||| |—|—| | | | At first, I was decidedly bummed at the timing. I’d agreed to fly my Cheetah to Peterborough, Canada, east of Toronto, to give a talk there on the 7th of July. It seemed a good excuse to take the Cheetah on an adventure and see parts of the country, and even parts of a different country, that I’d never seen before. But it would be a long journey in my slow little plane. And as I got ready to leave, I realized the timing meant that while other Americans would be spending the July 4th holiday with family and friends, enjoying barbecues and fireworks, I would be spending it all alone, flying between unfamiliar towns somewhere in between the coasts. I sighed as I packed the airplane, resigned to what seemed to be part of the price I pay for the life I lead.
A week later, I wouldn’t have traded places with anyone. For in the course of our journey, my Cheetah and I end up sharing an entire week-long celebration of America that tops any Fourth of July I’ve ever known.
