s u m m e r
lustrate
They run parallel to me on the way home these days. Everyday. For one stretch just east of Burlington until I get to the west side of Elon they are there.
At first it bothered me. Trailing (or sometimes being trailed) by my dreams and desires. To have them physically follow me down the highway, crossing over, the sun shining off them, blinding my eyes. Forcing a squint. Practicing S turns over I-85. Craning my neck for a view.
It's something I never noticed came with Spring before.
The planes are back.
They climb out from Burlington over I-85 and sometimes I can recognize the planes, and almost make out the faces. I know who is up there. Sometimes, about twice a week, I see my old plane. The one I used to fly Friday afternoons before having dinner across the strip at Fran's Front Porch. I used to sit there and eat Salisbury steak, and peach pie and watch the Citations come and go. An orange windsock in the distance, faded and torn. It stood next to my plane, a red and white 152. Not much of a plane really, but the standard trainer. I remember that plane as I would time spent with an old friend. The place on the port wing that had been hit by a bird. We used to swear it kept the plane from stalling. Silly I know, but it was hard as hell to stall that plane. I could put it into the steepest attitude, increase the angle of attack far beyond specs and it would never stall. Buffet and scream with the stall horn, sure, but no stall. I had to turn left or right and enter a spin, fun stuff in a plane that small. Hell, fun stuff in any plane.
These days I see that plane, just after take off, another student behind the controls. You can tell because they come low over the trees, their wings unsteadily rocking, and fly the same tight pattern over the highway, using it as a marker for the S turn.
And they continue this way down a 20 mile piece of highway before breaking off to the south and heading back to Burlington or Causey.
I remember looking down on I-85, pointing at the folks going home in their cars and laughing at how free I was up there and how I could follow them if I wanted and break away and return at will. I remember how good it felt to be unrestrained. How the worst of days melted away when I hit rotation and the transition from not flying to flying was certain.
I remember all the little things. Carb heat, trim, throttle, stepping on the ball.
I remember the way the sun reflected off the ailerons, and that one rivet on the cowl I would use to hold position with the horizon in a tight turn. I remember it was loose and would vibrate out there just behind the prop. It was a little rusty, half the white paint chipped off it. One little rivet. But it kept me lined up better than any instrument.
Now I see the plane from the ground. I find myself rooting for the folks flying it and the others. I recall the feelings and I know they've got to be feeling some of them. Hell, maybe someone else is using my rivet too. But now I'm getting carried away.
Yeah, carried away. Past the folks in Asheboro. Past Moore County. Past the little red and white 152. My flying goes on. Limited these days but going on. I work on them more than I fly them, but I always hope. I've got my eye on a pretty little T-6. Another transitional plane. The last step before fighters. No fighters in my future, but possibly the T-6. Not solo, but even just to mimic the pilot, feel the stick as he puts it through the motions.
All a possibility. See TJ is thinking about getting checked out in that little plane 'cause the fellow that owns it can't fly and needs a pilot. If that happens, well, the benefits are obvious. I'll be learning from one of the best. But that's a far off dream. Stranger than fiction? TJ and I in that T-6 together, flying God only knows where?
No stranger than having my old plane follow me down I-85 a couple times a week.
We all head somewhere. Things like circumstance and geography take us away from parts of our lives. Changes of heart and bitterness can take us further away. Sometimes, we can't mend what we've broke, or find what we've run away from. But the best times are when you're not even looking and out of nowhere on a warm Spring afternoon you're confronted with a piece of you're past and it hits you...hard. For me it was that worn out old 152 climbing over the trees.
Your past will always find you.
goodnight 5.10.00