When Flying Was Fun
Lane reminisces about some wild flights of fantasy and fancy that, darn it, underscored the real importance of flying: the fun.
By Lane Wallace
September 2004
 I don’t remember where the two men came from. I don’t even really remember what they looked like. But I remember the question.
The three of us were sitting on barstools at a Key West, Florida, watering hole, making our way through a couple of requisite local margaritas and telling tales of flying and adventure. I’d just finished relating the story of my flight across southern Texas a few days earlier. The air had been cool, the sun had been sparkling, and summer had spilled full-volume across the rolling countryside, making every field a landing spot and every winding river an invitation to explore. And somehow, the combination of all that had drawn me so completely into the moment that I’d managed to let go of the idea of getting somewhere long enough to immerse myself in the journey.
I’d stayed low over the farmland, following rivers, practicing turns about a cow, and meandering only in some vague and general way toward my next intended fuel stop. The result was a glorious morning of play and laughter that still stands among my memories as one of those rare moments of captured perfection that casts its light forward on all the other days that follow.
My companions had flown across Texas, as well, but at much higher altitudes in a twin-engine airplane decked out with autopilot, Garmin moving maps, and all sorts of other whistles and bells. They had, no doubt, had an easier time in their journey. But as they listened to my bubbling tale of curves and circles and hedgerows seen close enough to count, one of them turned to the other and asked in a wistful, nostalgic voice, “Remember that, Bob? Remember when flying was fun?”
Somewhere in their accumulation of speed, performance, avionics and practical transport, these two highly experienced pilots had apparently lost touch with the spark that had drawn them to the sky in the first place. My heart ached, watching their wistful eyes and hearing their remembered tales of the laughter and passion that had once infused their flights and lives. And yet, their tale is far from rare. There have even been times when I’ve suffered from a touch of the malady myself.
Few of us learn to fly in order to get anywhere. It’s the act itself that inspires; the ability to leave earth and know, for a few precious moments, that intoxicating mixture of movement, freedom, wind and sky. But not long after tucking that hard-won freedom carefully into our wallets, the temptations of speed, maps, gizmos and utility begin to whisper in our ears. If we don’t have those thoughts ourselves, others soon urge them upon us. If only we had more speed. Another rating. Another engine. Another instrument. How much safer and more practical our flying could be! How many more places we could go!
The voices mean well. And yet, if we give in to them, we may wake up one day and find that we’ve traded fun for accomplished satisfaction, and spend so much time focused on getting there that we’ve forgotten how delightful the ride used to be.
I’ve had more than my share of fun in the sky. But when I think back on the times and memories I cherish most, few of them were in airplanes—or on flight plans—that would qualify as either practical or efficient.
There was, for example, a memorable trip home from Oshkosh in my old Cessna 120 one year. My friend Jim and I forsook the better winds up high and flew across the broad fields of Wisconsin at 80 miles an hour, only a few hundred feet above the ground. If the engine had quit, we simply would’ve landed in a field straight ahead. But I now don’t need to fly with Aladdin. For I know what a magic carpet ride would feel like—perched just above the earth, sailing effortlessly past hills and trees and fields of green and gold. It took us a lot longer to get home that way, throttled back and flying low. But when we finally arrived, it had still ended too soon, and I found myself wishing we could go back and do it all over again.
Or there was the time that my friend Kimberly and I flew down the coast of California in her Luscombe—an immaculate piece of artwork that she and her husband had restored to a gleaming, polished shine. It was the sort of plane one wiped one’s feet before entering, and cleaned the bugs off carefully after each and every flight. It flew ridiculously slowly, of course, so we thought we’d bring lunch along with us rather than making another stop for food along the way.
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