The Fly Guy


Planes to right of me; planes to the left of me; planes in front of me with engines thundering as the fearless airmen charged into the jaws of fun and flew into the mocking Texas weather (I trust that Alfred Lord Tennyson will forgive the literary license on that one). Here we are at a southwest Texas aerodrome and we're standing amidst a flock of the coolest airplanes this side of Alpha Centauri. You can bet that I’m feeling like a kid who just had a mid-air with Santa Claus and got sprayed with presents. Wonderfully, more airplanes were arriving with irregularity. I almost had to pinch myself to see if I was dreaming!

I was happily snapping away, doping off, and sucking Texas air when I heard my name being called from behind me. Roger motioned toward the 1941 Meyers OTW and said something to the effect of “Let’s go fly the OTW”. At least that’s what I think he said. I really don’t remember from that point. When I saw that he was pointing to the Meyers he may as well have been speaking Swahili or Pig Latin. It wouldn’t have mattered; I knew exactly what he meant. Somebody handed me a leather helmet with goggles and me and my wet Huggie clambered aboard the big biplane.

I say “clambered” because I’m not really sure what else to call it when an overweight middle-aged white guy tries to stuff himself into a small hole in the top of an airplane fuselage. Somehow, after much wrangling and twisting with the seat belt harness, I managed to strap on the plane and a rather huge grin. If I hadn’t been stop-drilled at the ears, the top of my head would have come off.

Someone propped the big Kinner radial and she sprang to life with a beautiful coughing and belching of smoke. It could have been Jesus pulling the big prop and I wouldn’t have noticed. I was too busy having a dream come true. I could hardly believe I was gong to fly an open cockpit WW2 biplane.

The big engine pulsed brute horsepower as Roger eased the old gal along the grass strip until we were properly aligned with the wind. Being a pilot, my head was on the swivel looking for other aircraft in the pattern. We didn’t have a radio and most of the traffic at Old Kingsbury is decidedly NODAR (no radio).

When Rog poured the coal to the big Kinner, she went to work (as did my lower digestive system). In no time flat the tail came up and, in a few more yards, the big wings hauled our plump pink fundaments into the big gray Texas sky. It just doesn’t get any better than that.

Below us the flat southwest Texas landscape rolled easily by as Roger leveled off. He pointed down at the area that held all kinds of African wildlife. That was a first for me. I was unaware that Texas had an African game preserve replete with lions and such. I guess there are a few Texans wealthy enough to import large chunks of Africa to their part of the planet.

We then started climbing and, at about 2,500 feet or so, we leveled off. Then, Roger tapped me on the shoulder and made a vertical circular motion with his hand. Ah, yes, He wants to impress me with the wonders of aerobatics in a Meyers OTW. That worked for me. I think I showed him a “thumbs up”. That or I wet his goggles. I don’t recall.

In any event, Roger stuck the nose of the OTW down and gathered some airspeed. Then, up came the nose and the G-force shoved my kidneys into my back pockets. Blue was replaced by brown at the top of the loop and I-10 became the new ceiling. I just happened to have the presence of mind to keep snapping away with my Minolta as we came over the top. I managed to get a couple of great shots.

That was unlike the time I was flying in Dan Martin's North American P-51D Mustang, "Ridge Runner", in 1988 at the Madera War Birds Fly-in. I had a nice Panasonic camcorder with me but simply ejected my brain back to the airport on take off. I pointed the video camera at my feet recording only my deck shoes, parts of my shorts, my hairy legs, and the big growling Rolls Royce Merlin V-12 engine at takeoff power. I finally pulled the camera up and taped the rest of the flight. That was brilliant. I guess the once-in-a-lifetime ride in the "Big Iron" messed with my brain. The only proof I can offer is that I couldn't speak without stuttering for the next three days after climbing out of the world's premier fighter aircraft of WW2.

Anyway...after a few G’s of gravity packed my brain and a few other vital organs back into place, Roger decided that we needed to hunt rabbits with a biplane. What the heck. It was my day off, Why not. Cruising along at about 90 mph on the deck, we waltzed about the scrub and tried to drub up a hare or two. I really don’t remember if we scared the fur off a bunny or not. It was almost like crop dusting. Only we were dusting bunnies. Get it? Dust bunnies. Nyuk. Nyuk. I crack myself up. I don't recall having this much fun since doing 8 point rolls in the Mustang.

After having way too much fun and managing to avoid the fun police, Roger headed back to the aerodrome's authentic grass strip. I couldn’t help but remember the words of some great sage or or sodden aviator (who probably flew Curtiss Jennys): “Take offs are optional; landings are mandatory”.

There was a bit of a left quartering crosswind as we turned short final for the aerodrome. Roger hugged the stick back and flared into the classic three point landing position. She landed gracefully but the wind wanted to shove us into the neighbor’s property so Roger kicked a tad of left brake and she behaved. We were back on the ground and both I and the OTW were sorry for that. I could have stayed above ground for at least a week. I was hoping that Connie hadn't misplaced the box of Mega Maxi Huggies.

Stay tuned. There’s more stuff coming. After Texas, we’ll go to Washington where Connie’s son, Tracy, got married.

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