It wasn't long after that that we talked and I shared these thoughts with him. We rambled on and as our conversations always do, since we’re both pilots the subject inevitably drifted to stories about flying, some factual, some fanciful, most somewhere in between. One of Bill’s favorites is recorded in Flight of Fancy (Hyperion Books, $12.95), the memoir of two New Jersey teens that bought a Piper Cub and flew it from New Jersey to California nearly fifty years ago.
Like those boys, Bill owns a Piper Cub. (For the enthusiasts among you, it’s actually a perfectly restored Super Cub.) And like old guys do, we fantasized what a wonderful trip that would be. The devil in me couldn’t resist taunting him, “You have a Cub, Bill. Instead of being the youngest to make that trip, why not be the oldest?"
Then the brainstorm. For one week every year Wittman Regional Airport in Oshkosh, WI, becomes the busiest airport in the world. EAA AirVenture, known to everyone simply as Oshkosh, is the SuperBowl of general aviation – everything flying other than airlines and military would be there. Hundreds of thousands of enthusiasts visit the show every year. A few actually fly in for the festivities and park their planes on the airport grounds.
GrandpaLyle to Bill: Why not fly your Cub to Oshkosh. That’s almost a cool as flying coast to coast – maybe cooler.
Bill: Harumph. Harumph. What about weather? Where will we stay? Will we have enough fuel? Etc., etc., etc.
G: Oh, c’mon. The hard part is flying into and out of Oshkosh. And I’ll be right there with you for that part. (I’ve flown into the show before.)
B: Well, maybe if you came to New York and rode with me?
G: I’ll fly to New York and together we’ll fly your Cub to Oshkosh. What could be cooler than that? After the show you drop me off in Chicago then fly home solo. No more talk, it’s a done deal.
B: (Unintelligible grumbling, but I knew I had him.)
Wait a minute. Who had who? What have I done? Although Bill flies regularly, I haven’t been at the controls for years. Everyone says it’s like riding a bicycle – it comes right back to you.
But it’s not a bicycle. And I haven’t ridden a bicycle in more than fifty years.
And bicycles don’t have to meet a piece of pavement the size of a postage stamp at 60 miles per hour. Harumph yourself, GrandpaLyle.
More to come . . .