Here you want the yellow line to go straight down the middle of the cockpit."

Instead of going straight down the middle, we zig-zag back and forth like a seismometer needle. Eventually, we even out and turn onto the runway.

"Ready?" asks Jolley. "Keep the white line in the middle."

He increases the power to the propeller and relaxes the toe brakes. The plane sprints forwards.

"Now, pull back on the yoke," says Jolley. I do. The plane's nose edges upward.

"And you're flying."

...

This is the first part of a two-part story. Read the second installment next week here in the Beacon.

For more information, visit Project Pilot's website at www.projectpilot.org or Regal Air's at www.regalair.com.

I flew a plane today

Sometimes the jobs I have kick me strange perks. Case in point.

From vox, with love

Who is your favorite Muppet? Why?
QotD submitted by knitwitology.vox.com.

• Sgt. Floyd Pepper

Sgt. Floyd Pepper. Easily. 'Cause he was, as part of a cast better crated, effortlessly cool and laid-back. Plus, you knew he could bring the funk when he wanted.

And, it seems, that you can buy an articulated action figure of the mustachioed bassman, which makes no sense to me. Why not a plush toy for the kids or--I don't know--a puppet for the nerds who can't work up the nerve to actually talk to other people.

I'm not going to lie to you; I used to harbor aspirations of being a ventriloquist. I also practiced magic. The torn and restored rabbit kind, not the wiccan devil-summoning kind. You can probably imagine how supremely unpopular I was in grade, middle, and high school. And yet I was happy. You know why? Puppets.

That's actually untrue. I'm sorry. The actual reason I wasn't terminally suicidal in school was because I choose to be intentionally oblivious of the sheer number of people who wouldn't be caught dead in my company. Of course, this is all in retrospect. At the time, I was a clarinetting magic-making puppeteer, a fucking king-maker.

Anyway, I had--have, actually, as they're probably in a box somewhere--two ventriloquist dolls: a cheap Charlie McCarthy knock-off that my mother purchased from the J.C. Penny catalogue one Christmas and a dog puppet that tried so hard to distract from his and my uncoolness that it wore hot-pink tie-dyed clothes and sunglasses.

My conscience is clear on Charlie McCarthy. I got it as a gift. You get lots of things as gifts that you don't actually want. Calendars, for instance. Please give me no more calendars. I neither want nor need a one-a-day calendar of pithy Tim Allen sayings or a glossy wall-hanger of the best in black and white roadside cafe photography.

But the dog. Oh, the dog. I wanted it bad, but you've got to understand the circumstances. I was 13 years old in the Mall of America, the biggest shrine to commercialization you're going to see this side of television. My eyes had grown numb to the spectacle of six floors of stores upon stores when, suddenly, I happen upon this kiosk manned by a bored high-school graduate and a talking dog.

Marketing wonks will quote you statistics and data compiled from double-blind studies and focus groups, but I'm going to lay it out easy for you: if you want to catch the eye of the ever-valuable tween-aged boy and girl, all you need is a talking dog.

I realized, of course, that the dog couldn't actually talk and resembled more an albino sloth with an arrestingly '80s sense of fashion than a mutt, but I was smitten. Here was my chance, I thought. Here was my chance to finally get some of that popular mainstream attention. Thank God that failed.

God, the more that I think about it, there's a good chance I brought one or both of those to school at some point. Strangely, I never had trouble with bullies. I think they felt sorry for me.

Eventually, I stopped talking without moving my lips, dropped the clarinet, and picked up the bass. And it's much easier to play when you don't have your arm up a big floppy dog sock.

- Tyson

Bernoulli's Jelly: It Gives You a Lift

You're looking out the window as the airplane accelerates. The ground is a blur of detail. You are waiting, waiting for wheels-up, waiting for the twinge of momentary weightlessness to seize your stomach. This is what flight is.

The date is July 14th. In exactly six days, I'll fly an airplane. Not fly on an airplane, but actually pilot a vehicle capable of traveling at speeds in the mid-range triple digits.

When I was in college, I lived in the dorms for a while. It was a sad situation for many reasons, not least because I was a junior and the only drinking-legal student in my building. At the time, I was in a relationship on the decline; a high-school couplehood that couldn't withstand the change. Her name was and is Lui.

Lui attended a community college one hour away, and would commonly come up to spend the night, only to leave early the next morning to make it to her 8 a.m. class. One day we were arguing; she left late. Twenty minutes later, I got a call.

Hello?

She's crying.

Where are you?

Turns out she was on the side of the road, midway to school. In an argument-fueled, sleep-deprived fugue she had decided to make it to school on time. In order to do that, speed limit laws were summarily dismissed as arbitrary, too limiting, and too low.

So, uh, how fast were you going?

The State Police often, on the route from Bellingham to Seattle, hunker down on the overpasses, hoping to catch some unsuspecting motorists overclocking their engines. The speed limit along this stretch is 70 miles per hour. Lui was doing 103.

103!?

103 miles an hour automatically qualifies as reckless endangerment, an offense for which the police can direct you out of your car over bullhorn, handcuff you and place you in the back of their squad car for arrest.

Thankfully for her, she had, at that point, kept a clean driving record. The officer, kindly, did not arrest her and wrote instead a ticket for $531.

My point in telling you this is that 103mph is seventeen mph away from the top speed of my truck and seventeen mph above the fastest I've ever driven. In one week, I'll be piloting a craft capable of topping my best by a factor of six.

I've invited my friend Kate along to take pictures. She wanted to know if it would be loud. The answer is yes, it will be loud, especially when we crash into that mountain.

There is little in my past as a driver of land-bound vehicles to recommend me to the air. I've hit a support column in a parking garage for God's sake. But somehow, with little more than an email and a promise, I can get behind the controls of my own personal death-jet.

How cool is that?

It does raise some questions, however. For instance, what good is our security--or, if I might indulge in some banal buzz-wordery, our homeland security--if someone with no specific credentials can earn their pilots wings in an afternoon?

Earning ones pilots wings, by the way, is nothing--NOTHING--like earning ones red wings. Nothing to get red-faced over, but still.

So, with six days left until I fly, I've decided to get my worldly affairs in order. I don't have a lot, but there's enough worth worrying about.

For instance, all of my musical equipment will go to Kat. All of the rights to my songs, writings, and other assorted whatnots will go to Sally. Sally will also get first pick of my CDs and vinyl--thats right, baby, my mint copy of Mel Tillis In Concert is all yours. My computer should probably be destroyed, along with those binders of CD-Rs in my closet, just to avoid any lingering questions or scandal. Anything left that isn't scavenged by my family or various friends will go to the Goodwill.

Hmmph. Well, that was strangely easy. Maybe I'll go listen to later-era Paul McCartney now.

- Tyson

Definitions: Shaker Sure

Shaker sure - colliquial phrase - to be fervent in your convictions. A strong endorsement.

"Gerald, are you positive you locked the door?"

"Sssh, Sugar, I'm shaker sure."

"Oh, Gerald."